Dawn of Night

by Paul S. Kemp

  Riven led them into the maze of narrow streets and alleys that was Skullport proper. Leaving behind the relative openness of the market plaza, Jak felt as if he were walking down the gullet of a beast. While the port and its markets had been relatively well-lit to show the merchandise, farther into Skullport pedestrians and shopkeepers had to provide their own light—at least those who wanted it. Only an occasional torch or glowball lifted the darkness. People, creatures, stink, and trash thronged the narrow thoroughfares.

  Jak started to pull his bluelight wand from his pocket but Cale stopped him.

  “No light,” Cale said. “It would be like carrying a beacon here.”

  Riven nodded agreement, though Jak knew the assassin couldn’t see well in the poorly-lit streets. Jak’s halfling blood allowed him to see well enough in darkness, but the black still caused him to feel isolated. They moved deeper and deeper into the city. The halfling felt as though he was swimming underwater, discovering what lay ahead only when it was already dangerously near, and instantly losing to the darkness everything that passed behind.

  Side by side, Riven and Cale shouldered their way through orcs, ogres, sailors, whores, even a pair of trolls. Open sewers yawned like burst boils in the streets, churning out vileness. Great shaggy rothé, the cows of the Underdark, lowed from their pens.

  Eventually they found themselves outside of a ramshackle inn. Riven seemed to know it. A rusty anchor hung from hooks over the crooked door. Jak assumed the “Rusty Anchor” to be the name of the place.

  Riven turned and was about to say something when a bearded old man in tattered breeches, covered in nothing but dirt from the waist up, stepped out of the street crowd and lunged at Cale, arms outstretched. Cale had a hand on his throat and Weaveshear at his belly before the old man touched him. The sword leaked darkness. The old man paid it no heed. Jak checked above them. There was no sign of the Skulls, and no sign of interest from the passersby on the catwalks.

  The old man’s eyes were wild.

  “There’s a hole in the sun,” he said to Cale intently, spraying spittle. “A dark hole in the sun. Do you see it?”

  Cale took him gently by the shoulders and moved him away. The man stumbled and fell in with the other street traffic, still babbling.

  “He’s mad,” Magadon observed.

  Cale nodded but seemed thoughtful.

  “Cale seems to attract those sorts,” Riven said without a smile. “I’ll get a room.”

  Cale said, “We move every twenty-four hours, Riven. Like you said, we maintain a soft footprint. No pattern. We’ll try finding them first. If that doesn’t work….”

  “We’ll let them find us,” Riven finished, and entered the inn.

  Jak, Magadon, and Cale waited in the street, tense and still damp from their time in the Sargauth.

  Riven soon returned, having procured their lodging.

  When they entered the wood-floored common room, Jak barely noticed the corpulent innkeeper, the wolf-eyed patrons, the barmaids, the smoke, and the whores. He made straight for the stairs, straight for their room, and it was only after he got behind a closed door that he felt like he could breathe. After he recovered himself he realized he’d forgotten to buy a tindertwig, but he didn’t care.

  CHANCE ENCOUNTERS

  Though Cale had no reason to suspect that Azriim or the other slaadi knew that he and his comrades were in Skullport, he thought it prudent to ward each of them with a spell that would prevent them from being easily scried. He also sought to minimize the times they appeared together on the street or in public. Accordingly, they took their dinner—salted fungus, a stew sprinkled with rothé meat, and cellar-cooled mushroom ale—in pairs, each protected by a magical ward that Cale and Jak would have to periodically renew.

  Cale took his meal with Riven. They needed to plan.

  Sweating patrons thronged the Rusty Anchor’s common room. Cale hadn’t seen quite such a pack of rogues since his days in Westgate. To a man, all of the patrons wore sharp steel and hard looks: duergar slavers, human and half-orc sailors, mercenaries, even the goblin laborers squawking over a game of dice looked seasoned. No doubt Skullport had long ago culled the weak from the flock.

  The pungent smoke from the dried fungus that substituted for pipeweed in Skullport cloaked the room in a thin, brown haze. From time to time, Cale caught an acrid whiff of crushed mistleaf, a powerful narcotic, wafting up from the basement.

  Professional women were as ubiquitous as the smoke, all of them wearing alluring smiles and scant clothing. Cale and Riven had already made their disinterest plain. A steady stream of paired men and women moved up and down the small staircase that led to the Anchor’s dark basement, where the women plied their trade.

  Apparently, the Anchor was inn, brothel, and drug den all in one. The rooms upstairs provided lodging for travelers. The rooms in the basement were home to courtesans, mistleaf sellers, and their respective clients.

  The boisterous crowd—drinking, smoking, whoring, eating, and gaming—created a tumult so loud that Cale and Riven had to sit close just to hear one another. That was well, Cale figured. The raucousness ensured that they would not stand out and would not be overheard.

  “We’re here,” Riven said. “So what’s the play?”

  Cale held his tongue as a dark-eyed barmaid placed full tankards of ale on the table before them. Her black hair and high cheekbones reminded him of Tazi.

  “Thank you,” Cale said to her, loud enough to be heard above the raucousness.

  She looked at him as though she had never before heard the words. Under her gaze, for a reason he could not explain, he felt keenly conscious and vaguely ashamed of his transformed flesh. She was attractive, he saw, even with a sheen of sweat coating her face and tired circles painting the skin under her eyes. She started to say something but thought better of it. Behind her, a patron shouted for another round. She gave a smile that barely moved her mouth, nodded to acknowledge Cale’s gratitude, and walked away. Cale admired the sway of her hips as she moved between the tables, thinking again of how much she reminded him of Tazi.

  He shook his head as he turned back to Riven, back to business. Riven wanted the play. Unfortunately, they had little information upon which to operate. They knew the slaadi were in Skullport for a reason related to the Weave Tap—no doubt they hoped to drain the magic of the Skulls, or perhaps the magic that supported the cavern itself. But Cale didn’t know exactly how or when the slaadi were going to do it. He would not be able to attempt to scry Azriim until midnight, when he again prayed to Mask for power.

  They had no answers, only questions, only uncertainties. So the play would be the same in Skullport as it would be anywhere else.

  “Turn angler, find a long-tongue who knows something,” Cale said, easily falling back into the cant of the professional. “We know Azriim has taken the form of a duergar and a half-drow. Start there.”

  Riven took a draw on his ale.

  “Neither of those are exactly rare here,” he replied.

  Cale could only agree. Duergar and drow were as common in Skullport as the damp.

  “The slaadi are staying low, Riven,” he said, his thoughts solidifying as he spoke. “That’s why Azriim is changing forms. Whatever they’re planning, it’s big enough that they want to give no sign beforehand and leave no trail afterward. If you don’t have any luck quickly, we’ll make ourselves obvious and try to draw them out.”

  Riven’s one-eyed gaze was piercing and he did not smile.

  “Still Cale the clever, eh?”

  Cale made no reply, instead took a drink of his ale. He looked across the table and realized that he had slowly, as slowly as the southern movement of the Great Glacier, come to rely on Riven. The realization made him uneasy.

  To hide his discomfort, he said, “Just be quick.”

  Riven sneered, nodded, and slammed down the rest of his ale. He started to rise—

  And from the other side of the common room, Cale heard a deep voic
e proclaim over the tumult, “Once a whore, always a whore.”

  A bout of harsh laughter followed. Cale turned in his chair to see a muscular man, bristling with steel and covered in leather, pull the dark-haired barmaid onto his lap.

  “Come here,” the man said.

  The four comrades who shared the man’s table smiled stupidly at the sport. They too wore leather jacks, swords, and daggers. Cale made the lot as mercenaries.

  Fighting off the sellsword’s groping hands, the barmaid forced an insincere smile and squirmed to free herself. Cale couldn’t hear her over the patrons, but read her lips when she spoke.

  “Let me go,” she said, and her eyes featured an edge that Cale did not miss. “I’m working.”

  The man grinned, jiggled her breast and gave it a squeeze, hard enough to elicit a wince.

  “Oh, you’re working all right,” he bellowed, and his comrades joined him in laughter. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  With impressive suddenness, the barmaid slammed the heel of her shoe onto the big mercenary’s boot, smashing his toes. He howled with pain, clutched at his foot, and she leaped to her feet and started to scramble away.

  Before she could get out of arms’ reach, the mercenary, still red-faced with pain, lashed out with his other hand and grabbed a handful of her hair. Jerking her backward, he nearly pulled her from her feet. She squealed with pain and fell to the floor before him.

  “You sneaky little bitch!” he roared. “You stay just like that.”

  He stood and reached for the laces of his trousers.

  Cale jumped to his feet. He was conscious of shadows leaking from his fingertips.

  “Do not,” Riven hissed, and grabbed his wrist. “She’s just a tavern wench. If this escalates….”

  Cale took Riven’s point—if a fight escalated too far, it could draw the Skulls—but he would not stand idly by while the woman was assaulted.

  Before he could say a word, the mercenary noticed him. Cale was grateful for it. The big sellsword left off undressing and pointed a finger and hard look at Cale.

  “Something you want to say, scarecrow?” the big man asked.

  All eyes turned to Cale. The common room went as silent as a tomb. Even the goblins left off their game. Mindful of Riven’s point, Cale kept his eyes on the barmaid and tried to diffuse the situation.

  “My tankard is empty, woman,” he said to her. “A refill, if you please.”

  The woman, still on her knees with her hair in the mercenary’s grasp, looked at him as though he were mad.

  “She’ll fill it when I’m done with her,” the mercenary said, his heavy brow knotting.

  He shook her by the hair and she screamed in pain. No one laughed except for the mercenary’s four tablemates, and their laughter was far from mirthful. Everyone else seemed to be waiting.

  Cale’s gaze narrowed. He found that he had taken a step toward the mercenaries’ table. Several of the patrons began to whisper behind their hands.

  “I’m thirsty now,” he said, and despite Riven’s admonition, he let a note of challenge creep into his tone.

  The mercenary caught it. He flung the barmaid to the floor and straightened his tunic. He stood a hand shorter than Cale, but had a third-again Cale’s bulk. He rested his hands on the hilts of the daggers at his belt. The four comrades that shared the sellsword’s table smiled and ribbed each other.

  Cale took their measure with an eye long trained in evaluating professionals: the four at the table he deemed nothing more than inexperienced pups. If their lead dog went down, they’d skulk away with their tails between their legs. The big man, on the other hand, wore his blades with comfort. But Cale figured the man’s intimidating size had kept him out of more fights than his skill had won.

  As though echoing his thoughts, Riven said in a low tone, “You put the oaf down quick and it’s over. Those four will never draw steel.”

  “You say something, boy?” the big man asked Riven.

  Cale could imagine, even if he couldn’t see, Riven’s sneer.

  “I’ll leave him to you,” Riven said softly. “But I’m tempted now.”

  The mercenary fixed his gaze on Cale and said in a voice fat with threatened violence, “When I’m done with her, is what I said.”

  Free from the mercenary’s clutches, the barmaid climbed to her feet and adjusted her dress, avoiding eye contact with the sellsword.

  “Bitch,” the mercenary said again.

  She ignored him, stepped into the space between the two men, and walked for Cale. Cale admired her dignity.

  “Coming now, sir,” she said. “A tankard of ale, you said?”

  With her back to the mercenary, her eyes and expression told Cale to let it go. No doubt the sellsword had a reputation in the Rusty Anchor. Instead of disabusing her of the man’s relative competence, Cale calmed himself and decided to give the mercenary a chance to walk away.

  “It appears you’re done,” Cale said.

  He turned and sat at the table, showing the mercenaries his back. Riven looked past him while the barmaid hurried over, thumped into their table in her haste, and picked up Cale’s tankard. She nearly spilled it in surprise when she realized that it was full.

  “He’s dangerous,” she hissed at them.

  Riven sneered, but Cale said nothing, only listened.

  From behind, he heard the scrape of wooden chairs being pushed back. An anticipatory sussurance ran around the common room. There was no city watch there, Cale knew, and even the innkeeper was nowhere to be seen; he was probably semi-conscious in the drug den downstairs.

  “We ain’t finished, scarecrow,” said the mercenary.

  Cale sighed. He had seen idiots like that sellsword in countless taverns in Westgate and Selgaunt—fool kings of a few slat boards and a greasy table who picked fights with strangers in an effort to secure their kingdoms.

  “Oh, gods,” the woman said in a whisper. “Don’t get hurt on my account.”

  Cale and Riven shared a look. It wasn’t Cale who would get hurt.

  “Here they come,” Riven said, and Cale sensed the dangerous quiet in the assassin’s tone. “Leave it to me,” Cale said.

  He rose, turned, and stepped away from the table. Cale put himself in front of the barmaid.

  The big mercenary snaked his way through the tables and enthralled patrons, and stalked toward Cale, scowling. Cale gave no ground, and soon they stood face to face. The sellsword’s four comrades stayed a few paces behind, still wearing idiot smiles.

  “When I’m done with her, I said,” the mercenary said. His breath stank of sour ale; his clothes of mistleaf. He looked past Cale to the barmaid and said, “I’m not through with you, whore.”

  “I’m no more a whore than you are a man,” she said.

  Cale enjoyed the rush of anger visible on the sellsword’s face. He allowed shadows to swirl around him and stared into the mercenary’s scarred face.

  “Apologize,” Cale said.

  The mercenary’s eyes narrowed. His bravado seemed unaffected by the wisps of shadows swirling around Cale.

  “What did you say, scarecrow?”

  “To her,” Cale said, staring down into the man’s face. “Apologize. Now.”

  The mercenary licked his lips. He seemed taken aback by Cale’s calm.

  “If the next words that come out of your mouth aren’t an apology,” Cale said, “things will turn out badly.”

  The mercenary responded with arrogance and a sneer, the latter a poor, distant cousin to Riven’s perfected expression of disdain.

  “You think you can—”

  Fueled by his shadow-enhanced speed and strength, Cale drove his palm into the underside of the mercenary’s jaw before the man said another word. Teeth snapped shut on the man’s tongue and a spray of blood exploded from his mouth. The man staggered backward, but still managed to lash out a weak punch with his other hand. Cale caught him by the forearm, yanked him forward and slammed his hand down on the table near Rive
n. The man punched Cale in the back of the head—a weak blow—while Cale drew a dagger and with it nailed the man’s palm to the wood.

  While the mercenary was still screaming, Cale yanked the dagger free, elbowed him hard in the face, and stuck the dagger at his throat.

  “Apologize to her,” he commanded. “Now.”

  Bleeding from mouth and hand, breathing like a bellows, the mercenary glared hate at Cale through eyes watery with pain. His unwounded hand floated near one of his daggers. Cale pricked his neck.

  “You’re done here,” Cale said. “You can walk out, or be carried.”

  The man stared at him, and must have seen his resolve.

  After an additional moment of hesitation, he muttered to the barmaid, “Sorry.”

  She was too shocked to respond.

  “Is that acceptable?” Cale asked her over his shoulder.

  She offered a nod, eyes wide.

  “You made a mistake, is all,” Cale said, trying to offer the man some dignity. “You’ve been drinking. But now you’re leaving. You and your friends.”

  Behind him, he heard Riven begin to chuckle.

  The mercenary’s four comrades grumbled and moved a step closer. Hands went to hilts, but Cale saw the lack of resolve in their eyes.

  Riven stopped chuckling.

  “I wouldn’t,” the assassin said to them. “Or five get carried out.”

  They backed off. Cale pushed the big mercenary toward them.

  The big man staggered into his comrades, shook off their assistance, wiped his bloody mouth, and cradled his pierced hand. Mumbling half-hearted threats and curses, the five sellswords walked out of the Anchor. Cale and Riven watched them go.

  The instant they exited, the common room resumed its normal pulse.

  “Dead in the dirt,” Riven said to Cale, shaking his head with disapproval. “That’s my rule when I pull steel.”

  “Not mine,” said Cale.

  He sat, and the barmaid, visibly shaking, started to clear his tankard.

  “I-I’ll get you another,” she said in a quavering voice.

  Cale touched her hand—it was warm and soft—and guided the tankard to the table.