Downshadow

FODR

Corrupt merchant attacked and magically disfigured!" shouted the boy who carried broadsheets at the corner of Waterdeep Way and the Street of Silver. He held up his wares: copies of the Vigilant Citizen. "Vigilante menace spreads in Downshadow-Watch denies all!"

Cellica, who could pass easily for a human girl in her bulky weatherdoak, chuckled ruefully and shook her head. The halfling paid a copper nib for one of the long, broad scrolls-printed on both sides with ink that would smudge in the rain-and glanced at it. Apparently, some fool named Kolatch had come away with purple hair and beard yestereve. She giggled.

"Brainless Roaringhorn heiress caught in bawdy boudoir!" cried a broadcrier for the acerbic Mocking Minstrel. "Scandal rocks house; says Lord Bladderblat-'typical'!"

"Undead stalk the nobility!" shouted a third, this one a girl for the infamous Blue Unicorn. "You can't see, you can't tell-they survive by bedding the living! Interviews and tales!"

Cellica skipped through Castle Ward, giggling at the worst news that was apparently fit to print. Most Waterdhavians called the drivel in the broadsheets ridiculous, but that hardly stopped them reading it. The printers would never go out of business as long as there was drink and stupidity and nobles to indulge in both.

She strolled west, then north along Waterdeep Way, breathing deeply the refreshing air of the bustling city. Waterdeep grew busy just after the gates opened at dawn, the streets choked with laborers and merchants, commoners and nobles alike. She bought a jellied roll and hopped up on a bench in Fetlock Court-in the shadow of the palace and Blackstaff Tower.

This was one of Cellica's favorite pastimes: watching folk. She watched nobles in particular, because they amused her. She found the way they walked comical: shoulders back, chest forward, staring down their noses at commoners, laborers, merchants, and any they saw as inferior. She giggled at the sharp tongues of lords and ladies in the street, took note of arguments, and laughed aloud when a seemingly delicate old lady seized a younger male relation by the ear and hauled him, flailing and protesting, to a waiting carriage. The gaggle of lordlasses he'd been striving to impress giggled until they saw Cellica also laughing. Then their laughter died and they stared coldly at her.

"Go on, off with you," Cellica said. Her lip crooked. She repeated, more forcefully: "Go."

The young noblewomen stiffened, peering anxiously at one another. Then they shuffled away as though compelled, looking flabbergasted.

Cellica giggled. Folk tended to do what she said, if she said it forcefully enough.

The city raced by day in the warm light, and wouldn't sleep until long after the sun had gone down. Trade was the blood and bile of Waterdeep, as it had been for centuries. And everyone, regardless of country or creed, was welcome in these streers-so long as they brought good coin and a fair hand.

A fair hand was the less consistent of the two, and something Cellica read about every day. Setting aside the remains of her morn-ingfeast, she unrolled the broadsheet-the Citizen was the most reputable-and read every tale of news, politics, and commerce in detail. Who was offering fair deals? Who stood accused of dirty trade or slavery? Who might be a spy for the Shades or Westgate or even the defunct Zhents?

This research was largely on behalf of her partner-gods knew he wouldn't do it himself Looking for a target wasn't his firewine of choice; once he fixed on one, though, no man or creature could stand in his way.

So long as he had the right woman directing him, of course.

He would probably be getting back from his nightly ordeal nowcollapsing into his bed at their tallhouse, not to wake until evening.

She worried that he rested enough, but she also knew that worry was futile. Damned if he would take her advice anyway.

Cellica finished with the Citizen and bought a few more broadsheets, including the Daily Luck, Halivar's, and even the Minstrel. This last (a bitter cesspool about corrupt Waterdhavian politics, lascivious noble houses, and shadowy merchant deals) hardly ever yielded anything of use. That day, its reporting of the Talantress Roaringhorn scandal-as told by the oh-so-noxious Satin Rutshear-curdled Cellica's stomach, so she crumpled the sheet and tossed it aside.

She much preferred the North Wind, which featured her beloved illustrations of fashionable garments and easy-on-the-eyes models, in addition to plenty of gossip about circles far above hers. As the Wind reported, the annual costume ball was upcoming at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass, five nights hence.

"Oh, to be noble!" Cellica sighed, clasping the broadsheet to her breast. "Or at least rich."

After fantasizing a few moments, she polished off the last of the watered wine in her beltskin and hopped down from the bench.

With the business of "keeping atop Mount Waterdeep" done, she cut east down alleys and turned north up the Street of Silks, deeper into Castle Ward. These were narrow, less crowded streets-filled with fewer folk and more broken crates, rotting sacks, and other refuse. The people who lived here were poorer, many of them huddled in doorways and beneath raised walks. They looked at her with hungry eyes, and she fingered the crossbdw-shaped amulet that hung at her throat. Others waved to her from festhalls just opening for the day.

Cellica pulled her hood lower to attract less attention. Few small folk appeared in this part of the city-gnomes and halflings usually kept their distance. Cellica happened to know, however, that her people were less a minority than the eye suggested. She slipped among the taller people, trying not to touch anyone. No one batted an eye or stayed her.

"Doppelgangers infiltrate houses of ill repute!" cried a small figure who appeared to be a human boy. "Welcomed by festhall madams for their general skills and adaptability!"

Cellica made her way toward the crier, who was not a boy but a round-faced halfling. Anyone who knew Waterdeep might see through his disguise, based on his wares. He was selling Pleased Toes, a set of tales written, printed, and sold exclusively by his kind.

"Good to see you, Harravin," she murmured to him. "Mum well?"

"Aye, Cele," he said. "When you coming back to do some more o' that cooking?"

"Soon." Cellica leaned against the wall next to him and took a broadsheet from his stack. She unfolded and began to read. While she did, coin changed hands.

"You can pay me back this month, aye," said Cellica.

"Cheers." Harravin grinned, then called, "Doppelganger whores! Some reported missing-test your husband to make sure he's your own!

Cellica hurried down the alley. As she went, she heard a sound and looked up at the edges of the roofs above her. Water dripped off split, moss-covered roofs-old rainwater fell on her forehead and she wiped it off. She thought she'd heard… but no, of course not.

She gave a little smile and turned to look down the alley. A trapdoor, covered by a heap of dirty cloths and broken crockery, was set into the cobbles. She bent down. A soft thumping sounded from below, like a machine working in the distance.

She pulled open the trapdoor and a dozen bright eyes blinked up at her from smoky candlelight. Farther in, she saw a frame press working, turning out Pleased Toes and lurid chapbooks. A halfling turned roward the sudden light and wiped his forehead, removing a thick coating of black soot.

"Philbin," she said, nodding to him.

"Well," he said. "S'bout time th'tyrant of a paladin lets you out. Ready for second print!"

"Celly!" came a cry. The small ones within started cheering and hopping up and down.

"Well met," Cellica said. She climbed down a stout ladder, closed the trapdoor behind her, and joined her adoptive family.

The little halflings crowded around her, cooing and yipping like puppies. She saw their mother, Philbin's wife Lin, cooking a meal over the steaming frame press engine: eggs and sausage and toasted thin loaves. Her stomach growled.

"You've come for more coin, I take it," Philbin said. "And our free food too, eh?"

Though the gruff halfling patriarch didn't look it, he was one of the wealthiest merchants in Waterdeep-partly because he was such a skinflint.

Cellica drew a bottle from her satchel. "I brought wine."

Philbin rolled his eyes.

"Just in time for morningfeast!" said one of the little brothers, Dem.

"Silly!" said a halfling girl-Mira. "Secondmorningfeast!"

Cellica found peace among the halflings of the Warrens, one of the cities beneath Waterdeep. It wasn't home-that was the ruined city of Luskan, far to the north-but for a time, she could pretend.

At least until her tasks called her back.