Downshadow

FORTY

Fayne hadn't stopped smiling all day. She'd smiled silently when the Watch stripped her of her possessions, including her mother's wand and her ritual amulet, crippling her magic. She'd pressed herself hard against each of them in turn, inviting with her eyes, but none of them had taken her offer. Pity.

She'd smiled silently when they asked for her name-then again when the stuffed peacock from the Watchful Order of Magists had threatened to call the Blackstaff to interrogate her personally. He didn't realize that the red-haired half-elf was a false face, though, so he had not tried to break her transmutation. Thank Beshaba for small blessings.

She'd smiled silently, regardless of how much it hurt, when the gray-faced priest of Ilmater set and bandaged her broken nose. She did lick his hand once, because it amused her. She loved the look in his eyes-desire warring wirh faith.

The Watchmen, the mage, and the priest probably got the impression she was laughing at them, but that wasn't true. Granted, she had not the slightest esteem for the Watch, but today, she felt like laughing only at herself.

Only after they led her into her cell, dressed in her blood-spattered doublet and breeches, and after the door had slid shut behind her, did she finally give voice to the laugh that had been building inside her. It was all so amusing. She was the one, after all, who had trusred a paladin.

She laughed loud and long for quite a while, until the other prisoners-cutpurses and swindlers, hungover nobles and the likeslapped the bars, trying to get her to be silent. But it was just so funny, this whole ludicrous situation, and she was the lead comedienne.

"Oh, Ellyne, Ellyne," she mused. "You're such a gods-tumbled fool! Such a. fool!"

The Watchman on duty thought she was simply mad, and he made the mistake of asking her to be silent. That man-a bulbous-nosed fellow of thirty winters or so-became the target of her lewdest and sharpest barbs. She threw herself into her mockery with a passion, pantomiming the jests and prompting more than a few cheeks around the prison to redden.

For she was Fayne, the Trickster of Waterdeep, and who would she be if she weren't the center of attention?

The Watchman gave up and stopped paying attention to her after a while, and she turned to tease her fellow deviants. Rath dwelt among the prisoners, sitting silently-mostly wrapped in bandages-in the cell opposite hers. He said nothing, no matter how she teased him.

After an unsuccessful hour of teasing anyone and everyone, Fayne grew bored. And thirsty, too. Not for the pond-scum water they'd given her-which she'd emptied on the guard's head-but for good brandy. Enough to make her face stop hurting.

Another hour passed. Having run out of breath to voice her japes and too proud to beg outright for attention, she contented herself with fuming at times, weeping at others.

Then, in the space of a heartbeat, all went silent.

Her sensitive ears could no longer hear the quiet murmur of the Watchmen at the front of the prison. She looked around, and her fellow prisoners all seemed asleep-or dead. Her heart started racing. What had happened?

"Aye!" she called. "Water, sirs! Please, goodsirs?"

No response.

The door swung open at the end of the hall, quiet and calm as soft death, and her heart almost froze. What was coming for her?

She sensed a presence-someone standing not a pace away from her at the door-and she shrieked and fell to the floor. She scrambled backward on her hands and feet and cowered against the wall.

Then came laughter.

"Mercy, child," a familiar voice said out of the air. "You are just like your mother."

A figure materialized before her, invisibility fading around it.

Relief flooded Fayne when she recognized her rescuer. "Gods," she said. "Did you leave me here long enough?"

The gold-skinned elf clad in the loud garb of a dandy swept off his plumed hat and bowed to her. He wore a bright rose pink shirt with dagged lace at the wrists, and his ebony overcoat was trimmed with complex gold swirls on the sleeves. Over this he wore a red half cloak that fell to about his waist, below which he wore white leather breeches. The outlandish garb might have seemed foppish or puerile on someone else, rather than dashing. She suspected, though, that he could wear anything and not fail to dash.

"Truly, Ellyne, you do me such dishonor," her patron said. "I was merely seeing to affairs of my own-I was quite unaware of your unfortunate circumstances."

"Hum." She didn't believe that for a heartbeat. "You've the key?"

Her patron lifted a ring of twenty keys. Then, as Fayne knew he would, he selected one completely at random and fit it in the lock. It turned, and he made a show of gasping surprise.

"You're impossible," Fayne said.

He shook his head. "Just lucky."

Her patron swept in as though he owned the city, and perhaps with good reason; privately, she suspected he was one of the masked lords who did exactly that.

"How positively dreadful." He pointed to her face. "Shall I avenge your honor, love?"

"No, no." Fayne's voice was made ugly and hollow by the broken nose. It rankled her, not being beautiful. "I prefer to do that myself."

"I thought you might." He leaned across the doorway, blocking her path out the door. "My darling little witch, I really must rebuke you."

"Oh?"

"For breaking the first rule of proper villainy," he said. "Misdirection?"

"Point." Her patron smiled. "Very well, the second tu\e of villainy," he corrected.

Fayne spat on the floor indelicately. "And that is?"

"Never do anything yourself." He smiled and bowed. "Hirelings and minions, child! That way, you've no chance being caught-and their antics are always amusing."

Fayne crossed her arms and pouted. "Which am I, a hireling or a minion?"

"Oh, tsch." He kissed her on the forehead.

She pushed past him and started walking down the corridor. He stepped out and, as an afterthought, wove a bit of magic over the lock so that it would work only occasionally. He grinned at the mischief that particular cantrip would cause.

"Hold," he said.

"Aye?" She turned and fell to her knees as a wave of power struck her, pulling apart her disguising spells one by one. It felt like Lorien's rod on the night of the revel, but harsher. The power was not gentle, and Fayne felt every bit of its intrusive touch.

When it was done, she coughed and retched on the ground, reduced back to her true form, with its pale skin, hair the color of his doublet, and gleaming eyes of silver. She had long elf ears and delicate features, leathery wings, and a long tail tipped at the end with a spade-shaped ridge of bone. She glared at him with her fiendish eyes.

"This is my punishment?" Her bright red tongue darted between her too-sharp teeth.

He shrugged. "No hiding for a tenday," he said. "You allowed that paladin to use you because of your insecurities. I won't have that-not in a child of my blood. So deal with your weakness."

"Well." She stretched and yawned.

He blinked-he truly hadn't expected that. "Already? You are content?"

At least one person thinks I'm pretty, Fayne thought, but she didn't say that.

"Mayhap my true face is not so bad." Fayne rose, slowly, and stroked her hands down her silky hips. "Mayhap you should wear your own-or am I the brave one?"

"Mayhap you're not as smart as I," he corrected. "Who's the one with the broken nose, who spent half a day in a Watch cell crying her eyes out?" He averted his gaze. "Your punishment stands-until you remember your place."

"Hmpf!"?ayne stuck out her tongue.

He laughed. "Gods know I've made mistakes like yours, and mostly for the same reason." He patted her head. "Love is the sharpest sword of all."

Fayne swore colorfully.

Her patron winked. Then he handed her the amulet and bone wand.

"And what did you do," Fayne asked, "to correct those mistakes?"

"Oh. A bit of this"-he waved three circles in the air-"a bit of that." He put his hand on the hilt of his rapier. His white-gloved fingers caressed the starburst guard. Then, as though its touch had reminded him, he looked at Fayne with affectionate, twinkling eyes. "She made the same mistake many times."

"My mother?" Fayne asked. "Cythara?"

He smiled knowingly.

"Not that again," Fayne said, rolling her eyes.

"I speak with all sincerity," he said. "You remind me of your mother at your best-and at your worst. She made many mistakes of the heart-at your birth and at her death. You see?"

Fayne only nodded. She wondered why he wouldn't say her mother's name. He probably found it painful. A weakness, perhaps?

As they left the jail, the binding spell that had frozen the Watchmen expired, and they bolted upright, searching in bewilderment for their prisoner. Fayne almost started to cast a hiding spell of her own, but of course, her patron had prevented that.

She was, after all, his best and most important asset. She could trust him-at least, until her usefulness to him ended.

The bonds of blood, Fayne thought.

As they were leaving, cloaked in invisibility magic, Fayne mused over the one question that she'd been dying to ask-and could, now that this phase of his game had ended.

"Would you permit me to ask a question?"

"I would certainly permir you to ask."

"The dwarf," she said. "You paid him to kill Lorien."

Smiling, her patron waved one casual, delicate hand.

"Lilianviaten," she murmured, speaking his name.

In Elvish, it meant something like "master fate spinner." Liken, she knew some called him. Also the Last Heir, rhough he'd never explained that to her. Mayhap he would, in a decade or so-perhaps a century.

It mattered little, Fayne thought. He was the only man she could trust in the world: trust to love her and betray her with equal frequency.

She wouldn't have it any other way.

She pressed. "So Rath was yours all along? Why didn't you tell me?"

"For my play to work, I had to make your reaction real, didn't I? And I knew you'd just ruin the whole game." He smiled wryly. "You should have seen your face."

Fayne started to ask, but then she understood it all-all of his plan, down to the smallest detail. How he had used her to manipulate events, and let her think he cared about her vengeance on the Nathalan bitch.

"Myrin," she said. "Myrin's the whole game-always has been."

"And?" Her patron waved her on.

"And now she's alone, undefended…" Fayne scowled. "You bastard!"

He flicked a lock of gold hair out of his eyes. "That's me."

Fayne couldn't help but laugh. It was so deliciously obvious-so simple-and so perfect. She could only pray to Beshaba she had half this sort of canniness when she came of age-and that the opportunity to pay Lilten back for his deception would arise soon.

"So… the game went according to your desire?"

"Of course." He stretched and yawned. "The next move is mine to make."

"I could help you with the rest of the game." Fayne nuzzled close to him-half like a solicitous child, half like a lover-and purred. "I promise I'll play by your rules."

"That's kind of you, but no." He shrugged. "Luck is with me-as she always is."

Of course, Fayne thought. She should have known-being the high priest of Beshaba, the goddess of misfortune, had its advantages.

And he was treacherous-she must never forget that. He'd served anothet god before, in the old world: Erevan Ilesere, if she remembered correctly, one of the faded Seldarine. Liken the Turncloak: the apostate high priest, who had abandoned his god in favor of his bitter enemy.

She wondered when he would betray Beshaba in her turn.

Fayne hugged herself close to his arm, pressing her breast against his side. "You're sure you don't want me?" she purred.

"Quire sure, my little fiendling," he said. "This is my game, and I've dealt myself a shining hand at it."

She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. "You're such a bastard, Father."

"Indeed I am, Ellyne, indeed I am." Liken winked and returned the kiss. His lips burned like the fires of the Hells. "But you-you are as trueborn as I could make you."

Fayne blushed.