"All right," Cale acceded with a nod. "Let's go then."
They raced headlong across the rooftops, heedless now of anything but escape. Moving from building to building, they leaped an endless succession of alleys, the voids beneath their feet promising death for any misstep, all the while harried by the shouts of men below and behind. At last, winded and sweating even in the cold, they descended the face of a warehouse and stood in the shadows of Stevedore's Way.
"There," Jak whispered. The halfling's stubby finger indicated a narrow alley ten paces ahead.
Two black-cloaked men stood near the mouth of the alley with blades drawn. Their wary stance and alert gaze proclaimed them Zhentarim. Cale silently slipped his long sword from its scabbard. Darkness would provide cover enough to mask his approach. The Zhents would be dead before they ever saw him. "Stay here," he hissed to Jak. "I'll take care of them."
Jak gripped him gently by the forearm. "Wait, Cale. Wait." The halfling's voice sounded strained. "No more… no more blood tonight, all right? I'll use a spell to immobilize them."
The halfling's pleading gaze dredged up enough of the reborn Erevis to dilute the now predominate old Cale. The butler gave a reluctant nod. Jak blew out a soft sigh and patted him on the arm.
Hurriedly, as though he was afraid Cale might change his mind, Jak closed his eyes and uttered a soft prayer, invoking the power of Brandobaris. He pointed a finger at the Zhents, and both emitted startled gasps. After that, they did not move. The power of the spell held them rigid.
"Nice," Cale acknowledged.
Jak nodded and they jogged forward. The moment they broke from the shadows, shouts erupted from the street behind them. Cale shot a glance back to see four armed men running toward them. They were two blocks away but closing fast.
"Let's go, Jak. We've got more company."
"Follow me," the halfling said, and sped down the alley.
On his way past, Cale plowed through the rigid Zhents and knocked them flat-just for good measure, he told himself-then sped after Jak. Stacks of crates, bricks, and broken wood littered the ground and made passage difficult. Jak navigated the refuse with the skill of a man well accustomed to the placement of every barrier. Forty paces down the alley the little man halted before a wooden pallet that stood upright against the wall. He reached between the slats and felt for something, muttering. After a few moments, Cale heard a click.
"Got it," Jak said, satisfied. He swung the pallet open like a door.
Ingenious, Cale thought. A small, brick-walled room lay beyond, with a well dug in its center.
"Mind the hole," Jak said. The two piled in and pulled the secret door closed behind them. In the darkness, Cale heard Jak click the locking mechanism back into place. They stood in silence while the footsteps of their Zhent pursuers thumped by and faded into the distance. Afterward, Jak pulled forth a small metal rod that emitted a soft blue glow from its tip. His excited smile shone brighter than the magical rod.
"Close one, eh?"
Cale returned the smile despite himself. "Close," he agreed, and the two shared a tension-relieving chuckle.
"The well descends eighty feet before reaching the sewers," Jak said. "There's a ladder affixed to the side. I'll go first."
The halfling slipped over the side and began descending the iron rungs. Cale followed and soon they stood in Selgaunt's sewers, three inches deep in stinking muck. Cale had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The narrow passage led off in three directions.
"Which way?" he asked.
"This way." Jak hurried off down the left-hand passage.
Surprisingly, the sewer did not reek as badly as Cale had expected. Still he tried to keep his mind off the composition of the muck that sucked at his boots. To occupy himself, he tried to put together the events of the night.
Riven, clearly a Zhentarim double agent, must have tipped his true masters to the Night Knives ambush. He and his Zhent allies had murdered the Knives hit team and waited for Cale to bring them Talbot. Why? Because if the Knives had succeeded and turned Talbot over to the Thayvians, Naglatha could force Thamalon to advocate Thay's interests before the Hulorn. The Zhents, bitter rivals of the realm of Thay, would want to prevent that. Winnowing out a few Knives and hurting the Righteous Man in the process would have been an added bonus. After the failed Knives ambush, Drasek Riven, the lone Knives "survivor," could have concocted any cover story he wanted. With Cale dead, that one-eyed bastard would have become the Righteous Man's chief aide. The Zhents would have had effective control of the Night Knives and Talbot to use as a bargaining chip with Thamalon.
Cale's own secrets had thrown the whole affair into disarray.
He shook his head in disbelief, chuckling, amazed that a violent clod like Riven could have been so subtle. If Jak hadn't known of the secret door in the alley and how to trigger its lock…
If Jak hadn't known…
A chill ran up Cale's spine. "Jak?"
The halfling stopped and turned, his face eerily lit by the blue light of the wand. "What?"
"How did you know how to trigger that lock?" Cale's hand closed over his sword hilt.
The halfling hesitated for an instant too long. "You're asking me about the lock now? Come on, Cale. It's only a little farther." He turned and started to walk again.
Cale grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around. "What's only a little farther?"
The little man's eyes went wide. "Hey! Take it easy, Erevis."
"The lock back in the alley. How'd you open it? You didn't pick it, and you sure as Hells didn't install it your-"
"Do not move," said a voice from the darkness ahead.
Cale pushed Jak away and fell into a fighting crouch, blade ready. "Who are you working for, Fleet?" he snarled.
Jak took a step back and held his hands palms up. "Easy, Cale," he softly said. "We're safe now. Take it easy."
"What?" Cale still did not see the source of the voice. "Safe? What are you talking about?"
Jak gestured at the darkness ahead. "They're Harpers, Erevis. Harpers." He paused a moment before adding, "So am I."
Cale's dagger fell limply to his side. He stood dumbfounded as three men splashed out of the darkness ahead, each armed with broadsword and crossbow.
Jak was a Harper.
The Harpers worked covertly throughout Faerun to stem evil and promote good. They were everywhere but nowhere. Cale had always thought them irrelevant-too timid to seize power and too decentralized to stop anyone else from seizing it. Given tonight, he would have to rethink that view.
That Jak belonged to the Harpers called their entire friendship into question. The halfling could have been using him as a source for information about the Night Knives.
The tallest of the Harpers, blond and bearded, gave Cale an appraising stare before turning to Jak. "You shouldn't have brought him here, Fleet."
The little man stomped up to the blond giant and bristled like an angry badger. "Shut the Hells up, Brelgin! It was come here or die. The ambush turned out to be a Zhent operation."
"Zhents? Hmm…" Brelgin made a show of considering. "Still, you've been warned not to bring someone outside the organi-"
"Well I've already done it. Now go clear out the safe house. He's only seen us four, and he can be trusted not to tell anyone." Jak turned to give Cale an apologetic shrug. "We know his secrets just as he knows ours. We can trust him to keep quiet."
Brelgin remained hesitant. Cale, still too taken aback to speak, merely stood silent.
"That's the way it's going to be," Jak said firmly. "He can't go back."
Brelgin looked down at Jak, then looked up and shot Cale a meaningful glare. "He better stay quiet." Brelgin and the Harpers turned and plodded back through the darkness. Jak faced Cale.
"Couldn't be helped, Erevis. I'm sorry." Jak patted him on the arm. "We'll give them a few minutes to clear the safe house of personnel, then we'll go up. You all right?"
"I'm all right." He st
ared at the little man as though looking at him for the first time. "But you're a stranger to me, Jak."
The halfling took a step back, a wounded look on his face. "Nonsense, Cale. You already knew everything important about me before tonight. Just as I already knew everything important about you before you told me about Westgate. We're friends. Why do you think I came with you tonight? This…" he waved a small hand in the air to indicate the safe house, or the Harpers, "… is just what I do. Not what I am. You understand?"
Cale considered that and nodded slowly. This is what I do, not what I am. He hoped it was true, for Jak and for him. "I understand."
"Good." Jak smiled and waved him forward. "We've waited long enough. Come on, let's get out of these sewers and go home."
Cale nodded in agreement, though he knew that Stormweather Towers was not his destination. At least not yet. He had unfinished business with Riven. If the assassin yet lived, Cale knew where he would find him.
*****
Other than Cale and Jelkins the barkeep, only a few snoring drunks still lingered in the stinking, late night dimness of the Stag. Cale sat with his back to the wall, facing the door. An untouched ale sat on the table before him. He inhaled deeply to steady himself.
He'll come, Cale thought. If he's alive, he has to come.
"I'm closin' in fifteen minutes," announced Jelkins from behind the bar. Cale nodded in acknowledgement and continued to wait. The drunks snored on, oblivious.
When the door to the Stag did finally open, Cale had to remind himself to breathe. Drasek Riven staggered in, leaning on the door for support, and surveyed the common room. Seeing Cale, the assassin's mouth formed into a twisted, hate-filled rictus. Cale gazed back impassively, unflinching. They stared across the room at one another like that for interminable seconds, predators evaluating prey.
Finally, Riven eased the door closed and walked unsteadily toward the table. Watching the assassin's pained strides, Cale had to suppress a triumphant smile. Riven had been able to buy healing enough to keep him alive but not enough to totally assuage the pain of Jak's backstab.
"Cale," Riven said with a nod, as he eased painfully into the chair across from him.
"Riven," Cale replied. The assassin still stank of blood and sweat. Cale could see the tension in his face, the barely controlled rage. Riven was a kettle ready to boil over at the slightest flame. Cale decided to stoke the fire. He smiled smugly and asked, "Well, what now?"
"What now?" Riven's voice sounded like the growl of a wounded animal. "I'll tell you what now, you whelp."
He lunged across the table, snarling, but stopped halfway, hissing in pain and reaching for his wounded back. Cale took the opportunity to grab him by the cloak and jerk him fully across the table so they came face to face. The assassin's mouth twisted in agony.
"You won't show me anything, you traitorous bastard," Cale hissed. He allowed his own flaring anger to fuel his strength. He shook Riven like a rag doll. The assassin hissed through teeth clenched in pain. "You're a godsdamned Zhent! I should drag your wounded arse to the Righteous Man. Or maybe split you open here and now." He drew his dagger and held it to Riven's exposed throat.
"Go ahead," Riven snapped, spraying spittle into Cale's face. "You think I haven't told someone about your little betrayal tonight? If I don't walk out of here safe and sound, the Righteous Man hears all about your treachery. Anything you say about me then will sound like the excuses of a desperate man. You'll die ugly, Cale."
Cale stared into Riven's face and tried to discern whether the assassin was bluffing, I can't take the chance, he decided. He let Riven go, and the assassin slid back into the chair with a pained, yet satisfied sigh.
"It was a good play, Cale," Riven said. "You and your boy did quite a job. I lost seventeen men." He chuckled, a gurgling sound that made Cale want to vomit. "A good play and that's certain. What I can't figure out is why? You got a fondness for this Uskevren boy?"
"Not your concern," Cale replied tightly.
Riven smiled knowingly, grunted, and reached across the table to take a gulp of Cale's ale.
"My question remains," Cale said, this time less smugly. "What now?"
"Now nothing," Riven replied easily. "We go on as before. I betrayed the Righteous Man, and so did you. We keep that little tidbit between us and explain the failed ambush by telling him the Uskevren boy had more guards than anticipated. He'll believe it if both of us tell him. Knowing how much we… dislike each other, he'll never suspect collusion." He smiled evilly through his goatee. "Good enough?"
Cale sat back in his chair and considered the offer. It meant that he would stay in the guild-an undesirable outcome-but it also meant he could go back to being the Uskevren butler, feeding useless information to the Righteous Man and protecting his adopted family. Given the convoluted events that had unfolded tonight, he could hardly expect anything better. Besides, what was one more secret for a man who lived a lie?
"Good enough," he agreed at last. "But no more attempts on the Uskevren. We both steer the guild clear of them. Agreed?"
Riven frowned but nodded. "Agreed."
Cale pushed back his chair and rose. "Before I go, Riven, tell me why the Zhents did it. What's their real interest in this?"
"Not your concern, Cale," Riven replied. He took another gulp of ale.
Cale nodded. He had expected as much. "Watch your back, Riven," he said. As he walked past, he slapped the assassin between the shoulder blades. Riven spat ale and gave a satisfying hiss of pain.
"You're a bastard, Cale."
Cale smiled, walked out of the Stag into the cold night air, and headed for home.
I might be a bastard, he thought wryly, but still I have a family.
THE MAID
SKIN DEEP
Lisa Smedman
Larajin yanked the gold turban from her head and tossed it angrily aside. The tiny silver bells sewn onto it tinkled as it rolled to a stop in the corner of the workroom.
"I've had it," she said, shaking out her long, rust-colored hair. "I can't seem to do anything right."
Kremlar looked up from his oil press. "What's wrong?" the dwarf asked in a soft voice. "Did you have another run-in with Erevis Cale?"
Larajin gave an exasperated sigh. "It wasn't my fault that the wine goblet spilled on the table," she said, hooking a finger into one of the royal blue slashes on the sleeve of her dress. "How could anyone be expected to serve a luncheon in a uniform like this? The sleeves catch on everything."
"That explains the stain then," Kremlar said, nodding at her skirt. He pulled the handle of the press, and oil trickled out into a bowl.
Larajin looked down. The white fabric of her dress had a blotchy red line across the front. She stared at the dwarf as he sat at his worktable, which was scaled to Kremlar's stocky but short body. The dwarf was surrounded by the ingredients of his trade: stone mortars filled with powdered spices; pots of bright red and blue and purple dyes; trays heaped with fragrant flower petals; and bowls of sticky, pungent tree sap. A lot of messy ingredients were involved in the manufacture of perfumes, yet somehow Kremlar was always immaculate. His gray hair and beard were neatly braided, and his doublet and richly embroidered sleeves were spotless. Even his hands-with a gold ring on every finger and a locket ring on one thumb-were clean and pink, without a grain of powder or smudge of sap anywhere on them.
"How do you do it?" Larajin asked as she unfastened the lacings on the front of her tight gold vest.
"Eh?" Kremlar looked up again. "Do what?"
"Stay so clean," Larajin answered. "Mister Cale is always lecturing me about my uniform and not keeping up the standards of the Uskevren household. He expects me to carry coal without getting dusty, and to scrub pots without wetting my sleeves. He's always whispering to Mistress Shamur, and I'm sure it's about me. The mistress gave me a look colder than winter when I stoked the fire in her room this morning, and she's always watching me. I'm sure Mister Cale told her that I was the one who left the dust mo
p out in the hall that her guest tripped over, and that I scorched Tazi's masquerade dress with the pressing iron. If it weren't for my parents, she'd have turned me out by now-which just isn't fair, because I do try. It's just that-"
Kremlar finished her thought for her. "You're a square peg in a round hole," he said. "Try as you may, you're unable to smooth off your corners."
Larajin frowned. "Are you saying I'm not trying hard enough?"
Kremlar shook his head. "No. Someday, you'll find a square hole, just as I did." He held up blunt but neatly manicured fingers. "Could you imagine these hands working a pick or shovel? I felt the same way when my father tried to make a miner of me. I loved the sparkling gemstones, but the dust and sweat-ugh!"
"At least they let me out to do the shopping," Larajin said. "Mister Cale never complains about how long I take. I think he's glad to be rid of me."
Larajin began to tug her dress up over her head. Kremlar politely declined to look up again until she'd changed into the more serviceable clothes that she kept hidden in the back of his store: a brown trouser-skirt and a gray shirt with sleeves that buttoned tight from wrist to elbow. Kicking off her black velvet slippers, Larajin pulled on fur-lined, oiled leather boots. Like the rest of her outfit, they were serviceable: they kept her feet dry, even when she was standing in a foot of sewer water.
It felt good to be out of the foolishly fancy maid's uniform. Larajin stood and ran fingers through her hair, raking it back out of her eyes. She reached for her cloak.
"You're going to the garden?" Kremlar asked. It was more of a statement than a question; Larajin always snuck into the Hunting Garden when she needed to clear her head.
Larajin nodded.
"Will you fetch me something?" Kremlar asked. "I'll make it worth your while: thirty ravens if you can find it."
"Find what?" Larajin asked. She could guess. This wasn't the first time she'd turned an illicit venture into the Hulorn's private estate to her profit.
The dwarf rose from his worktable. He stood only as tall as Larajin's waist, and so he had to balance on tiptoe to lift a thick book from its place on the shelf. He flipped through pages, then tapped a finger against the hand-tinted illustration of a brilliant red flower whose twin petals resembled a woman's lips.
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