Pool of Radiance

3 The Night Begins

There would be no peace tonight, Ren thought, eyeing the crowd in the tavern. The homey pub was filled with people—soldiers, thieves, adventurers, even a magic-user or two—most of them newcomers to Phlan, here no doubt in response to the town council’s offer of money and treasure for each uncivilized section of the city cleared of danger. Most of the strangers were ready to make voluntary expeditions in exchange for promised rewards, but recently the town council had even begun to send convicted criminals on expeditions outside the walls of Civilized Phlan, in lieu of jail terms. As Ren examined the crowd, he thought for the thousandth time how strange it was that they all looked so young—much too young to be facing the monsters that controlled the ruins of the old city.

Ren never thought of himself as old, though he felt he’d aged a lifetime in the last year, but he wasn’t wet behind the ears like the roomful of youngsters around him. He’d stolen the best from the best. He’d killed monsters by the dozens, and men in even greater numbers. And he had loved—god, how he had loved! He knew that no one in the packed room could have experienced a love like his. He closed his eyes and thought of Tempest. Her hair was the flaming sienna red of bur oak leaves in autumn. She was a tall woman, with a striking full figure. She could move with the grace and silence of a cat or the provocative bawdiness of a street wench. When the two of them had prowled the streets and rooftops together, she had always worn black leathers. The thought of her, buxom and strong, working her way over the rooftops with ease, stopping to tease him with a glance or a motion of her hands, made Ren’s blood stir….

“Have you fallen asleep standing up, man?” Sot’s angry voice bellowed from behind the bar. “There’s tables to clean and orders to take! Move yourself with some alacrity inside my pub, or you’ll be moving yourself even faster to the doorway.”

Ren shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered, and he began working the tables again. There was comfort in the mind-numbing dullness of the job. He could think—or not think—as he chose, and continue his work. He brought four flagons of ale to one table, five bowls of Sot’s renowned pork and cabbage soup to another, two glasses of wine to yet another. He mopped the floor where a pig of a youth had spilled a pitcher of gravy, and he cleared three tables so a band of young fighters could sit and slurp beer till they dropped.

He’d been working for Sot for nearly three weeks now, the most recent of a baker’s dozen of odd jobs he’d held as he traveled aimlessly since leaving Waterdeep. It had been more than a year since he’d practiced thieving, the trade he’d taken up when he met Tempest, more than a year since the bastard assassins had killed her over some goods he and she had stolen from a member of the assassins’ guild. They hadn’t known when they lifted the gems and daggers that their mark was the head of the guild—not that they would have left him alone had they recognized him, but Ren knew now that if he had it to do over again, he would gladly have returned even the precious ioun stones and anything else in his possession to have kept Tempest from harm.

He still awakened night after night with the vision of her standing there, screaming a silent scream as a dagger lodged deep in her left breast. The wound would probably have killed her anyhow, but the assassins had treated the knife with a madman’s poison that had left her body twitching and flopping on the floor of their bedroom until Ren was forced to put her out of her misery. Oh, he’d killed the three who murdered his beloved, killed them while they were still in his home, but they were mere hirelings for the head of the guild, who was the one really responsible for Tempest’s murder. He still had a price out on Ren’s head for the return of the daggers and ioun stones, which were still in his possession. But Ren didn’t care. The bastard would get the ioun stones from Ren when he fought him in the Abyss, but not before.

Ren delivered another order of food and booted a drunken troublemaker out the door. To the people around him, he was merely a bigger-than-average barkeep, a large fellow with matted, gnarled hair and a rumpled tunic. That was just the impression Ren wanted to give. He had no desire to confront any assassins until he could confront the one who’d ordered Tempest’s murder.

“Hey, big fella!” came a call from the bar. “Unless I miss my guess, you’ve got some muscles under those skunk coverings. What do you say you use some of that brawn of yours to bring us some food and a couple more pitchers?” The speaker was one of three women fighters who’d been in the pub together since early afternoon. The three had a catcall or a teasing invitation for almost every man who walked in the door, but they’d also given the boot to more than one of the men who’d made his way to the ladies’ table, hoping for a little friendly action.

“No problem, ladies,” said Ren, an amiable grin spreading across his face. The three were impressive. Each was dressed in fine quality chain mail that had seen plenty of use, and all three were bristling with swords, daggers, and throwing axes … also well used. The smallest of the three, a willowy brunette, and the tallest, a big muscular blonde, appeared to take their cues from the third woman, whose salt-and-pepper hair made her appear older. A man might be attracted to any of the three, but to Ren, who had been all but oblivious to women for a full year, all three seemed remarkably attractive, and even more so for their forwardness.

Ren slipped behind the bar and addressed his boss. “Sot, we’ve got a food and ale order from that table again,” said Ren, gesturing with a nod of his head. “Would you fill two of those pewter pitchers for me?”

The rotund old innkeeper looked at Ren curiously. The heavy pewter wares at which Ren was pointing were generally reserved for highborn lords or ladies, who occasionally found their way into Phlan’s busiest but not necessarily fanciest inn. Something in Ren’s expression left no room for argument, however, so the innkeeper obliged. Ren’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and he felt a certain warmth inside of him. He had kept to himself for too long. It was past time to blow off a little steam. He backed through the swinging door into the kitchen and barked at the cook. “Food, friend, and lots of it—on those big metal platters, if you please. Oh, and haul out three of those heavy metal trenchers to serve it in.”

“What’re ye thinkin’ of, laddie?” the grease-covered cook asked as he spotted the gleam in Ren’s eyes.

“Keep an eye out the door after you serve it up and you’ll soon see!” Ren replied lightly. The cook was a temperamental man, as feisty as he was short, and Sot tolerated him only because his tasty food was the inn’s main draw. Ship captains and traveling merchants alike made a point of visiting the Laughing Goblin Inn when they were in Phlan. Fortunately, Ren had managed to stay on the cook’s good side, and he wasn’t afraid to ask the man a favor if he knew he could offer a snatch of entertainment in return.

Ren pulled a giant war shield from behind the pantry shelves, a souvenir from a fighter who had tried to leave without paying his bill. A large man, with the skills of a ranger and a thief, Ren had a knack for “convincing” people to pay their bills. In fact, there hadn’t been many who couldn’t afford to pay since he’d started working for the inn, and that fact kept Sot more than happy. Ren gripped the shield firmly, then easily ripped the leather handles from it. Then he laid the cook’s big oak cutting board on top of it, followed by a linen cloth over the board. “Now help me load this thing with food, and grab those two tankards I just brought in.”

“Ya big galoot, ya don’t think you’re gonna lift that mass of metal an’ grub by yerself, do ya?”

“I most certainly am,” said Ren.

“Ha!” the cook blurted out after adding the pitchers from the bar to the tray. “I’ll part with a silver if that don’t weigh more than me.”

“I hope it does,” said Ren, smiling enigmatically. “Now, open the door for me, please.”

Ren dragged the shield off the counter and balanced it on his right hand. The cook gasped as he got an indication for the first time of Ren’s strength. There were few men as tall as Ren. The cook was sure by the way Ren had to duck under the doorway every time he came into the kitchen that he must be nearly six and a half feet tall. But he had never realized what kind of brawn the big man hid under his sloppy tunic. As Ren hoisted the huge war shield and the many pounds of metal on top of it, his muscles bulged till the loose-fitting tunic pulled tight around his arm, shoulder, and back. He used his left hand to balance the big tray as he stepped out into the crowded inn. The cook followed Ren to the door, shaking his head and reminding himself that he never wanted to get in a fight with this quiet man.

No one in the main hall thought anything of Ren bringing in the tray. None could see all the metal on top. He moved easily through the crowd, stopping at the table where the three fighters were sitting. The big blonde who’d given the order was the first to notice him.

She smiled coyly as he approached and began to tease him about his tardiness. “It’s about time you brought our food. I was beginning to think I’d have to go on a town-council expedition to find you and our grub. The delay could affect your tip, big fellow.”

The brunette slapped the shoulder of the speaker. “Jensena, I know the tip you have in mind, but he’s so smelly, it’d take you a week to get clean.” All three laughed at the jest. Ren merely cocked his head and raised his eyebrows slightly.

The leader of the three, the woman with the salt-and-pepper hair, glanced at Ren over the rim of her cup. “I expect he could bathe in a hurry if he thought it would get him anywhere. Not only that, I’d wager he could teach you both a thing or two. After all, he’s nothing but a tavern tart.” They all broke into peals of laughter. Ren knew he must act quickly or he’d miss his opportunity.

“Wager away, ma’am. I wager your bill for the night against an equal sum that you ladies can’t even do ten minutes’ worth of the work that I do.”

Throughout the course of the afternoon, the three had racked up a good-sized bill. They answered together without hesitation: “You’re on!”

From his post at the doorway, the cook smiled, knowing what was coming next. That Ren was a bold rascal. He’d have to hand him that.

“Here,” said Ren, holding the tray forward. “Just see if you can carry this tray and everything on it from here to the bar without dropping it. That should be no problem for any of you ladies—assuming, of course, that you’re sober.”

Ren eased the tray down onto the table. Even people at the other end of the bar could hear the groan of the wood as the table bowed under the weight of the huge shield. The three women were now able to see the full metal pitchers of ale, the pewter tableware, platters, and trenchers, and food enough to feed an army. They also spotted the heavy war shield.

The brunette, Gwen, recognized the trick Ren had played on them. Purse-lipped, she started rummaging through a pouch on her belt, looking for some coins to pay the bill and the bet. But her friends weren’t so easily daunted.

“Jensena, you’re the strongest. Give it a try,” said the older warrior.

Jensena was the biggest of the three, with brawn that would put most men to shame. She tossed her blond braid to the side and flexed her muscles. She had no qualms about showing off her strength, but eyeing the great metal tray, she wondered how even a man the size of the barkeep could have hefted it with one hand. She wasn’t at all sure she could raise it even with two, much less carry it from their table to the bar. Nonetheless, she moved to a position beside the platter and stretched her arms and shoulder blades to pull the kinks out. As she did, her well-oiled chain mail rippled across her chest and shoulders, displaying her muscular flesh. Then, straining with everything she had, she slowly began to raise the platter with both hands. The two pitchers started to tip, but Ren reached out in a flash to steady them.

Ren could feel the tension in the air. Virtually all eyes were on him and the three women. His little jest could quickly turn sour on him. These were strangers to the town, proud strangers. He could tell they didn’t like the fact that they had been duped by a tavern worker, and Ren was certain there were many other customers who would side with them in a brawl. Even Sot and the cook stood ready with cudgels lest a fight should break out.

“Enough for now, ladies,” Ren said. “I wouldn’t want you to let this perfectly good food and ale go to waste. Eat, drink, have a good time. We can settle our wager later.” With a brief bow, Ren left the table and resumed his duties. The tension level dropped immediately, and soon it was as noisy as ever as the guests in the pub renewed their conversations where they had left off.

When he was sure all was calm once more, Ren returned to the table where the women were still sitting. He moved close to the table and smiled warmly. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said quietly. “I really just wanted to get your attention.”

“The joke was on us, and a good one, at that,” said the older-looking of the warriors. She discreetly pushed a sack of coins she had out on the table toward Ren. “I’m Salen, the leader of this small band. The dark-haired bladeswoman is Gwen, and the one who tried to lift the tray is Jensena.”

“My pleasure, ladies—Gwen, Salen, Jensena. My friends call me Ren. I’d prefer that you call me the same.”

“So, Ren, are you brave enough to wager us for that gold one more time—in a contest of our choosing?” asked Salen.

“Miss, I doubt there’s a man alive could take all of you on and survive.”

The corners of Salen’s mouth turned up in a smile. “I expect you’re right.”

Ren picked up the sack of coins and tossed them to the innkeeper, who had been watching Ren since he returned to the table. Sot set his big cudgel down with deliberation on the bar. He was obviously annoyed that Ren had risked a night’s business for a prank, but when he opened the purse and saw the large amount of gold inside, he grinned and winked his approval to Ren. “Have an ale and see what they have in mind!” shouted Sot, and he pushed a tankard down the bar toward Ren.

“What kind of contest were you thinking of?” Ren asked as he grabbed the tankard and turned back to face the three warriors.

“Your muscles, however well hidden under that baggy shirt, won’t help you in a dagger toss,” said Salen coyly.

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” said Ren, “but I should warn you—I’ve thrown a knife or two. Are you sure you’re still game?”

The other two, who hadn’t looked up from their food since Ren had come to the table, burst into laughter. “This time you’ve met your match, big fella,” Jensena said, pointing her fork toward Salen. “I’ve never seen Salen beaten yet, and I’ve watched her throw almost as many times as I’ve been in battle.”

The three finished a few more bites of food and then stood up and carried their tankards over to the small table beside the inn’s well-used wooden target. The great round slab had been taken from a gigantic pine that had seen hundreds of years of life. Concentric growth circles were etched into its surface, making a perfect target.

Salen removed a leather box from her backpack. She lifted the cover of the box to reveal two pairs of daggers, one glistening black, the other white.

“Lovely weapons,” said Ren. “May I?” He waited for Salen to nod before picking up each dagger in turn to test its balance. The blades were made for throwing into live targets, but they were perfect for the game as well. Each blue-steel blade was wider near its point than it was at its base. The onyx and crystal handles were slim and capped with gold ends that offset the weight of the wide blades. In the hands of a skilled thrower, any one of the daggers could easily slice through flesh and bone. Ren had no doubt they had been used for just that purpose.

“Go ahead, try a throw,” urged Salen.

Ren needed no coaxing. After a year’s absence from thieving, rangering, or any other kind of action, he was more than ready to heft a balanced weapon in his hand. Even though he had chosen a seemingly aimless existence until such time as he was ready to hunt down the person responsible for Tempest’s death, Ren was generally a man of action. Passivity was not in his makeup. Somehow these three lighthearted women, with their wagers and laughter, had awakened a part of Ren’s nature he had kept buried for too long. He picked up the onyx-handled pair of daggers and released each in turn with a fluid twist of his torso and flick of his wrist. Both blades thunked solidly into the line that bordered the center circle of the target.

“Not bad,” said Salen, taking up the crystal-handled pair. “I enjoy a challenge.” Her movements were deft and experienced. The blades landed within the border of the center circle, hardly a hairbreadth apart.

There are probably a hundred ways to play the game of daggers, and Ren and Salen started by haggling over the rules. Before beginning in earnest, they each made several more tosses till each player thought he had the measure of the other.

Ren hadn’t felt so good in months. He’d forgotten how a good blade felt in his hand, the splendid feeling of control when his body did exactly as he wanted it to. For the first time since Tempest died, he found himself scanning the room, sizing up the people. His rangering skills enabled him to tell at a glance if a foe was formidable. His thieving skills allowed him to estimate the possible takes available in the room. Salen was good, but the contest was yet to begin, and Ren was feeling great.

As Salen removed the blades from the round wooden slab, Gwen came up close to Ren and touched him lightly on the arm. “You’re good,” she said, “and you’re no eyesore, either.” She ran a finger teasingly close to the opening of his tunic, and turned her body till she was directly alongside him. He could feel his heart speed up as she tossed her rich dark hair back and her body brushed his side. Her thick, brown hair smelled like a summer meadow, and he could feel his head reel as sensations he had ignored for twelve long months rose now, unbidden. “You know, if you didn’t smell so bad, I could see us getting together.”

Before he could respond, Gwen whisked away from him and returned to the table where Jensena was now sitting, awaiting the start of the match.

“It’s getting hot in here,” said Ren, turning back to face Salen.

“I’m sure you think it is,” she said with a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “What do you say we get started in earnest?” Ren nodded, and she returned his two black daggers and made her first toss of the contest. One thunked into the outer edge of the center circle, and the other landed in the border between the center and the second ring.

She’s tough, Ren thought, but not tough enough. In one motion, Ren slid both blades into throwing position, one in each hand, and flicked them both toward the target with only a fraction of a second between throws. He watched in horror as the two blades parted as they neared the target and slammed into the board several inches wide of center! He stalked to the board and jerked out the two black-handled blades. They looked right; they even felt right—until he pulled out the crystal-handled daggers and felt the difference in balance, and then he knew he had been duped. These ladies were clever. The difference between the blades he had started with and the ones they had substituted was as subtle as the exchange had been. It was a perfect response to his stacked-platter prank, but he would not be duped.

He returned to the throwing mark, shaking his head. “Salen, you’re throwing with a vengeance. On the other hand, I appear to be losing my touch. I’m afraid if we make too many more tosses, I’ll only be humiliated. What do you say we make one last throw for the money and call it quits?”

“That’s all right by me,” she said quickly, her hands shooting out for the white daggers. She carefully took her stance, tossed, and planted both of her daggers in the center of the circle. The quivering blades were barely over an inch apart. She stood back proudly, her eyes on Ren’s big hands and the black-handled blades he was holding.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I use my own daggers for this final throw,” Ren said matter-of-factly. In a blur of motion, before she had a chance to respond, he had dropped the substitute daggers and pulled his own ebony killing blades from his boot tops. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw his daggers with full force at the pine target. They slammed into the board, lodged up to their hilts, perfectly positioned at the center of the board, directly between Salen’s blades.

The three fighters glanced nervously at each other and at the quivering hilts of the ebony blades. Ren walked to the board and removed Salen’s daggers and his own as if he were pulling them from warm tallow.

As he returned to the three, Salen tossed him a sack of silver. Then the three of them headed for the door of the inn without saying a word. “Maybe another time,” said Ren softly as he watched them go. He hadn’t meant to insult the three female warriors or chase them away. They were as competitive as he, and it had been too long since he’d faced a good challenge. He realized that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

He sheathed his daggers and returned to the bar. “There’s tables to be wiped,” said Sot in a near whisper, awe apparent in both his voice and his look.

“No problem,” said Ren amiably. It was the beginning of the best night he’d had in a long time.