Dawn of Night

CHAPTER 14 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 rothe 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 overheated.

"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 voice 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 Riven. 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.

"It's still full," he reminded her. "Did he hurt you?"

She looked down at the mercenary's blood that stained the table.

"I've had worse," she said.

Cale didn't doubt it.

"What's your name?" he asked.

He realized he was still touching her hand, and let her go. She looked him in the eye and Cale saw strength there, and pain.

"Varra," she said. "Thank you for ... that."

Cale nodded an acknowledgment. He thought her name a nice one.

"When do you go home, Varra?"

Her gaze narrowed and she flushed.

"What? Why do you ask? What that oaf said-It's not true of me, not anymore. I'm not-"

It took Cale a moment to understand her meaning. When he did, he felt his own ears flush. "That's not what I meant," he said, waving a hand. "I meant that I would escort you home."

He saw that she didn't understand his offer.

"Men like that,"-he nodded at the door through which the mercenaries had exited-"might try to find some dignity by revenging themselves on you."

When she understood his meaning, her eyes softened, but she still said, "They won't. And an escort will not be necessary."

"They're not coming back, Cale," Riven said.

Cale ignored the assassin.

"I know it is not necessary, Varra," he replied, impressed with her diction and dignity. He sensed an education in her background, or at least an educated mentor. "But I'd prefer to do so even still."

She held his gaze for a moment, as though measuring his intentions. The moment stretched.

"Very well," she said at last, and walked away.

Riven, having watched the whole exchange, favored Cale with his signature sneer then said, "I wonder if the Shadowlord knows that his First is as soft as an old woman."

Cale gave the assassin a stare.

Riven chuckled in response.

"Well, while you do that," the assassin said, nodding at Varra, "I'll get to work."

* * * * *

Cale walked beside Varra, following her lead while he kept his eyes and ears alert for any sign of the mercenaries. Like Riven, Cale thought it unlikely that the men would return, but he'd been wrong before.

Fortunately, the sellswords didn't show themselves, though orcs, drunken sailors, bugbears, and slaves marched past. Diseased, reed-thin men and women-human, goblin, and even orc-lingered in alleys or lurked in sewer mouths, coughing, smoking, watching them with the dull eyes of the damned. Voices and the tread of boots carried from the bouncing catwalks and bridges strung high above them. Cale had to adjust his technique to evaluate danger in three dimensions. He found it discomfiting.

Cale hadn't bothered to disguise himself against discovery by Azriim and the other slaadi. He would have to rely on the darkness and crowds to give him anonymity. A disguise would have required an explanation to Varra, and might have dissuaded her from allowing him to escort her. And Cale felt a strange attraction to the woman. Souls akin, perhaps.

Varra used no torch or candle, instead choosing roundabout routes lit by lichen, glowballs, and torches. She seemed unafraid of the street, and Cale knew enough not to attribute her fearlessness to his presence. He admired her mettle. In truth, he admired her.

They walked in silence for a time.

"I told you it was unnecessary," she said after a while. "Those men won't be back. It's happened before."

Cale only nodded.

"It's not far now," she said, filling the silence between them.

Cale, who spoke nine languages, found himself somewhat at a loss for words. Except for Thazienne and Shamur Uskevren, he had not had much interaction with women in recent years.

"How long have you lived here?" he finally managed.

She gave a soft little laugh and said, "A long while." She looked at him sidelong as they walked. "How long have you been here? No. Why are you here? You don't belong here. I can see that. Your friend might, but you don't."

"He's not my friend," Cale replied, though he was not so sure. "We just . . . understand each other. And work together. Why are you here?"

It was clear to Cale that Varra didn't belong in Skullport either.

She smiled fully, an expression that illuminated her face, and said, "You first."

"Business," Cale replied. To ensure that she didn't take him for a slaver or worse, he added, "I'm looking for someone."

"Aren't we all," she said, but otherwise had the sense to ask nothing more. Cale appreciated that.

"And you?" Cale asked.

She waved a delicate hand in the air and said, "Where else would I go?"

Cale could think of nothing to say to that.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

To his surprise, Cale thought first of the Plane of Shadow but he immediately righted his thinking.

"Westgate," he replied. Her face showed no recognition. Surprised, he wondered if she had been born in Skullport. "A large city overlooking the sea," he explained. "Far from here."

He put his hand to Weaveshear's hilt as two ogres plodded by. Only their stink proved offensive.

"It's sunny in Westgate, I expect?" Varra said.

Cale supposed it was, at least sometimes. Of course, he had done most of his work in the night.

"Yes," he replied.

Her expression grew wistful, even as she absently stepped over a body that was either drunk or dead.

"I haven't seen the sun in ... a long time," she said.

Again Cale found himself with no words. The silence sat between them as they passed one rundown, rickety building after another, and one rundown, rickety human being after another.

After a while, he asked, "Why do you stay?"

She gave that same quick laugh then said, "I was born far away, too far to easily return." Her voice dropped and she added, "I've nowhere else to go. This is my home now."

Before Cale could respond, she pointed to a dilapidated, moisture-swollen flophouse leaning dangerously against the cavern's wall. A rothe pen stood to its right; a fungus garden to its left. Unlike most of the structures in Skullport, another building was not built atop the flophouse, though Cale could see movement in some of the caves and recesses higher up the cavern wall.

"That's it," she said. She stopped and turned to face him. "Thank you for the escort."

Cale thought again how pretty she was, how beautiful she might have been with appropriate food, dress, and a softer life under the sun. Tempting though it was, he knew he could not help her with those things, at least not just then. He had other, more pressing business.

"My pleasure, lady," he said.

He gave his best bow, smiled, and turned to leave. She caught his cloak sleeve.

"I have a fire pit inside," she said, with only a hint of self-consciousness. "It's warm. I share lodging with two other women, but they're probably still. .. out."

At that moment, under Varra's gaze, Cale didn't need a fire pit to warm him. He felt an inexplicably powerful compulsion to take Varra in his arms and it almost overcame his better judgment. Almost. He smiled at her and gently took her hand. It was soft and feminine, despite the harshness of her work. He noticed for the first time that only a few shadows were leaking from his flesh. It was as if she kept his darker nature at bay.

"This is not a good time," he said. "I have something important that I must see through to the end."

A coffle of slaves trudged past, chains ringing. Cale noticed a ragged looking human staring at him, all the while wearing a crazed smile. The human looked familiar, perhaps the same madman who had accosted him on the street when they had first arrived in the city.

Varra pulled him back to himself by touching his cheek and staring into his eyes. She smiled, the first smile he had seen that touched her eyes. Seeing her face light up like that, he almost changed his mind.

"A man of secrets," she said. "But with a darkness about you that is plain."

Cale could not deny it.

She held her smile and said, "Does the man of secrets have a name?"

Cale flushed, feeling the fool. He had failed even to introduce himself. He started to say his name but quickly caught himself.

"Vasen Coriver," he said, making her one of the only people still living on Faerun who knew his given name.

One less secret, he thought.

She withdrew her hand from his and brushed a stray hair from her face.

"Vasen," she repeated. "I like that. Well, Vasen, will we see each other again?"

He answered her honestly, "I don't know."

She seemed to accept that, though her smile faltered.

"I think we will" she said, "But until then relain il nes baergis."

Cale had never before heard the language.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

She winked at him and said, "I'll tell you when I see you next."

Without another word, she turned and walked into the flophouse.

Cale could do nothing but watch her go, thinking how important the briefest of encounters sometimes felt, and how he had a new reason to stop the Sojourner and his slaadi.

* * * * *

At first, Azriim did not believe his eyes-his own eyes, which he retained despite being in the form of Thyld. He peered through the darkness at the two humans. Was it possible? Awkward in Thyld's pathetic skin, he picked his way through the slaves and other street traffic to draw closer to the pair of humans. He eyed the male.

The height, the bald head ... it could only be him.

Azriim drew in a sharp breath, and flexed his hands as though they were his natural claws.

Though Azriim could not imagine how, not more than a block away stood what looked like the priest of Mask, Erevis Cale. The same Erevis Cale who had followed Azriim and his broodmates all the way to the Fane of Shadows, who had wounded Azriim, killed Elura, and whom Azriim had thought drowned at the bottom of the Lightless Lake.

Azriim stared at Cale, afraid to move, thinking that if he did the image of the priest must reveal itself as an apparition conjured by his imagination and boredom.

For the first time, he noticed that the dusky skin was not a play of the dim light. He saw too the shadows that flared at intervals from Cale's skin like black fire. That took him aback at first, causing him to doubt what he saw, but then he took its meaning. He was indeed looking upon Cale, and Cale was a shade. The priest had undergone the transformation that Vraggen had sought for himself. That transformation had somehow allowed Cale to survive the dissolution of the Fane. And there he was. Azriim wondered if any of Cale's comrades had also survived. Certainly Serrin would be interested in re-acquainting himself with the one-eyed assassin.

Azriim smiled and almost laughed aloud. The boredom that had until then afflicted him vanished. Cale had tracked him to Skullport. A hundred questions ran through his mind-most importantly, how?-but he pushed them all aside. It was enough that he had a challenge.

As though feeling Azriim's stare, Cale looked away from the human female who stood near him and made eye contact with Azriim. Azriim looked away quickly, though he could not contain his grin.

When Cale looked away, Azriim withdrew into the darkness and softly whispered an arcane word. His body wavered for an instant and he knew that he had become invisible to onlookers.

Azriim reached out his consciousness and established contact.

I have news, he projected.

He sensed curiosity from Dolgan and Serrin. Both were preparing the final stages of Azriim's plan.

Erevis Cale, the priest of Mask, is here, he said.

Silence. It was as though Serrin and Dolgan had broken the connection.

Serrin recovered himself first.

Are you certain? he asked. What of his companion, the one-eyed assassin ?

Azriim fought down his irritation with the question and answered, Of course, I'm certain. I'm looking upon him even now. I do not know of his companions.

We should kill him, Serrin offered.

Obviously, Azriim answered again, though he had begun to conceptualize a way in which he could first use Cale to further his plan. But with some style, of course.

Dolgan seemed at least to have gathered his wits.

How can he be here? asked the big slaad. How could he have known?

To that, Azriim had no certain answer though he suspected scrying.

Impossible to say, Dolgan, he replied, though he remembered that Dolgan had named Cale as relentless. Azriim realized that his broodmate could not have been more correct. As a precaution, immediately take a new form and from this point onward, maintain a ward against scrying on your person.

They projected acquiescence.

What will you do? Serrin asked.

Follow him, Azriim replied. In the meantime, proceed with the preparations.

He cut off the link with his broodmates and grudgingly reached out across Faerun for the Sojourner. When he located him, he indicated his mental presence and waited for his father to allow him contact.

Azriim? the Sojourner asked. You are agitated.

Azriim did not waste words: The priest of Mask followed us here.

For a moment, the Sojourner did not respond, then: His companions?

Unknown.

If I attempt to scry him to determine whether his comrades live, he may sense it. Has he seen you?

Of course not, Azriim snapped. We have taken precautions.

He will attempt to scry you, said the Sojourner. He has no other course. Keep defensive wards in place henceforth, and avoid contact.

Azriim ground his teeth, finding the activity unsatisfying without fangs, and asked, Avoid contact? We should be allowed to kill him.

Azriim felt the Sojourner's mental presence lightly scouring his brain, causing him an itch behind his eyes.

You wish to kill him because his presence offends your pride, the Sojourner said. You consider him a challenge worthy enough that you will take satisfaction in his death.

Azriim didn't bother to deny it, though the Sojourner's pedantic tone irked him.

The Sojourner continued, You would do this despite my admonition to you that pridefulness in excess is self-destructive?

Azriim did not bother to deny that either.

His father said nothing for a time, then, Very well. Kill him. Perhaps the lesson may be learned another way.

With that, the Sojourner cut the mental connection.

Azriim fumed over his father's condescension but kept his attention on Cale.

The human left off the female and walked past the invisible slaad. Azriim fell into step behind him. He toyed with the idea of attacking Cale, taking him by surprise, killing him on the street, and taking his form, but dismissed the idea. The Sojourner's disappointed tone had rankled him. He would swallow his pride and observe. For a time.