The Halls of Stormweather

THE BUTLER

Cale sprinted down the alley, flattened himself against the wall, and shot a nervous glance behind. No one-just darkness and empty cobblestones. Winded from the run, his lungs heaved like a bellows. He sucked in the stink of the alley, a sour reek of urine and vomit, and blew it out in a cloud of frozen mist.

Take it easy, he ordered himself. But that was easier thought than done. Someone was following him; someone had been since he had left Stormweather Towers. But who? And why?

He slid along the wall until he reached a shallow, garbage-strewn recess hewn from the bricks. Blanketing himself in shadow, he concentrated on slowing his heart and steadying his breathing. He knew a cloud of exhaled breath would betray his location as surely as a shout. With an effort of will, he calmed himself.

The roughness of the bricks at his back tempted him to try climbing, but he quickly dismissed the idea as too risky. If his pursuer caught up to him while he hung helpless on the wall…

Blowing out a soft, tense sigh, he quietly eased his dagger from its belt sheath and peered through the darkness behind him. Still no one. Perhaps he had lost A silhouette suddenly appeared at the mouth of the alley, a short, wiry body framed by the light of a street torch. Cale froze and held his breath. The figure wavered uncertainly for a moment, as though sniffing for a trap, then stalked down the alley. The soft sshhk of a blade being drawn rang loud in Cale's ears. He gripped his own dagger in a sweating fist and tried to sink deeper into the shadows.

The figure prowled down the narrow alley with short sword drawn. Its wary gaze swept the shadowy recess where Cale hid but passed over without a pause. Still holding his breath, Cale studied the man. Darkness hid his features, but Cale nevertheless recognized the ready blade and deft movements of a professional killer. An old adage he had learned back in the pirate city of Westgate popped into his head-only an assassin knows an assassin.

The man stopped mere feet from Cale's recess and peered ahead into the darkness. Apparently satisfied, he muttered something under his breath and started to stalk farther down the alley Cale leaped out and smashed a fist into his jaw. The impact dislodged teeth and knocked the man across the alley.

Cale easily sidestepped the dazed assassin's retaliatory stab and landed another vicious punch, this one to the nose. Bone shattered like eggshell, and blood exploded from the assassin's face in a spray of crimson. Stunned, he dropped the short sword and crumbled to the street with a moan. As soon as the assassin hit the ground, Cale had a knee on his chest and a dagger at his throat.

"Move and you're a dead man," Cale hissed.

Unable to breathe through his ruined nose, the assassin wheezed through a mouth rapidly filling with snot and blood. "All right. All right. I ain't movin'."

Even up close Cale didn't recognize him, though he knew most of Selgaunt's professionals.

"Speak," Cale ordered. "All of it. And if I think, you're lying…" He pricked the assassin's throat with his dagger and let the threat dangle.

Fear cleared the man's watery eyes. "Sure. Sure. What's it to me, right?" He tried to force a laugh but choked on his own blood.

Cale waited for the coughing fit to pass, then asked, "Who hired you?"

The assassin hesitated only an instant. "House… Malveen. Pietro Malveen."

Cale nodded. That sounded about right. Turning an assassin loose on the Uskevren would be just like Pietro Malveen. Foolish, ham-handed dolt. He pressed his knee further into the assassin's chest.

"Who was your target?"

"No one," the assassin managed between gasps, then hurriedly added, "I mean, anyone… any Uskevren. I thought you were one of the sons." He turned his head to the side and spat blood. "Who in the Nine Hells are you?"

Cale replied with cold silence and a hard stare. Stupid question, he thought. If you knew the answer, you'd already be dead. He kept his dagger to the man's throat while he tried to decide what to do. He could hardly turn the assassin over to the Scepters, Selgaunt's city guard. Too many questions there. But he had to get to the Stag soon. Riven would be waiting. Perhaps…

"You're the butler," the assassin blurted, certainty in his voice. "Dark, but you don't move like any butler I've ever seen."

Cale grimaced. Foolish, foolish man.

"What?" The assassin's voice rose an octave. He sensed he'd made a mistake. "What'd I say? You are the butler, aren't you?"

Cale stared down at the now frightened man with cold eyes. Though he knew now what he had to do, he nevertheless found it distasteful. Apparently realizing his danger, the assassin began to struggle. Cale held him in a grip like a vise.

"Hey, wait, wait, mmph-"

Cale covered the assassin's mouth with a powerful hand and leaned in close. "You're right," he whispered into the man's ear. "I am the butler."

He flashed the dagger and opened the assassin's throat. The dying man screamed into Cale's palm while his blood poured steaming onto the frozen cobblestones. Cale watched him, emotionless. It was over within seconds.

Cale wiped his blade clean on the man's cloak and stood. He took no pleasure in what he had done, but he had to do it. If he had allowed the assassin to carry word of his skills back to the Malveens, someone would have grown suspicious-Radu Malveen if not that idiot Pietro. Cale could not allow that.

Some secrets have to be kept, he thought, irrespective of the cost.

Without a backward glance, Cale left the cooling corpse behind him and headed for the Black Stag.

The hearth stood unused, the coals cold. Only the wan orange glow of a single oil lamp provided light in the Black Stag. Hanging crookedly from a hook behind the bar, the lantern's flickering wick emitted wisps of oily black smoke that twisted upward to mix with the clouds of pipeweed smoke hovering around the ceiling beams. The dim, dancing flame created a confusing patchwork of shadows and smoke shapes that played eerily across the dead eyes and hard faces of the Stag's hushed clientele. They looked like the lost souls some said wandered about the uppermost of the Nine Hells in search of peace.

Cale stood in the Stag's windswept doorway and grimaced. Lost souls indeed.

He had just left a man lying dead only three blocks away.

Perhaps twenty other patrons sat huddled in pairs and trios at the Stag's greasy wooden tables. Their hissing whispers remained indecipherable even to Cale's sharp ears, but he could imagine the content of their conversations well enough. He had been party to many such conversations himself once-black market deals, bribes, assassinations…

Drasek Riven, he saw, had not yet arrived. Irritated, Cale walked across the common room to the bar and exchanged four coppers for a tankard of ale. He took a table far from the Stag's only public entrance, in a corner that commanded a view of the rest of the room. The stink of sweat, spilled ale, and the lantern's fish oil created a distinctively vile stench unique to the Stag, and disturbingly familiar to Cale. The smell recalled to him the man he had once been, a man who did black deeds in the cover of night. He thought again of the corpse back in the alley and knew that the ghost of that man yet haunted his soul. He still did black deeds.

Trying to banish the image of the assassin's panicked gaze, Cale threw back a gulp of sour ale and slammed the tankard down on the table. A few wolfish faces jerked his way at the sound, but his cool stare quickly turned them back to their own business. He mopped his bald pate with a suddenly sweating hand, a hand that had slit a throat only minutes before.

"You are not that man anymore," he chanted, as though invoking a spell. "You are not that man anymore."

The corpse he had left in the alley made a mockery of his claim and he knew it. No matter that he had played the loyal servant to Thamalon Uskevren for the past nine years. He remained a killer. Anything else, no matter how well played, was a sham. If Thazienne ever learned of his fraud…

Shaking his head angrily, he dismissed Thazienne from his mind. Now was not the time for distractions. He could not afford to show weakness when facing Riven. That black-hearted bastard smelled weakness like an Inner Sea gray shark smelled blood in the water. Cale needed to be focused.

Endless minutes passed and still no Riven. Cale grew increasingly edgy. His long fingers beat an impatient drumbeat on the arm of his chair. Why had Riven contacted him? Their scheduled meet was still a tenday away. Where in the Nine Hells was he?

The door to the Stag flew open, and Drasek Riven strode into the common room as if he owned the place. Without a glance to either side he stalked directly up to the bar, his scarlet cloak billowing behind him like a pool of blood. Wordlessly accepting a tankard of ale from the skinny, greasy-haired barkeep, he turned to survey the common room with a contemptuous sneer. His right hand rested comfortably on the hilt of one of his two sabers.

Gazes that had nervously followed the assassin's trek to the bar hurriedly turned back to their own business and dared not look up. Drasek Riven fairly stank of murder. He had a reputation among the Night Knives as a man who loved to kill. No one in the Stag risked eye contact. Except Cale.

Cale met Riven's hard gaze with a cool stare. The assassin's one good eye flashed recognition, and he strutted over to the table. Licking his lips, Cale tasted the salt of sweat. Riven reminded him of a hunting cat-compact, powerful, and predatory.

Calm down, man, he ordered himself. Though he towered over Riven physically, Cale knew his own bladework was no match for the temperamental assassin's slim sabers. He made his face an emotionless mask as Riven slid into the chair across from him.

"You're late," Cale announced matter-of-factly.

Riven regarded him over the rim of his tankard while swigging a gulp of ale. He set the tankard down softly and sneered. "So?" Clearly, the assassin was itching for a confrontation.

Cale gave no ground, though it meant risking naked steel. He pointed a single finger at the assassin's pockmarked face and hissed, "So the next time you make me wait, I walk away. You understand? We'll let the Righteous Man decide who's in the wrong."

That struck home. Cale was Riven's only rival for the guildmaster's ear. Where Cale urged caution and patience to the Righteous Man, Riven urged violence, and violence now. Most times, events had proven Cale's counsel the better. Riven would not want to make the Righteous Man choose between them. Not yet.

Cale watched with satisfaction as Riven's smug sneer twisted into a scowl. Tight lipped, the assassin fixed him with a menacing glare. "You push me too hard, Cale, and I'll gut you like a bluefish. The Righteous Man be damned."

Still unwilling to back down, Cale leaned forward and stared unflinchingly into Riven's scarred face. The assassin had lost an eye on a job years ago but disdained an eye patch. The scarred, empty hole in his face provided a window into a soul equally scarred and empty. "You know where to find me," Cale calmly stated.

To his credit, Riven gave no ground either. "That's right," the assassin replied softly. "I do." He flashed stained teeth through a neatly tended goatee. "The Righteous Man won't be able to protect you forever, Cale. When he's gone, I'll still be here. Then we'll have this conversation again." Riven's hard gaze promised blood.

Cale leaned back in his chair and tried to look unconcerned. "It's starting to stink in here. Be about your business, errand boy."

Riven jumped to his feet and whipped a saber from its scabbard before Cale could even get a dagger drawn. Suddenly staring down the point of Riven's blade, Cale slowly removed his hand from the dagger's hilt. His heart raced. Riven stared at him a long moment, waving the saber blade under Cale's chin. Cale said nothing, only stared. At last the assassin sheathed his blade and slowly sat back down. His signature sneer returned tenfold.

"You're slow, Cale," he mocked. "Very slow. You're like a little dog… lots of yap-" he leaned forward and champed his teeth, his one eye burning a hot hole of hate into Cale's consciousness- "but no bite." He sat back and smugly crossed his arms over his chest.

We'll see, bastard, Cale thought. You show me your back, and I'll show you your grave. Though he itched to say those words aloud, Cale kept his calm and said, "The information, Riven."

The assassin made a deliberate show of slowly quaffing from his tankard before speaking. "The information is this, Cale: Naglatha has hired us-"

"Naglatha! Since when do we work for an agent of the kingdom of Thay?"

"Since she started paying in platinum suns," Riven snapped. "Now shut up and listen." The assassin leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. His breath made Cale want to gag. "An issue is soon to be before the Hulorn, and Naglatha wishes to see it decided in Thay's favor. The Righteous Man assured her that he could see to it."

"What issue?"

"Not my business," replied Riven easily. "Not yours either. We're just providing the leverage."

Cale saw immediately where the conversation was going. He shook his head and spoke hurriedly, trying to head it off. "I've already told the Righteous Man that I've got nothing on Thamalon Uskevren. I'm working on it, but the man is clean."

"So you say," replied Riven. "But you've been 'working on it' for years. The Righteous Man is growing impatient, and so am I. No one is that clean, Cale. Your inability to come up with some dirt makes a man wonder."

Cale leaned forward in his chair with narrowed eyes. That comment hit too close to the mark. "Wonder about what?" Under the table, his left hand fingered a dagger hilt.

Riven returned his cold stare, unflinching. "About where your loyalties lie."

Cale sniffed derisively and leaned back in his chair as though unconcerned. "It's no wonder you're a lackey. You don't see the value of having a Night Knives agent in the Uskevren household? I've proved my worth to the Righteous Man ten times over, but I can't find something that doesn't exist. We'll have to use someone else."

Riven laughed, a sound like a hacking cough, and said, "It's already been decided. We're using Uskevren. He's got the most influential voice among the Old Chauncel. Since you've been unable to come up with anything, I've convinced the Righteous Man to address matters more directly."

At the words "more directly," a pit formed in Cale's stomach. The Old Chauncel was a common name for the small set of wealthy families that comprised the money-and power-elite of the city of Selgaunt. Few were nearly as "clean" as the Uskevren, but fewer still deserved the attention of the Night Knives. The Uskevren had Thamalon at its head, and Thamalon commanded respect. Cale knew what was coming next.

Riven went on with a grin, "It's like this: You're going to arrange the kidnapping of his youngest son. What's his name… Talbot? While we're holding the little bastard, his father will do exactly what we say. If not, I'll split little Talbot from gut to gullet and move on to the next son."

With difficulty, Cale contained the storm that exploded in his soul and managed to maintain a calm facade. Talbot to be kidnapped! The boy had only recently returned to Selgaunt after being involved in a hunting accident in the forests outside the city. He wasn't even living at Stormweather Towers, the family's city estate. Since the accident, he had been residing in one of the tallhouses the Uskevren had scattered around the city. Where he's an easy target, Cale thought. Riven obviously knew none of that or Talbot would have been taken already, without Cale's involvement.

Cale took a deep breath and tried to craft an excuse on the fly. "Kidnapping the boy is unwise," he said. "Thamalon will retaliate afterward. All the Scepters in the city will come down on the guild." Selgaunt's Scepters could make business difficult if a noble like Thamalon forced them into action. Cale shook his head. "No, it's definitely unwise. Tell the Righteous Man it can't be done."

"I'm not telling him anything," Riven spat and slammed his fist down on the table. "You'll do exactly what you're told. The Righteous Man understands the risks. You figure out a time when the boy is vulnerable and leave word for me here, with Jelkins." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the skinny barkeep. "I'll assemble the team. You've got two days."

Somehow, despite his numbness, Cale managed a nod. He pushed back his chair and stood on legs gone weak. Two days! A mere two days! He must betray Thamalon, disobey the Righteous Man, or confess his past and lose everything that mattered. Either way, nothing would stay the same. If he betrayed his lord, he could not live with himself. If he disobeyed the Righteous Man, he would be dead within a tenday. If he confessed his past, Thamalon would dismiss him and Thazienne would hate him. He could not bear that.

In a flash of desperate inspiration, he saw a way out-plunge his blade into Riven's throat right now. No one in the Stag would bat an eye, and he could concoct an explanation for the Righteous Man afterward. Hells, he had been doing exactly that, concocting stories for the Righteous Man, for the past nine years. Everything could go on as it had.

His hand drifted to his dagger hilt. Riven hunched over the table, finishing his ale, unsuspecting. Cale stared at the back of the assassin's neck, the exposed flesh visible, beckoning. One thrust through the throat, a gurgle, then it would be over, just as with the man back in the alley.

"Unwise," Riven said without looking up. "That, Cale, would be unwise."

Cale heard the smile, and the challenge, in the assassin's words. Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the Stag. He needed to think.

When he reached the street, he nearly collapsed. The hopelessness of his situation weighed on him like a hundredweight. He bitterly recalled a concept from dwarven philosophy and mouthed it like a curse. "Korvikoum," he hissed. Linguists often translated the term as "fate" or "destiny," but Cale knew its meaning to be subtly different-something more like "the necessary consequence of previous choices."

In that instant, he hated dwarven philosophy. "Fate" put responsibility on a cosmic force with designs of its own. Korvikoum put responsibility squarely on his own shoulders.

"I will not betray the Uskevren," he vowed to the night. "I will not. I'll die before I see Talbot hurt." He found the explicitness of the resolution unexpectedly liberating. "I will die first," he vowed to himself again, this time with a grim smile.

He took a great breath of cool winter air, tasted the salt tang of the wind blowing off Selgaunt Bay, and began to walk. And think. He had to find another way out.

The well-tended streets he trod fairly reeked of wealth. Shop after shop lined the broad avenues, and even the most common sported at least a colorful awning and fresh paint on the shutters. Many had custom stonework on the rainspouts or carved windowsills made from exotic wood. Sculptures of the oddest creatures-centaurs, chimeras, and even satyrs-stood in nearly every public square, the artisans no doubt commissioned by the city's ridiculous ruler, the Hulorn. Cale found Selgaunt laughable. The city tried hard to look the center of sophistication and gentility but only managed to look like a street whore in full makeup. The veneer of wealth obscured a city full of decadent, back-stabbing nobles little better than well-educated guttersnipes. Except for his own lord, of course.

Since taking his position at Stormweather Towers, Cale had come to respect Thamalon Uskevren as fair, honest, and self-made-a rare man indeed among the jaded nobility that made up Selgaunt's Old Chauncel. Cale admired the Old Owl's mettle. Over the years he and Thamalon had become friends of sorts, colleagues even, and if Cale wanted to maintain that relationship he had to thwart Talbot's kidnapping without revealing that he was a spy for the Night Knives-Selgaunt's guild of assassins and thieves. Only one option seemed open to him, and it was desperate. And dangerous.

He had nothing else.

He thought through the rudiments of a plan as he walked, then turned east and headed for the gambling dens along the wharf. If his plan were to succeed, he would need help. He could trust only one, very short person.

He sought Jak in three gaming houses before he finally spotted the halfling seated at a card table in the Scarlet Knave. A disreputable establishment with a mediocre bar and eatery attached, the Knave had of late become popular among Selgaunt's lesser nobles. The place drew bored second sons eager to gamble away their families' fivestars like a sugar-ice street vendor drew children. Nobles, however, made up only a fraction of the thick crowd. Everyone from itinerant adventurers and legitimate merchants to rogues and pimps thronged the gaming tables and pleasure rooms. In places like the Knave, Cale observed, Selgaunt's true nature bobbed to the surface-the otherwise clear lines of social hierarchy gave way to the universal brotherhood of vice.

Before approaching Jak's table, Cale wove through the crowd and flashed enough fivestars at the barkeep to secure one of the many private meeting rooms upstairs. Typically, the rooms were used for exclusive games, secret business deals, or illicit liaisons. Cale wanted one for a more mundane purpose-what he had to tell Jak was for their ears alone.

After watching the door for a time to be sure Riven had not followed him, he casually worked his way across the carpeted floor until he stood opposite Jak's table, perhaps seven paces away. Through the shifting crowd, he glimpsed a sea of coins glittering on the table before the trim, three-and-a-half foot-tall halfling. The little man's mop of red hair bobbed up and down as he chattered good-naturedly with the six disgruntled nobles who shared his table but not his good fortune. They were playing Blades and Scales, a card game that required skill and luck in equal parts. Cale knew Jak Fleet to have plenty of both, despite the fact that he looked as much like an adolescent human boy as a professional gambler. The fops hadn't a chance.

With his suede cap, embroidered blue doublet, and Sembian high boots, Jak looked every bit a miniature fop himself. Only his long, pointed sideburns and shrewd green eyes indicated his maturity. In truth, the little man was both a priest of Brandobaris, the halfling god of thieves, and a rogue of no small skill. He was also Cale's only friend in Selgaunt.

After a few minutes, Cale caught Jak's eye. The little man's expression of happy surprise vanished in an instant when Cale surreptitiously shook his head to indicate caution. Instantly, Jak returned his attention to the game and only occasionally cast a guarded glance toward Cale.

Though Jak operated as an independent in Selgaunt's gang-dominated underworld-a situation Cale thought of as akin to swimming the shark-infested Inner Sea with only a table knife for protection-the little man still knew guild hand-cant. So while Jak seemingly paid full attention to the card game, Cale used a series of subtle hand gestures to communicate a message: "Upstairs. Number seven. Urgent."

Jak gave a slight nod while laughing at a noble's joke, and Cale made his way upstairs. The halfling would come as soon as he could.

Cale did not have to wait long. Within a quarter-hour, the meeting room door opened and Jak strolled in, teeth shining and purse chinking.

"This must be important for you to interrupt that run of Tymora's favor," he observed, invoking the name of the goddess of fortune. "What's going on, Cale? Have I stepped on the Righteous Man's toes again?" Jak often inadvertently interfered with the Night Knives' operations. The fact that he was still alive showed he did indeed have the favor of Tymora.

"No, no, it's nothing like that." Cale blew out a sigh and ran a hand over his head. "I have a problem, Jak. I need help."

Jak's face grew serious. He slid into the chair across from Cale and rested his small hands on the table. "Go on."

"The Knives want me to arrange the kidnapping of Talbot Uskevren." He did not need to explain the dilemma further. Jak knew all about Cale's position with the Knives and that for the past several years he had been secretly shielding the Uskevren from the Righteous Man, rather than exposing the family's vulnerabilities.

The little man eased back in his chair and blew out a soft whistle. "That does bring the boil to a head now doesn't it? Dark, Cale! I told you to get out of the Night Knives years ago."

Cale smiled tiredly. "Easier said than done, my friend. The Righteous Man isn't going to let me walk away. I'm too valuable to him. If I tried, he'd either kill me or tip my past to Thamalon, and…" He shook his head, unwilling to voice the thought aloud.

"And that would be that," Jak finished. His green eyes flashed angrily. "The Righteous Man indeed! He's a murderous priest of Mask, by the Trickster's hairy toes." He drummed his hairy-knuckled fingers on the tabletop and stared earnestly at Cale. "What are you going to do?"

Cale steepled his fingers before his face and looked Jak in the eye. He had already decided not to mince words. "I'm going to ambush the hit team and kill every one of them. Afterward, I'll tell the Righteous Man that a rival gang ambushed us and only I escaped."

Cale had expected Jak to tell him he was mad, but to the halfling's credit, he merely nodded. "That could work, assuming no one escapes. Who's leading the team?"

"Drasek Riven."

"Riven," Jak softly hissed. "That figures." He sat back in his chair and stroked his chin, considering. Cale waited silently, unwilling to press. He was asking a lot of the little man.

To his surprise, Jak took only a few moments before flashing a grim smile. "We've been friends a long time, Erevis," the halfling said. "If you need me, I'm in."

Cale stared solemnly at his friend. Though grateful for Jak's offer, he could not yet accept it. Not before he told the little man everything. Cale could not ask Jak to risk his life without knowing the kind of man he had agreed to help.

"Jak, I need…" He stopped, cleared his throat, and started over. "You don't know much about me, about my past I mean, before I came to Selgaunt."

Jak held up a small palm and shook his head. "That's true enough, but that's your business, Cale. You don't owe me any explanations."

"I know that, but under the circumstances… I think you should know who you're helping."

Jak studied him carefully, trying to read his face. At last, the halfling blew out a sigh and sank into his chair. After crossing his arms over his chest, he looked like a man bracing for a storm. "All right. If you insist."

Cale hesitated, suddenly unsure of where to begin. He longed to get the secret off his soul, but feared Jak's response. If the little man balked, he had no one else to whom he could turn. He forced himself to begin. "You know that I came to Selgaunt from Westgate?"

Jak nodded. Westgate straddled the trade route between the Inner Sea and the Sword Coast; a large, rich city brimming with merchants and thieves, pirates and assassins.

"I came here because I was running."

Jak leaned forward at that, his green eyes curiously intense. "From what?"

Cale looked at his hands while he spoke, embarrassed by his past. "When I was just a boy, I was recruited by the Night Masks."

Jak gave a low whistle at the mention of Westgate's infamous, but now defunct, thieves' guild. "Dark," he softly cursed.

Cale ignored him and continued: "I received all the standard training…" He hesitated at Jak's raised eyebrows. The halfling obviously had some idea of what Night Mask "standard training" entailed. Cale hurried on. "… but got moved to letters work pretty quick."

Jak gave a start. "You? A letters man? Translations and such?" He chuckled softly at Cale's nod. "I always knew you were too damned smart for your own good, Cale. How many languages do you speak?"

"Nine."

"Nine!"

Cale sighed in exasperation. "If you'll stop interrupting," he snapped, "maybe I can tell you the rest before dawn."

Jak started to say something, thought better of it, and closed his mouth with pop. He sank into his chair, sulking.

Cale suppressed a smile. The little man looked like a petulant child ordered into a corner. Cale spoke his next words in a soft, tense voice. "For a lot of years, I did what Mask guildsmen did-steal, kill, intimidate. I got tired of it, even doing letters work, so I started skimming coin. When it got too hot, I ran-here." He gestured expansively and gave Jak a slight smile. "You know the rest."

Jak sat silently for a moment, staring at Cale as though wondering whether or not it was all right to speak. When Cale gave a nod, Jak sat up in his chair and adopted an overly serious mien. "Indeed, I do know the rest of your sorry tale, my bald friend. It goes something like this: Despite the advice of your intrepid and fearless halfling friend, Jak Fleet, you foolishly fell in with the Righteous Man and his gang of thugs. The guild being otherwise filled with incompetents, you rose quickly through its ranks. Ultimately, you developed this harebrained scheme to place guild operatives in the noble houses." He looked up with a straight face, his green eyes all innocence. "So far, so good?"

Cale smiled despite himself. Jak grinned and went on.

"Unfortunately for you, you came to actually like Thamalon Uskevren and to care for his daughter even more. You protected them over the years by feeding the Righteous Man harmless information. Oh, you occasionally dropped some juicy bit that hurt this or that noble family but never anything that seriously compromised the Uskevren. Now that very scheme has turned around and bitten you in the tail."

Korvikoum, Cale thought.

"And now your pigeons have come home to roost."

Cale nodded.

"And now-"

"I get the point," Cale snapped.

"Good." Jak sat silently for a moment. He shook his head and his face grew serious. "That's a tangled web, my friend, and a lot for one man to carry around. I don't know how you've done it."

Cale held his tongue. He suddenly felt very tired.

"Erevis Cale isn't even your real name, is it?" The halfling spoke softly. "Can you tell me?"

Cale shook his head. "You don't want to know."

Jak accepted that with a slow nod. "I guess what I call you doesn't really matter anyway. I already know what makes up the man." Thoughtful, the halfling reached into his belt pouch and pulled out his ivory-bowled pipe. Cale watched silently while his friend tamped the pipeweed and lit. His entire life turned on Jak's next words. After a time, Jak spoke.

"This doesn't change anything, Cale. I'm still your friend and I'm still in." He blew out a cloud of aromatic smoke.

Cale merely nodded, overcome, too grateful for words. He had a chance.

"Plan?" Jak asked from around his pipe.

Cale smiled. "Ever drive a nobleman's carriage?"

Near midnight, Cale returned to the brooding turrets of Stormweather Towers and found the household dark. He quietly entered via the servant's entrance and padded up the spiral staircase to the spartan suite that served as his quarters. Needing to speak to Thamalon right away, he changed into his butler's attire-ill-fitting black pants, white shirt, purple-and-black laced doublet-and silently made the rounds of the great house for what might be the last time.

After tomorrow night, he thought sadly, I may never set foot here again.

The plan to ambush the Night Knives hit team presented tremendous risk. He and Jak would need Tymora's own luck to get out alive.

I've got no choice, he reminded himself. Telling Thamalon the truth would cost him everything. The Owl would not trust him again, and Thazienne would never forgive the betrayal. He could run away, of course, as he had from Westgate.

Back in Westgate, though, he had had no friends, no home, no loyalties, nothing to keep him from turning tail. Now, he had a family, he had a friend, people he loved.

I'm through running, he resolved. Fortified, he strode downstairs to look for Lord Uskevren.

He found him seated amidst the book-lined walls of the first floor library, his lord's typical nighttime haunt. Thamalon sat in his favorite chair-a plain high back fashioned from Archendale walnut-and considered an unfinished chess match that sat on the low table before him. A pair of silver goblets and an open bottle of Storm Ruby rested on the floor beside his chair, the wine nearly half gone. The glow of the blazing hearth fire highlighted the tense lines of Thamalon's face.

Cale stood silently in the doorway, suddenly unwilling to disturb his lord. Taking in the wine and incomplete chess match, he knew that another game between Talbot and Thamalon had ended in shouting. Perhaps now was not the best time "Erevis!" Thamalon caught sight of him and gave a tired smile. "It's good to see you back. How went the business with your cousin?"

Cale winced inwardly. Years ago, when it had become clear to him that information about the goings-on in Selgaunt's underworld would be useful to Thamalon, he had concocted a fictional cousin, a disreputable man who moved in the darker circles and with whom Cale remained in reluctant contact. While the information Cale provided under the guise of this cousin had repeatedly proven useful to Thamalon in sniffing out this or that plot by a rival house, mention of it only served to remind Cale that his life was a lie.

"The business went well, my lord. It took an unexpected turn, but all is well. Or will be. The affair is yet incomplete, and I must ask a favor."

"Of course." Thamalon gestured at the cushioned chair on the other side of the chessboard. "Come in and sit down, old friend."

Cale strode slowly across the hardwood floor and sat rigidly in the chair.

"Wine?" Thamalon asked as he refilled his own goblet.

"No thank you, my lord."

"Care to finish? " Thamalon gestured at the chessboard, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Cale returned the smile halfheartedly and studied

Talbot's jade pieces. Thamalon always played ivory. After a few moments he shook his head. "My lord seeks to entrap me. Ivory checkmates in four moves."

Laughing aloud in his deep voice, Thamalon raised his goblet in a mock toast. It pleased Cale to see his lord's spirits lightened. "Excellent, Erevis, excellent. How is it that we've never played?"

Cale smiled softly. "Because I have no desire to challenge my lord's skills. A wise man knows better."

Thamalon dismissed the flattery with a tired wave. "If that were true, old friend, then one would be forced to conclude that Selgaunt is filled with fools, for I find challenges at every turn. Without your aid…" He trailed off and bowed his head in fatigue. When he looked up, he again wore a tired smile. "I forget myself. You spoke of a favor?"

At that instant, Cale came within a bladewidth of confessing everything. Seeing his lord refuse to bow under the weight of disappointing sons, an aloof wife, and constant plots by rival houses, he found himself overcome with admiration. How could he keep secrets from this man who confided everything to him?

His past rushed up his throat, the story eager to be told. It would be so easy…

No! he thought. Not even Thamalon could forgive such a lie.

With a conscious effort of will, he swallowed the temptation and instead said, "Yes, Lord. Forgive my presumption, but my cousin remains in some minor difficulty. I wonder if I might have leave to use one of the old carriages and the tallhouse on Lurvin Street for the next two days."

At that, Thamalon sat forward, eyes intent, his bushy brows narrowed in thought. "This must be a serious matter for you to put yourself out so, Erevis. Perhaps I can be of some help."

"No, Lord," Cale quickly replied, even while loving Thamalon for the offer. "I must do this alone. I cannot risk the Uskevren reputation by having the doings of my cousin associated with the family. This is a matter to be kept between him and me."

"Hmm." Cale saw discernment in Thamalon's gaze and knew the Owl suspected the story to be false. Yet his lord respected his privacy and probed no further. Cale loved him all the more for that.

"Very well then, Erevis. The carriage is yours, as is the tallhouse."

"Thank you, Lord." Cale unfolded his tall frame from the chair and rose. "Lord Uskevren, I do not know how this business will play out, but-"

"Erevis," Thamalon cut him off, eyes aglow with worry, "will you not let me help? I see that you are distressed. You of all people need keep no secrets from me. I have trusted you utterly for years. Will you not trust me with this?"

Cale choked on the bitter taste of his own lies. He lowered his head to hide his suddenly welling eyes. I have trusted you utterly. He did not even trust himself enough to reply.

After an uncomfortably long silence, Thamalon sighed and nodded. "I understand. We all have our secrets. Take care of yourself then, Erevis."

"Yes, Lord," Cale managed to mutter, and hurried from the library.

Overcome with guilt, he stumbled to his quarters. After lighting a candle on the night table he collapsed into his reading chair and held his head in his hands. He sat that way a long while, inhaling the smell of his deceptions. It had been his idea to plant a guild spy within House Uskevren. It was he who had arranged for the previous butler to die in a street robbery. His doing, all of it.

That was before I knew them, he rationalized, before I changed He had left his door open, and a soft knock on the door-jamb snapped his head up.

Framed in the soft glow of the candlelight, Thazienne's beauty stole his breath. Tight-fitting leather breeches and a laced jerkin highlighted the sleek curves of her figure. She wore her raven hair cut short, Cormyrean fashion, accenting a smooth complexion and shining green eyes. She somehow managed to look both naive and self-possessed all at the same time. That beauty-that fearless innocence-drew Cale to her like a lodestone to iron.

"I heard you come in," she said with a playful smile, "and saw that your door was open-" When she saw his face, her smile vanished into a look of worried concern. "Erevis, what's wrong?" She rushed across the room and sat on the arm of his chair. Her light touch on his forearm sent his heart spinning. Her smell, of lavender and rose oil, intoxicated him.

She is beyond you, fool, he reprimanded himself. Ten years your younger and the daughter of your lord. What would she have to do with a fraud and liar like you?

His internal protestations melted in the warmth that came off her body.

"Erevis, what is it? Has something happened?"

He got a firm grip on himself before looking into her eyes. "Are you going out?" He made a gesture that took in her thieving leathers.

She shot him a look that would have done her mother proud. "Do not change the subject, Erevis Cale. I asked you if something has happened." Despite her stern tone, her soft eyes glowed with concern. Cale wilted.

"Yes, Thazienne. Something has happened. Something… terrible. I have to go away for a while. I hope… I hope to come back soon."

She sat bolt upright. "Hope? What do you mean? Where are you going?"

He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Thazienne-"

"Is this some task my father set you on? If he is putting you in danger…" She jumped to her feet and looked as though she might storm off to find Thamalon on the instant.

"No, no, it's nothing like that." He brushed his fingers across her arm to turn her around. Her skin was so smooth. "It's nothing like that," he said again, the feel of her flesh still tingling on his fingertips. "It's personal business."

"Personal? Then tell me what it is. Maybe I can help." She pulled back her jerkin to reveal a dagger at her belt and Cale caught a tantalizing flash of skin. "You know I'm no amateur to our kind of work."

Our kind of work. Thazienne knew that he could handle himself in the shadows but nothing more about his past. He had played down his skills and explained them as the result of a wild youth.

"No," he conceded, "I know you're no amateur." He studied her eyes, seeking her soul. She stared back for only a moment before turning shyly away. Despite her "wilding," he was confident that her hands remained free of real bloodshed. He wanted them to stay that way. "This is a different kind of work."

"You think I can't handle it?" Her stance and the hard set of her jaw told him only one answer was acceptable.

"No, it's not that. I have to do it alone."

"Why?"

"Damn it, Tazi, I can't tell you why!"

She gave a start at that. He never called her Tazi, only Mistress Uskevren in the presence of others, or Thazienne when they were alone. She shook her surprise off quickly and said, "You mean you won't tell me why."

He hung his head, frustrated but unwilling to give in to anger. Not when this might be the last time he ever saw her. "I just can't, Thazienne. Please? I can't."

She huffed and considered him coolly for a long moment. "Very well then, Erevis Cale. Have it your way." She spun on her heel and stomped for the hall. Her steps slowed as she crossed the room, as though with each step she took her anger dissipated fractionally. When she reached the doorway she stopped, quivering, her back to him. "You be careful, Erevis," she said without turning. "Whatever this is, be careful. You take care of this the same way you take care of everything, all right? Then… come back."

Cale could hear the tears in her voice, but before he could say a word, she pulled the door shut and hurried down the hall.

"Goodbye, Tazi," he whispered through welling eyes.

A fitful sleep came with difficulty and he rose before dawn.

The red wax dripped like blood onto the parchment, sealing the letter, likely sealing his fate. Cale had written it earlier in the morning, his light script an ironic counterpoint to the weight in his soul. Tonight, the letter read. Tenth hour. Drover's Square. Minimal Guard. A simple letter with a message that would be meaningful only to Riven-but its delivery would change Cale's life. Or end it. This letter would set everything into motion, and make his choice irrevocable.

All choices are irrevocable, he chided himself. That's why you're in this fix in the first place.

He had made most of the necessary preparations before dawn, while the Uskevren still slept. He thought it best to act quickly so that Riven would have minimal time to assemble the hit team. Without explanation, he had informed the staff of his upcoming absence and set the household affairs in order. He had personally readied the carriage and loaded it with a locked wooden trunk taken from his quarters.

Like a coffin holding a long dead corpse, that trunk entombed the trappings of his past life: enchanted leather armor taken from the bloody body of a rival, Selbrin Del, on a wharf in Westgate; the still keen-edged blades, both long and short, with which he did his work; and the deadly, magical necklace and the potion of healing given him by Amaunt Corelin, a grateful mage. He had hoped to leave that trunk locked forever, the contents never to be exhumed, but circumstances had made that impossible. The old Cale had to be resurrected.

Smiling mirthlessly, he rose from the walnut desk and strode across the parlor to the orange uniformed messenger boy standing in the doorway.

"Take this to the Black Stag," he said, handing over the letter. The boy abruptly cut his bored yawn short, and his eyes grew to the size of coins. Cale suppressed a smile. "You know it?"

"Yes, sir," the boy said, not quite able to hide a nervous quaver.

"Good. Hand deliver this to the barkeep there. His name is Jelkins. Tell him this is for Riven. Do you understand?"

"Jelkins, the barkeep at the Black Stag. For Riven. Yes, sir."

Cale pulled a shining fivestar from his vest pocket and pressed the gold coin into the nervous messenger's hand. The boy gasped; messengers usually received only a silver raven.

"Thank you, sir!"

"You're welcome. That will be all."

"Good day then, sir." Grinning, the boy buttoned his coat against the chill, pulled on a pair of wool mittens, and hurried out. Cale figured the grin would last only until the boy forgot the shining coin and remembered his dark destination. He needn't have been afraid, though. The Stag wasn't dangerous by day. The animals only came out at night.

Cale glided through the darkness like a ghost. Stalking through the shadowy streets of the warehouse district with long sword and dagger at his belt, he felt surprisingly-and horribly-right. Though he normally suppressed his dark side, tonight he consciously gave it the reins. If he were to succeed, he would need the old Cale: Cale the assassin and thief, not the reborn butler. He just hoped he could separate the two again when the night was done.

He approached Drover's Square from the south, stopped a block short, and ducked into the shadows of a wheelwright's workshop. Before him loomed the tall brick warehouses typical of the district. The wide streets that he would use as his approach sat empty but for the occasional whirlwind of snow whipped up by the bitter wind. He frowned thoughtfully at that. While the cold month of Nightal was hardly the height of caravan season, it was still unusual for the streets to be so empty. Trade never stopped entirely in Selgaunt, even in the height of winter, even at this hour. The strangely forlorn streets made him uneasy.

Calm down, he ordered himself. There's no one here because those guards who weren't driven off by the cold were paid off by Riven. Standard Knives practice on a hit.

Still, Cale had not survived years in the underworlds of Westgate and Selgaunt by acting incautiously. He silently watched the approach to the square for another few minutes, wary. Still no one. His keen hearing picked up no sounds. Even the ubiquitous rumble of carts along Rauncel's Ride was swallowed by the howl of the wind. Satisfied at last, he prowled through the shadows toward the three-story warehouse that was his first target.

He had only a bit more than a quarter of an hour to do his work-a narrow margin. When the bells of the Temple of Song sounded the tenth hour, a disguised Jak would drive the carriage in from the west, then all the Nine Hells would break loose.

Cale knew what to expect from the Night Knives hit team. Since his letter to Riven had specified only a light guard, he anticipated no more than twelve men. The Righteous Man could spare no more; after all, the guild numbered only thirty or forty men in total. Six or seven of Riven's team would be stationed on the ground of the square, armed with nets and mancatchers. Another four or six slingers will be stationed on the rooftops, he thought grimly, as he flattened himself against the rear of the warehouse and gazed up its towering brick face. To provide cover if something goes wrong.

They would be the first to die.

Pleased with how easily his skills and killer's mindset had returned to him, he gave a hard smile. He had moved soundlessly from shadow to shadow. He wore his leather armor more easily than he did his butler's doublet. His longsword and daggers hung comfortably from his belt. The Night Knives were about to die.

This is who you are, a voice whispered in his mind, an uncomfortable thought to which he hurriedly added, at least for tonight.

He ran his hands over the wall. The bricks were uneven, weathered, craggy. An easy climb, even in his leather gloves. He began to ascend.

Within minutes he had scaled the forty feet to the roof. Still he heard nothing, and still he saw no one on the street below. Slowly, he peeked over the edge, careful to keep his mouth below the lip of the roof so the cloud of his breath would not give him away.

He spotted them fifty feet away on the opposite side of the rooftop, two Knives assassins holding slings stood silhouetted by Selune's pale light. They were leaning over the far edge of the building to look down on the square, their backs to Cale, their cloaks whipping in the wind. Without a sound, he slipped over the low safety wall and crouched in the darkness. No response from the Night Knives. Slowly, he withdrew his long sword from its oiled scabbard, his eyes on the assassins all the while. Still no movement. He allowed himself a cool, satisfied smile.

His approach would have to be flawless. Except for a large wooden rain vat and some unused crates, the rooftop provided no cover. Undeterred, he stalked forward, hugging the shadows near the roof's edge, staying out of the moonlight. When he was within five paces, he closed his eyes for a moment, steeled himself, and rushed forward.

Before he had taken three strides, he slipped in a pool of fluid. His feet flew skyward and his back slammed down on the roof-hard.

"Ooomph." The impact blew the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he struggled to rise and bring his blade to bear, knowing two Night Knives were rushing him, knowing he had only seconds to live.

Nothing happened.

Still gasping, he sat up and reoriented himself. Inexplicably, the assassins had not moved. The fluid he had slipped in, the sticky, still-warm fluid that now soaked his cloak Blood. The ground near the assassins was covered in it. He stared dumbly at his blood-covered fingers while a nervous shudder raced up his spine. He jumped to his feet and pulled both Knives back from the edge. Slit throat and a stab through the chest. Both had been bled out and put back at their posts. Professional work.

"Dark," he softly cursed.

He looked down on the square and saw nothing. What in the Hells?

The bells of the House of Song began to sound the tenth hour. Jak would be coming.

A terrible thought took shape in his mind. He raced to the eastern edge of the rooftop and looked across the alley to the adjacent warehouse. He could see nothing in the darkness. Without hesitation, he leaped across the eight-foot void and hit the adjacent roof in a roll. He leaped to his feet, caution thrown to the bitter wind, and sped to the edge overlooking the square. Two more corpses lay in a bloody pool, their unused slings at their feet.

The bells ceased tolling and the sudden silence felt ominous. Still nothing in the square. "Dark and Empty," Cale muttered. "Jak is driving into an ambush."

Jak whipped the snorting horses into a steady canter. At that pace the carriage bounced through the wide streets like a skipping stone over water, but he thought it best to have some speed as he approached Drover's Square. Don't want to be too easy a target, he thought wryly.

He would have taken this job for no one but Cale. While he regularly took incredible risks in the name of his god, Jak generally preferred calculated gambles to blind leaps. The Master of Stealth himself might enter the endless inferno of Baator on a mere whim, but Jak would do so only after due deliberation and for a good cause. A good cause like a friend in trouble. It might not have been how Brandobaris did things, but…

"But you're a god," Jak murmured to the sky, reaching under the oversized cloak and twice tapping the holy symbol that hung from his belt. "And I'm a man. Your margin for error is bigger." Grinning sheepishly, he hurriedly added, "No offense, of course."

Tonight was hardly the night to irritate the Lord of Stealth with his oft-criticized impertinence. Jak and Cale would need all the Trickster's wiles to come through this little affair unbloodied.

Nearing Drover's Square, he hurriedly rechecked his "disguise." He stood balanced precariously atop the coachman's seat, wearing a large gray overcoat that draped past his real feet to reach a pair of human-sized boots nailed into the floorboards. Cale had insisted on the disguise. Everything must look normal, he had said, or the Night Knives would sniff out the ambush. A halfling driving a nobleman's coach in Selgaunt was decidedly abnormal.

So I get to play dress-up, he thought, while Cale does the real work.

Satisfied that he looked at least passably human, he turned to the west and headed toward the square. The steady drumbeat of hooves on cobblestones echoed off the bricks. The snow-dusted streets stood empty. He steered the horses under the arch that spanned the western entrance to Drover's Square, slowed the team a bit, and guided the carriage into the killing field.

If Cale had meant to choose an ideal ambush point in order to minimize suspicion, he had chosen well. Drover's Square offered an unparalleled field of fire. There was a wide-open expanse of cobblestones bordered by tall buildings-perfect perches for snipers. The area was littered with unhitched wagons and piles of discarded crates-perfect for hiding ground forces. Moonlight trickling between the looming warehouses cast a crazy quilt of shadows. Jak felt utterly exposed. The Knives could be anywhere.

They won't take chances with bows, he assured himself. They want the boy alive, and they won't want a stray arrow to eliminate their prize.

Still, his heart raced. Mouthing a prayer to Brandobaris, he guided the carriage across the square.

A sudden sound jerked his head skyward. Cale's voice-shouting in Lurienal, the halflings' tongue-from a nearby rooftop. "Get out of there, Jak! This isn't a Night Knives oper-"

Shouts from all around drowned out Cale's warning as armed men burst from the surrounding buildings and swarmed toward the carriage, blades and crossbows bare.

"Trickster's hairy toes," Jak grumbled, then thought, There must be thirty or more!

They ran toward the carriage from all sides, screaming for him to halt. The horses bucked and snorted, skittish as the men began to close.

Thinking fast, Jak stripped off the oversized cloak and hurriedly murmured a prayer to the Lord of Stealth. On the instant, he vanished from sight. Invisible now, he leaped from the carriage and swatted the already nervous lead horse in the rump. "Hyah!"

The team bolted and took the bouncing carriage with it. Two of the ambushers tried to halt the speeding carriage, and the panicked horses ran them down, crushing bones under a flurry of merciless hooves. The rest of the men sped after the bouncing coach, still shouting for a nonexistent driver to halt. Crossbows twanged, and bolts thudded into wood. Somehow, another of Cale's monumental shouts managed to rise above the din, again in Lurienal.

"Take cover, Jak!"

"Dark!" Jak breathed, and raced for the nearest warehouse.

Hurriedly, Cale affixed his grapnel to a carved rainspout and fed the rope down the side of the warehouse. "Dark," he murmured as he worked. "Dark and empty." This had turned bad fast. Jak would need help. He hoped the little man had heard his warning.

There must be thirty men down there, he thought. Who in the Nine Hells are they?

Shouting men scrambled around the square and tried to corral the panicked horses. Several of the ambushers had already been run down. Their crushed bodies littered the cobblestones, broken limbs cocked at grotesque angles. It would only be a matter of time before the rest either calmed the horses or shot the team down. Cale had to move now.

He selected the most tightly packed group of men within range, plucked a large crystal globe from his necklace, and hurled it through the air across the square. When the globe struck the cobblestones in the midst of the crowd, Drover's Square exploded in fire. The force of the blast blew bodies apart and threw the pieces into the air like dry leaves in a gale. Screams and the stink of burning flesh filled the air. Many of the men scattered, unsure of where their attacker lurked, while others still pursued the carriage. Cale spared the carnage only a glance before climbing over the edge and shinnying down the rope.

Halfway down he peered over his shoulder, chose another cluster of men, and hurled a second globe from the necklace. Again orange fire blossomed, and again men burned and died. The fireballs would attract the city watch, he knew, but he intended to be gone before they arrived. He would retrieve Jak and get the Hells out of here.

He descended into a chaotic furnace of thick smoke, screaming men, burning wagons, and rearing horses. No one had yet sighted him. He dropped the last ten feet to the ground, whirled, and whipped out his longsword.

He stood face to face with Drasek Riven.

"Riven? What in the Hells-"

The assassin lunged forward, both blades low. Cale leaped back like a cat but felt the points of Riven's sabers slice the cloth of his cloak. He clumsily parried one of the assassin's follow-up slashes but took a shallow cut across the forearm from Riven's other saber. A minor wound. Sneering, Riven backed off.

"What are you doing, Riven? You-" In that instant, everything crystallized. Riven had been the betrayer of the Knives, the betrayer of the Righteous Man. But why? Cale asked himself. Who's he working for?

"I've been waiting a long time for this, Cale," Riven hissed. "So I'm going to bleed you slow. One nick at a time." He waved his sabers threateningly. His one eye glared with an evil glow.

Breathing hard, Cale backed up against the warehouse wall. He briefly considered trying to climb back up the rope, but quickly dismissed the idea. The assassin was too fast. Riven would cut him down the moment he turned his back. Cale knew he had to get out of there. Though skilled with a blade, he was no equal of Drasek Riven.

Where in the Hells is the Watch? he thought. They must have heard the explosions.

"What? Nothing to say?" The assassin sneered.

Behind Riven, Cale saw through the flames and smoke that the men near the carriage had finally grown impatient enough to shoot down the horses. They would have the carriage door open in moments. The rest, still unsure of the source of the fireballs, began to cautiously regroup. Riven continued to gloat.

"Cale the Clever with nothing to say? Scared silent, eh?" the assassin scoffed. "I always knew you were a coward." He stalked forward, but the shouts from the men checking the carriage turned him around and stopped him cold.

"It's empty!" they yelled from across the square. "The carriage is empty!"

Riven whirled on Cale, his triumphant smile replaced with a hate-filled glare. "W-where's the boy, Cale?" he sputtered. "Where!"

Cale shot him a smug smile. "I always knew you were an idiot, Riven."

Roaring in rage, the assassin charged.

Riven's sabers cut a whistling swath through the smoke-filled air, his promise to kill Cale slowly apparently forgotten. Cale sidestepped a stab at his vitals and lashed out with an overhand slash. Riven deflected the blow wide with one saber, spun, and slashed backhand at Cale's throat. Cale dropped into a roll to avoid the killing stroke, instead taking a painful gash across his scalp, then leaped to his feet. When he stood, Riven shot him a hateful smile and stabbed him through the shoulder.

Desperately, Cale pulled free of the saber, swept Riven's other blade wide with his longsword, and landed a vicious kick square in the smaller assassin's chest. The impact blew the breath from Riven's lungs and drove him back three paces. With blood and sweat pouring into his eyes, Cale used the reprieve to gulp his healing potion. Skin knit painfully and abruptly back together. The wounds in his scalp and shoulder stopped bleeding instantly.

"You're… a… dead… man," Riven managed between gasps.

Behind the assassin, Cale could see the other men moving across the square toward the combat. Wiping the remaining blood out of his face, he resolved not to go easily. He fingered a globe on his magical necklace and thought, We'll all go together, you sons of whores.

"Come on," he said to Riven, and beckoned him forward with his long sword.

Riven's signature sneer returned with his breath. "Cale, yo-ahhh!" The assassin's words turned into a howl of pain as the tip of Jak's shortsword burst from his gut in a shower of blood. The now visible halfling, standing behind the assassin, jerked his blade free. Riven fell to his knees, gurgling blood, then collapsed into a groaning heap.

As Jak walked past the bleeding assassin, he spitefully said, "You talk too damned much, Drasek Riven." The halfling bounced up to the surprised Cale and shot him a smile. "Bet you're glad to see me, huh? Come on, let's-"

"I'm finishing this," Cale pronounced, and walked past Jak toward the writhing Riven. Jak's small hand closed on his wrist and pulled him to a halt.

"Forget him, Cale. Erevis! Forget him. We've got to get out of here."

Cale's gaze followed Jak's pointed finger to see the rest of the hit team speeding toward them. The flaming, smoke-filled square swarmed with shouting men. A crossbow bolt buzzed past his ear to slam harmlessly into the side of the warehouse. Another followed, then another. Jak was right.

"Let's go," Cale said.

"Which way?" he asked. The nervous excitement in Jak's voice was plain. "They're everywhere."

"Up." Cale reached around the halfling and grabbed the end of the rope. "You first. I'll coil it behind me as we climb." He looked back to the square. Their pursuers were only a long spearcast away and closing fast. "Go! Go!"

Without a word, Jak leaped up and began climbing. Cale quickly wrapped the end of the rope around his waist and followed. Halfway up, he spared a glance down and saw a crowd of eight or nine crossbowmen taking aim.

"Crossbows, Jak," he shouted up to the little man. Trying to make himself as small a target as possible, Cale held the rope with only his hands and pulled his legs into his chest. Bowstrings twanged, and a shower of bolts peppered the walls around him. Two of the barbed missiles struck him square in the back but ricocheted off his enchanted leather armor. Still, the impact was enough to nearly knock him off the rope. He looked up to see Jak still unwounded. Brandobaris takes care of his own, he assumed.

"Go, Jak! Now, while they reload!" The halfling sped up the line like a red-headed spider, but before they had climbed another ten feet, Cale's keen ears picked up the telltale intonations of spellcasting below.

Dark! he cursed inwardly. Who in the Nine Hells are these men?

"Hang on!" Cale shouted. "Spell!"

At that instant, a searing bolt of lightning shot upward from the ground and exploded into the building. The force of the blast shattered bricks, showering Cale's exposed skin with a hundred stinging chips of stone. The rope swung across the face of the building like a pendulum. He gritted his teeth and held on. Jak held on too, he saw, but barely. Clinging to the rope with only his hands, the halfling's feet dangled loosely over empty air. He looked stunned.

We can't take another one of those, Cale thought. He looked down through the smoky air and saw the crowd of crossbowmen preparing another volley. In the midst of them stood a gray-robed mage, fingers even now weaving another blast. Without a second thought, Cale plucked another of his precious missile globes-one of only three left-and hurled it downward.

"Eat this!" he shouted.

Too late the mage and crossbowmen scrambled for cover. With a deafening roar, the globe exploded into a blazing inferno that left the men mere piles of charred meat and exposed bone. Though thirty feet up, the blast of superheated air still curled Cale's eyebrows and warmed his boots. That globe had been his most powerful.

Free from the threat of crossbows, he and Jak quickly scaled the rest of the wall. When they reached the top, Cale raced over to the trapdoor that provided access to the roof from the warehouse below and stuck his dagger in the latch.

"There are still more of those bastards," he explained to Jak. "They'll try to reach the roof to cut off our escape. We've got a minute or two at best."

Swaying on his feet, Jak nodded absently.

Cale hurried over and gently gripped the little man by the shoulders. "Are you all right? Did the lightning bolt catch you?"

Jak returned Cale's concerned gaze with green eyes only now beginning to unglaze. "Yes… partially. I'll be all right though."

Stubborn as always, the halfling squirmed out of Cale's grip and shook his head as though to clear it. Afterward, he withdrew his holy symbol-a platinum snuff box he had stolen from some mage-and mouthed the words of a healing spell. Immediately he looked better. Recovered, the little man blinked and looked around the roof as though seeing it for the first time.

"Trickster's toes, Cale," the halfling cursed. "Mages and Drasek Riven? What's going on here?"

Before Cale could answer, the latch on the trapdoor began to rattle. Without a word, he and Jak raced to the eastern edge of the roof. Eight feet of empty space stood between them and the safety of the adjacent rooftop.

"Can you make it?" Cale asked the halfling.

Jak shot a glance back at the trapdoor just as a body slammed into it with a loud thump. The dagger held, but it would not do so for long. "I'll make it," he promised.

They backed up to get running room, then sprinted forward and leaped into open space. Cale made it easily, Jak barely.

Hitting the rooftop in a run, Cale pulled his last dagger and headed for the trapdoor in this roof. Before he reached it, it flew open and a blond head poked through, facing away from him. Without hesitation, Cale rushed forward, grabbed the man by the hair, and lifted him through the opening. The surprised man squawked in protest and awkwardly swung his long sword.

"Dark! Hey… wha-"

The man's protests ended in a groan when Cale buried the dagger in his back, all the way to the hilt. Holding him aloft like some macabre marionette, Cale let him bleed and spasm away the last seconds of his life. From the warehouse below, he heard the shouts of still more men. He disdainfully flung the corpse to the side and reached for the trapdoor. As he did, he caught sight of Jak.

The little man stared at him, ashen faced, eyes aghast. Cale's gaze went to the corpse, then back to Jak. He pointed at the body with his bloody dagger. "It's either this or we don't get out of here alive."

Jak nodded, but his eyes remained haunted.

He's never seen this side of me, Cale realized. Little man, I hope we live long enough for you to decide later if we're still friends.

Shouts and the heavy tread of boots on stairs pulled him back to himself. He grabbed the trapdoor, threw a missile globe down into the warehouse, and slammed the door shut. The explosion shook the building. Smoke poured from the cracks around the trapdoor. He could hear the screams of burning men even through the wood and brick.

Without looking at Jak, he bent down and rifled the corpse. He quickly found what he sought. "Dark," he softly cursed.

From the inner lining of the corpse's cloak he removed a small token. Shaped as a black triangle with a yellow circle inset and a "Z" superimposed over the whole, the badge told him all he needed to know.

"Zhentarim," he breathed. No wonder there had been so many men. An immense organization comprised of warriors, mages, and the fell priests of the mad god Cyric, the Zhentarim sought to dominate trade and politics throughout the lands of Faerun. Their methods ranged from legal trade agreements to assassinations.

Jak's intake of breath was as sharp as a razor. "Zhents! Gods Cale, what's going on here?"

Cale stared down at the badge in his palm while his mind worked to make the connections-Thayvians, Zhents, Riven, the Night Knives. But it was too much, and now was not the time.

"I don't know," Cale replied at last. "We'll have to figure it out later. We need to get out of here fast." What he did know was that the Zhentarim rarely left survivors. They were thorough. Very thorough. Already, more armed men had probably secured the block. Getting out would be difficult.

"We'll get no help from the Watch," he said to Jak. "The Zhents will have bought them off. So we stick to the roofs until we clear this block. When we hit Rauncel's Ride we go street level and make a run for uptown. You capable of that?"

Jak, holding a dagger in one fist and his holy symbol snuffbox in the other, nodded. "I'm capable, but…"

"But what?"

Jak shook his head. "Nothing."

They started to head off, but Jak abruptly stopped. "Wait, Cale. I… I've got a better way." The halfling sounded strangely reticent. "There's an abandoned cordwainer's shop off Stevedore's Way. The alley beside it has a secret passage that leads into the sewer system. We're at low tide, so the sewers should be passable. We can get out that way."

Cale paused, thinking, weighing the options. Both were long shots, but Stevedore's Way was closer. "Are you certain it's secure? If the Zhents catch us in the sewers…" He left the result unspoken.

Jak hesitated only an instant. "I'm sure," he said at last. "The Zhents don't know about it."

"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 stared 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.