by Paul S. Kemp
Cale and Magadon cowled their faces with the hoods of their cloaks and used side streets to approach the Crate and Dock. Cale would have preferred to have included Jak, but as much as possible he wanted to spare the halfling the sights of Skullport. He knew the vileness of the city affected Jak more than the rest of them. Skullport was combination slave pen, slaughterhouse, charnel pit, and general store. Even Cale found it hard to stomach.
Across the street from the front door of the Crate and Dock, Cale and Magadon lurked in an alley so narrow that Cale could have held his arms outstretched and touched both sides. The air smelled of urine, vomit, and the general musty odor that permeated all of Skullport. An open sewer a dagger toss away emitted an unspeakable stink. A few street torches near the eatery’s door provided the only light in the immediate vicinity.
Drow, serpent men, orcs, and worse stalked by, dragging slaves and speaking quietly in their alien tongues. Periodically, the muffled roar of a crowd sounded from within a large stone building down the street, outside of which a crowd milled. Cale figured the place to be some kind of fighting arena. The smell of cooking meat carried from somewhere on the hemp highway high above.
Do you make that drunk? Cale projected to Magadon.
Down a bit, on their side of the street, an unshaven drunk lay against the wall of what looked to be a brewery, his dirty shirt too small to cover his fat belly, his double chin pressed into his chest. Passersby stepped over him, on him, and occasionally spat at him.
Magadon peered into the darkness. Cale knew the guide couldn’t see as well as he could in the pitch darkness, despite his demonic heritage.
I see him, Magadon said.
He’s not drunk, Cale said.
Cale had noted the man the instant he’d scanned the street, and had been watching him since. With regularity, the apparent drunk looked up from under hooded eyes and surveyed the street. He was watching the entrance to the Crate and Dock. Likely, he worked for the person with whom Riven was meeting.
One of the slaadi? Magadon asked. Or just a lookout for Riven’s contact?
Cale shook his head. He had no way to know without closing to use a divination spell, but that would risk his being noticed. He could have turned himself invisible to approach the drunk, but he remembered well the fight in the alley back in Selgaunt when Azriim had seen and captured an invisible Jak. From that, he assumed that the slaadi—if the drunk was indeed a shapechanged slaad—could see invisible creatures. He didn’t want to tip his presence.
“Mags, link us to Riven,” he said.
The guide nodded and closed his eyes. After a moment, Cale felt as though another window had been opened in the room of his mind.
Riven? he projected.
A pause.
I hear you, the assassin responded. Didn’t expect to, after our little disagreement. Think I’m untrustworthy, First of Five?
Cale ignored Riven’s venom and asked, What’s your assessment?
Another pause. Likely the assassin’s attention was focused on whatever the contact was telling him.
Eyes are normal, Riven finally answered, his tone more moderated. He looks right and talks the talk. But he offers too much for too little. He’s either stupid or one of our slaadi.
Hearing that, Magadon shifted on his feet. Cale too felt adrenaline charge his muscles. He doubted stupidity to be the explanation.
Keep him talking, Cale said to Riven. To Magadon, he projected, Back in Starmantle you said you could put yourself behind someone’s eyes and see what they see.
Magadon nodded, immediately grasping Cale’s point.
The slaad or Riven? Magadon asked.
The slaad, answered Cale.
I can do that, the guide answered. But I need to see the target first, to plant the first hook. After that, he can be anywhere. He paused, then added, Also, he might sense the mental intrusion.
Cale nodded. They would have to take that chance.
How long can you maintain it?
Magadon answered, As long as I wish, though it will drain me somewhat. The connection is latent and requires little mental energy until I activate it to see what the target sees. Each time I activate it, though, we again risk him sensing my presence.
This is a waste of time, Riven said. Let’s just put him down right now.
Cale shook his head, though he knew Riven couldn’t see him.
No, he answered. He’s only one of the three slaadi. Another may be out here in the street. We need to learn their play and put all of them down at once. Stopping them doesn’t necessarily stop the Sojourner.
Riven fell silent, though Cale could sense his irritation through the mental connection.
Cale thought about having Magadon connect to the drunk down the street but decided against it. If the drunk was a slaad, he was not the leader. The leader would be the one talking to Riven.
Riven, Cale projected, we need to see the one you’re talking with. Hear what he says and walk out with him. If he detects Magadon’s psionic attack, you’ll get your chance then. If that happens, Mags and I will take the watchman out on the street.
Riven projected acquiescence and the connection went quiet.
Riven stared across the table, hearing what the false human was saying, wondering what the slaadi were planning, and fighting down the desire to draw steel. Despite his inner turmoil, he had no trouble keeping his expression neutral, even vaguely friendly. Riven had so often sat across tables from men he intended to kill that he had long ago mastered the ability to keep his face expressionless even while choosing between blade, garrote, or poison. No moral crisis ever rose from Riven’s conscience to trouble his expression. For him, murder was business. For him, everything was business. The critical point was that he be on the winning side in the end.
Unlike his comrades, he felt little personal animosity toward the slaadi. In truth, he probably felt more antipathy toward Cale—the First of Five—than he did the slaadi. Riven wanted to put down the slaadi only because letting them live offended his professional pride.
And because the Shadowlord seemed to want it.
The slaad was just finishing describing to Riven the route the caravan would take through the northern tunnels of the Underdark.
“When?” Riven asked.
“The third hour of the cycle after next,” responded the slaad.
Riven nodded, giving the appearance of being satisfied.
“This duergar has earned your ire?” asked the slaad.
Riven stared into the slaad’s eyes, wondering if there was not an offer there. The slaad’s gaze revealed nothing. Riven shook his head.
“No,” he said. “This is a business matter. And like all matters of business, I care only for coming out of it better than how I came in.” He paused while the slaad nodded sagely, then added, “For that, I always make sure that I end up on the winning side.”
The slaad stopped nodding and gazed at him curiously. “I see….”
“I’m pleased you do,” Riven said, and offered no further explanation. He leaned back in his chair, reached into one of his belt pouches, and withdrew one of the small diamonds he had brought with him from Selgaunt.
“This is equitable, I assume?” he said.
The slaad mumbled agreement, scooped the gem into his palm, and pocketed it in his worn robe without even an appraising glance. If Riven hadn’t already been certain, the slaad’s nonchalance regarding payment would have solidified Riven’s opinion that he was not dealing with an ordinary human information broker.
“This business is complete, then,” said the slaad, rising to his feet.
He smiled down at Riven, a disingenuous gesture, and the assassin noted his perfect teeth.
Not hardly, thought Riven, but he only offered a nod.
“Luck to you with this duergar,” the slaad said. “I’ve heard he’s quite the killer.”
Riven waved a hand dismissively and took a drink from his ale.
The slaad’s ears flushed red with
anger but to his credit, he managed to keep an agreeable smile pasted on his face.
“I’ll take my leave, then,” said the slaad, his voice tight.
Riven let him walk a few paces away before he stood.
“I believe I’ll be leaving too,” he said. “Hold a moment.”
The slaad, looking uncomfortable at the prospect of the assassin’s company, waited for Riven to catch up. As they walked for the door, Riven casually kept a hand on one of his sabers. He eyed the slaad’s back sidelong, located the kidneys, and wondered whether the creature would sense Magadon’s psionic attack.
We’re coming out, he projected to Cale and Magadon.
Be ready, Cale answered back. If he responds to the attack, he’s your responsibility.
Riven didn’t bother with an answer. He didn’t require instruction from Cale. He understood his responsibilities—all of his responsibilities—full well.
Riven and the slaad exited the inn and the assassin quickly surveyed the nearby street traffic, rooftops, and catwalks above. Nothing unusual. In the darkness, he didn’t see Cale and Magadon, and he didn’t see the drunk. A rothé-pulled wagon piled high with dried mushrooms was stopped in the street near them, its gray-skinned gnome owner pulling at the rothé’s bridle. The creature lowed in agitation, shook its shaggy mane, but did not budge. A group of drunk half-orcs peppered the gnome with laughter and curses. From down the street, a crowd in one of Skullport’s many fighting dens let loose an approving shout.
Now, Magadon projected.
Riven knew that somewhere nearby, Magadon was insinuating himself into the slaad’s mind.
I’m in, Magadon said.
The slaad spun around to face Riven.
Reflexively, Riven’s grip on his saber hilt tightened, though he kept his face expressionless
“Louts,” the slaad said, indicating the half-orcs. “Listen to them curse. They have the intelligence of rocks.”
Riven let his grip on his saber relax.
He sneered at the slaad, hoping it was Azriim, nodded agreement, and said, “It’s in the breeding. Half-bloods are often a stupid lot.”
Cale and Magadon took a different route back to the Pour House than the assassin, in case the slaadi decided to follow Riven. After the assassin arrived, all three of them met Jak. Sitting in the quiet darkness of their room, Riven explained to them what the slaad had told him. Cale took it all in, thinking.
“They want us to attack them?” Jak asked.
The halfling took a draw on his pipe and blew it out.
“Or the whole caravan,” Magadon said. “Or at least to follow it out of the city.”
“The latter seems the most likely to me,” Cale said. “But there’s no way to be certain.”
“What’s the play, Cale?” Riven asked, taking a draw on his own pipe.
Cale, pacing the floor with his hands clasped behind his back, spoke his thoughts aloud: “Whatever they’re planning,” he said, “they plan to do it around the third hour of next cycle. Agreed?”
Heads nodded agreement and Cale continued, “So, we’re either part of their plan somehow or they want us well out of the way. It doesn’t matter which. With Magadon’s connection to the slaadi, we can figure out where they are at any time. So we observe and improvise. If they’re with the caravan, fine. If they’re somewhere else, that’s fine too. Wherever they are, we follow them and put a stop to whatever they’re planning. Then we put a stop to them.”
Riven blew out a smoke ring, smiled, and said, “You seem to have grown fond of improvisation, Cale. Leads to surprises.”
Cale said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Improvisation was all they had.
HUNTING
Twice during the cycle, Cale asked Magadon to open the link between the guide and the slaad. Each time, Magadon’s peculiar gaze went vacant as the psionic contact allowed him to see through the eyes of the targeted creature. Based on Magadon’s description of the surroundings, the slaad appeared to be in some kind of storehouse or office with his two brethren, one in the form of a huge Amnian, the other in the form of a Sword Coast pirate. They were talking, but Magadon couldn’t hear their words.
“Our slaad does all the talking,” Magadon reported. “The others listen. I see the gray-eyed slaad—he’s the corsair with the falchion … goatee. Looks a bit like Riven. The Amnian’s face is slack. He looks like a dullard.”
Cale looked to Riven and said, “Gray-eyes is our friend from the barn outside of Selgaunt.”
“I remember him,” Riven said.
Jak, seated in the room’s sole chair with his feet up on the small table and his hands interlaced behind his head, said, “We owe that one.”
One of his hands went to his chest where the gray-eyed slaad had torn it open.
“We owe them all, little man,” Cale agreed, nodding. “The Amnian I make as Dolgan. He’s big and stupid no matter his form.”
Twice Cale had almost killed Dolgan. He would be sure to finish the work next time they met.
Jak said, “That leaves only Azriim. We’re seeing through his eyes.”
Cale nodded, imagining the slaad’s brown and blue orbs. He was pleased they had tagged Azriim with Magadon’s power. From what he’d seen, Cale deemed Azriim the leader, the most cunning, and hence the most valuable. Whatever happened, Azriim would be at the heart of it.
Magadon sat up straight and said, “Gray-eyes is leaving.”
“Without Azriim?” Cale asked.
Magadon nodded and said, “He’s getting instructions.”
Cale wished again that Magadon’s ability allowed him to hear what the slaadi were saying.
He thought for a time, then said, “End it, Mags. We’ve got a connection with Azriim. We’ll call on it as needed. This is too risky.”
Though Azriim had shown no sign up till then of having detected Magadon’s presence, Cale didn’t want to press his good fortune by prolonging the connection. He would keep all the contacts short, just long enough to get a feel for the slaadi’s location and activities. Tymora sometimes smiled on the foolish, he knew, but she more often favored the circumspect.
More importantly, Cale could see that maintaining the mental link for even a short time was draining to the guide. Magadon’s skin was pale, his knucklebone eyes sunken, and from the way he rubbed his brow, Cale thought he probably had a severe ache in his temples. But not once did the guide complain. Cale’s respect for him grew all the more.
Magadon held the connection for a moment longer, then cut off contact with an audible sigh. He blinked rapidly and his eyes came back to life.
“Check him every half hour,” Cale said to the guide, patting him on the back. “The time is getting close. We don’t want them to have too much of a head start.”
The guide exhaled, massaging his brow, and nodded.
Geared up and ready, they continued to wait in their room, increasingly restive. Time passed, and Magadon’s periodic checks revealed the two remaining slaadi doing little. Riven paced their small room like a caged animal.
“We could move on them right now,” the assassin said to Cale. “You could shadowstep us to that storehouse.”
Cale shook his head, not bothering to explain his reasoning.
“Delay is foolish,” Riven snapped. “By the time we move, we may find them in the midst of thirty hired swords. Then what? Your decision to wait will have put us all at risk, Cale.”
Cale understood that, but simply killing the slaadi was not enough. He wanted vengeance, justice, chororin. For that, he would need to find the Sojourner, who had put all of it into motion, and stop him, kill him.
Instead of arguing with the assassin, he said, “You’re welcome to stay behind.”
Riven stopped pacing and his eye flashed. He stared at Cale for a moment before nodding at the pocket in which Cale kept his mask, his holy symbol.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, First of Five?” the assassin asked. “No one to vie for his favor, eh?”
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Cale answered Riven’s stare with one of his own.
“His favor has nothing to do with it,” he replied. “His favor got me this.” He held up his regenerated hand, swathed in shadows. “This is about you doing it my way or not at all. Your choice to stay, Zhent. Nobody is holding you here. You can walk away anytime.”
Riven held Cale’s gaze for a moment before giving a mirthless smile through his goatee.
“I think I’ll stay around,” said the assassin, “for now.”
He started pacing anew.
Jak and Cale shared a look. Jak’s green eyes said, I don’t trust him. For his part, Cale attributed Riven’s mood to the irritability that had plagued the assassin since arriving in Skullport, and his impatience for action. Cale too was irritable, which explained his own overly harsh response to Riven’s challenge.
“They’re moving,” Magadon said.
Cale and Jak jumped to their feet. Riven whirled on the guide and took three steps toward him.
“Where?” all three asked in unison.
Magadon held up a hand to forestall further questions. His eyes showed only whites.
“Exiting the storehouse. I cannot tell where they are. Heading along the street … carts … slaves …”
“No landmarks?” Cale asked.
Magadon shook his head and replied, “Still haven’t seen the harbor. I think they’re in the Lower Trade Lanes, heading north or east. Lots of street traffic … brothels, taverns, shacks, a glassblower’s workshop …” He was quiet for a time then said, “The buildings are getting more and more decrepit, even for Skullport.”
Magadon continued to describe the surroundings, hoping that one of them would note something with which they were familiar.
“Do you see any brewer’s shops?” Riven asked. “Lots of goblins? Kobolds?”
Magadon shook his head and said, “No … wait, yes! A lot of untapped ale casks stacked outside of several buildings. And there are more goblins than usual.”