Twilight Falling

CHAPTER 3

The light of the rising sun crept across the floor of Cale's quarters. Half his room was alight with the brightness of dawn, half cast in shadow. Cale thought it an apt metaphor for his life.

His purposeful movements about the small bedroom took him between the light and shadow. In the process, he stirred up the seemingly endless amount of unswept dust on the floor. The motes swirled in the sun's rays like dancing faeries. If anyone on his staff had left any other room in Stormweather Towers as ill kept as Cale maintained his own quarters, he would have dismissed that person summarily. Cale was a poor housekeeper-a strange fault in a butler, he acknowledged-but he forbade any member of his staff from entering his quarters.

And for good reason, he thought, eyeing the battered wooden trunk at the base of his metal-framed bed. He had never wanted to risk an overly curious member of the household staff jigging the lock of the trunk and drawing conclusions about him and his past from the contents.

He keyed the lock and opened the trunk's lid. Within lay his enchanted leather armor, slashed and grooved from the many blades it had turned, and a leather pouch holding two of the three potions he had taken from the Night Knives's guildhouse before he and Jak had burned it to the ground. Two months before he had paid a gnome alchemist to identify the properties of the potions. The one that smelled of clover would turn him invisible for a time, and the cloudy azure one would allow him to fly for a while. He laid the potion pouch and the armor on the bed. At the bottom of the trunk were his weapons belt with his enchanted long sword and two balanced daggers. Those too he laid on the bed. He would no longer keep his weapons and armor hidden away.

Through his window, the great bells of the House of Song sounded the sixth hour. Tamlin-Lord Uskevren, he corrected himself-would be taking his breakfast. Lady Uskevren would be there as well. He would inform them first.

Shamur and Tamlin sat at a small table on a sundrenched balcony off of the main dining room, talking. Cale could not make out their conversation and would not be so impolite as to read their lips, though he could have.

Shamur wore a violet sundress, sandals, and only a few tasteful jewels. Her hair hung loose and cascaded down to her shoulders. To be dressed so casually, Cale deemed that she must have no appointments that morning. Tamlin, however, had already donned a formal doublet and hose. The lord of Stormweather had business that morning then. The fact that Cale did not know of Tamlin's appointments ahead of time showed just how small a role he played in the life of the new lord of Stormweather.

Cale walked through the dining room toward the balcony-deliberately loud, so that Tamlin and Shamur would hear him coming. They turned in their chairs to face him as he approached. Tamlin looked grave, but not displeased to see him. Shamur smiled. Cale nodded a greeting to Tamlin and gave Shamur a warm look. Cale and Shamur had reached an understanding while in the strange otherworld reflected in a magical painting. There, they had faced death together and saved each other's lives. Later, they had mourned Thamalon together. Cale had come to realize that his lady was no more a sedentary noble in her soul than he was a butler in his. He marveled at her ability to suppress what she was. He had never been quite able to do it.

Out of habit, he evaluated the table settings and fare with a professional eye. All appeared in order-the table services appropriately set, the meal suitable for a spring breakfast. Cora, one of the household staff, hovered on the far side of the balcony, within earshot and sight of the Uskevren if they required anything, but far enough away to give them privacy. Cale gave the young woman a nod of approval then waited to be acknowledged formally by his employers.

"Mister Cale," Tamlin said around a mouthful of poached egg.

"My lord," Cale said, though he still found it hard to apply the title to Tamlin.

"Erevis," Shamur said and smiled still more brightly. The sun reflected off the jewels in her hair, and sparkled in her eyes. She looked radiant. She gestured at a nearby chair. "How very nice to see you. Please sit down."

Tamlin frowned at Shamur's familiar use of Cale's first name, and her offer to allow a servant to dine with the lord of the House.

"Lady, you are gracious as always, but I must decline," Cale said. He smiled back at her, a soft smile but genuine. Having come to know her, he thought he might miss her the most after he was gone, more even perhaps than Thazienne. He looked to Cora and said, "That will be all."

Tamlin and Shamur exchanged a glance at that. Cora looked surprised but made no protest before hurrying off.

Surprisingly, Cale felt no anxiety. In fact, he felt comfortable for the first time in months. He looked beyond both of the Uskevren and went straight to the point.

"Lord, Lady, some unfortunate events have befallen my cousin."

When he had first come to Stormweather, Cale had concocted a fictional cousin whose frequent problems required Cale's aid, and thereby provided cover for his guild activities. Tamlin and Shamur did not know that his cousin was non-existent. Even Thamalon had not known, though he may have suspected.

"I fear these events will require my long-term attention," Cale continued, "and will take me from the city. I must therefore request that you accept my resignation, which I offer now."

For a moment, the balcony stood silent.

At last, Tamlin said, "What? When?"

He did not look unhappy, merely surprised.

"Immediately, my l-"

"No." Shamur threw her napkin to the table, pushed back her chair, and stood. "Your request is denied."

"Mother…"

Tamlin reached for her hand, but she jerked it away. She had eyes only for Cale. And what eyes! For a fleeting, guilt-ridden instant, he thought how beautiful she looked, how much he wished he had known her in the days when she had been Shamur the burglar, before she had become the lady of House Uskevren.

"My lady …" Cale began.

She strode forward, looked him defiantly in the face, and said, "This is nonsense, Erevis, and I will not suffer it."

"Lady-"

"You have no cousin!" she hissed. "Do you think I'm blind or do you think I'm stupid?"

Stunned, Cale could only stare. Her eyes did not hold accusations, just certainty. How long had she known? He had never even told Thamalon.

"Neither, my lady," he managed to mutter.

Tamlin rose from his seat and asked, "What are you talking about? Of course he has a cousin. Mister Cale has spoken of him often. Tell her, Cale. And now he needs to leave to attend to family matters. Surely we can understand that."

Shamur didn't turn around but her face darkened- first with anger, then with. . disgust? Was she that disappointed in the man her son had become? Cale thought her face gave him the answer and made plain her thoughts: How will the House survive with Tamlin at its head?

For an instant, that thought made Cale waver, but only for an instant. He could not help the Uskevren anymore. He thought of Thazienne and knew it would cost him too much to stay.

He glanced at Tamlin-who stood with his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side-then to Shamur, whose proud eyes blazed fire.

Cale smiled and said softly, "You'll still be here, Lady. That will be enough."

At that, her gaze softened.

"Perhaps," she said, "but the House needs you here. I need you here."

"What in the name of the gods are you two going on about?" Tamlin asked. "The man said he's leaving. That seems simple enough to me."

Shamur still held Cale's eyes.

"You don't have to bing this ken, nipper," she said.

Cale tried to keep the surprise from his face. Hearing her use cant astonished him more than if she had punched him in the stomach. She, a noblewoman of Sembia, spoke the thieves' tongue with the practiced ease of a veteran boxman. Cale knew she once had been a burglar of note, but hearing his lady speak the tongue Cale had once used to arrange assassinations … it disquieted him.

"What did you say, Mother?" Tamlin asked.

Neither Cale nor Shamur even acknowledged that he had asked a question.

Thinking back, Cale better understood her happiness in that other world. Unlike Cale, she had never regarded herself as trapped there, even when they had been temporarily held prisoner by the elves. There, she had been free. For her, Stormweather was the trap, and one from which she could not even attempt escape.

He reached out a hand and brushed her fingers with his fingertips.

"My lady," he said, "if you can speak that language, then you of everyone understand why I can no longer stay."

Tamlin's eyes narrowed. Obviously he didn't like the familiar touch Cale had just shared with his mother.

"What language is that, Mister Cale?" he asked.

Cale did not look at him, instead keeping his eyes on Shamur.

Shamur considered Cale's comments, smiled sadly, and replied, "I do understand, Erevis." She straightened and backed up a step. "Sometimes the choices we make become too much of a sacrifice to continue them. Sometimes."

Cale gave her a nod and looked at Tamlin.

"I believe Lady Uskevren is now in agreement with us, my lord. I will inform the staff and see that all is put in order prior to my departure. I expect that will take a day, but perhaps two. I believe you will find Orrin more than capable of assuming my duties."

Orrin was the chief steward, an extraordinarily competent young man.

Tamlin nodded. He looked at his mother strangely while he walked up to Cale. He extended his hand. Cale took it. It was more callused than it had been once, harder.

"Cale, you've been invaluable to House Uskevren. You'll be missed." Cale heard sincerity in Tamlin's tone, and it moved him. "Of course, I will see to a suitable severance."

Cale shook his head. "Thank you, my lord, but a severance is un-"

Tamlin waved a hand dismissively and said, "I insist, Cale." He glanced at his mother. "It is the least we can do."

"Take it, Erevis," Shamur said.

"As you wish, my lord, lady. You'll say good-bye to Talbot for me?" he asked them.

The youngest Uskevren spent most of his time away from the manse, and likely would not return before Cale left.

"Of course," Shamur said. "And you'll speak to Tazi before you leave?"

Her tone dropped when she said that last, the way a person might speak a secret.

Cale's heart jumped at the thought of saying goodbye to Tazi.

"Erevis? She'll want to see you."

Cale nodded, mumbled something noncommittal, and began to walk away.

Before he reached the archway to the dining room, Shamur called out, "If I had it to do all over again, Erevis, I'd do it the same way. I understood my choice completely the day I made it. Make sure you'll be able to say the same years from now."

Cale heard the truth of her words and thought better of making a reply. Instead, he nodded and walked out.

Mairen Street, called Shop Street by Selgaunt's natives, bustled with late-morning activity. Merchant nobles, day laborers on morning repast, and farmers from the surrounding countryside all strolled the cobbled walkways, browsing the endless booths of goods and two-story shops that lined the street. Donkey carts pulling wagons of produce, and lacquered carriages bearing the rich, picked their way through the crowded street and rolled slowly down the road. Street vendors shouted into the sunny morning sky, hawking everything from apples and cabbage, to breads and sweet ices, to bolts of silk, candles, and scented spices. From the street's numerous open-air eateries and pastry bakeries wafted the pleasant aroma of cooking food-sausage and blueberry tarts. The smell reminded Vraggen that he had not yet eaten breakfast.

"That's him," Azriim said, nodding up the street. "Alkenen the peddler."

The half-drow, dressed in an intricately embroidered forest green cloak, finely tailored trousers, and polished black boots, indicated a vendor just up and across the busy street.

Vraggen and Dolgan tried to get a good look at him through the crowd without being obvious. Solin Dar, late of this world, had told Vraggen that he had sold the globe to Alkenen.

Alkenen straddled a stool before his small, road-worn peddler's cart. His crossed, goggle eyes watched the passersby as they browsed. Tufts of dull brown hair sprouted at wild angles from each side of his otherwise bald head. Even from a distance Vraggen could see that one of Alkenen's legs was shorter than the other, but even the good one looked spindly in its simple, homespun trousers.

"You had no problem tracking him down, I suppose," Vraggen said to Azriim. "His appearance is hardly unremarkable."

"Perhaps harder than you think," said Azriim. "He had been out of the city for the past tenday. He only recently returned to Selgaunt. From Cormyr, I understand. I was beginning to fear we would have to scour the Heartlands for him." He paused before adding, "But you are correct-his poor taste does stand out, even among the Sembians."

Vraggen made no comment but Dolgan snorted a laugh. Unlike Azriim, the big man never seemed to change his clothes. His ring mail, sweat stained brown tunic, leather trousers, and calf high boots might as well have been a uniform.

As for Alkenen, he looked every bit an itinerant peddler of the Heartlands. His pockmarked, road-worn face sported a few days' growth of wispy beard. The sun and rain had long ago faded his weathered overcloak, once probably blue, to an indeterminate gray. His worn leather shoes had soles as thin as a vellum sheet. Perhaps he'd seen thirty winters, perhaps he'd seen fifty. Vraggen couldn't tell. Funny that such a fool could find himself in the middle of such important events.

Alkenen's cart looked much like most peddlers', a sturdy wooden box on four wheels. A "roadship," Vraggen had heard them called. Goods were stored for travel inside the walk-in main compartment, accessible from a narrow door in the back, and rotating slats were built into the cart's sides. When turned down and locked into place, the slats could serve as display shelves. Alkenen had already done so and upon his shelves stood a dizzying array of goods-glassware knick-knacks, statuettes of wood and bronze, sterling pendants, old clothing, leather goods, used weapons, tools, even kitchen pots.

"We gonna stand here all day and stare at the cripple, or take care of business?" Dolgan asked. "I'm getting hungry."

Vraggen didn't think Dolgan meant he was hungry for food.

"We'll try my way first," Vraggen said to the big Cormyrean. "No need to draw attention unnecessarily. If that doesn't work, we'll remove him to an isolated alley and you'll get your chance."

Dolgan grunted acquiescence, but obviously hoped the peddler would need convincing.

Vraggen said, "Let's go," and started across the street.

As they wove their way through the thick crowd, Azriim flipped a copper penny up to a fat apple vendor sitting on the driver's bench of his cart and plucked a green sour from the back. The vendor gave a nod and the copper vanished.

Alkenen saw them coming and must have sensed their intent. Perhaps he thought them guildsmen looking to chase him off. As they approached, he rose from his stool and tried to hobble into the safety of his cart. Dolgan and Azriim darted forward, intercepted him, and boxed him in against the side of the cart, near the driver's bench. Alkenen's draft horse, a road worn gray nag, idly chewed at a quarter-bale of straw set near it.

Wide-eyed and breathing fast, Alkenen swayed on his uneven legs. To maintain his balance, he steadied himself with one hand against the cart.

He looked fearfully at Azriim and Dolgan and asked, "What's this now? I'm an honest businessman. I'll summon the Scepters if need be."

He made wet sounds when he spoke, as though speaking caused his mouth to fill with too much spit.

Azriim took a loud bite of his apple, glared at the peddler, and said nothing. Dolgan took a step nearer Alkenen, fairly blotting out the sun. The peddler sank back and tried to meld with the wood of his cart.

Vraggen, ignoring the peddler for the moment, walked up and surveyed the peddler's goods, looking for the globe.

"What's this about?" Alkenen asked again, his voice quaking.

"Shut up," Dolgan said, in his deep, threatening voice. Alkenen did exactly that.

Vraggen looked carefully at each of the shelves in turn, but did not see the globe. He saw only the mundane wares of a mundane man, with the occasional item of modest value hidden in the mix-something Alkenen had fenced from a petty thief while in Cormyr, no doubt. Here a jade dragon figurine brought from the east, there a tarnished silver serving set lifted from a noble's manse.

"What is it that the sirs require?" the peddler asked, hopping awkwardly on his deformed leg and warily eyeing Dolgan. "Alkenen has wares of every sort." He nodded at Azriim. "Even clothes for the sir, who is obviously discerning."

Azriim took another chomp of the green sour and eyed the peddler darkly. After he swallowed, he said, "You'd have to pay me to wear your common trash, fool. You've been told to keep your mouth shut, so do so. And don't refer to yourself in the third person. It annoys me."

Dolgan smirked, though Vraggen doubted the Cormyrean knew what "third person" even meant.

Obviously discomfited, Alkenen swallowed whatever reply he had thought to make. The sucking sounds continued nevertheless.

After a time, the peddler asked in a very small voice, "Are you guildsmen?"

Vraggen snatched the jade dragon figurine from the shelf and turned from the wares.

"No," he said, trying to keep the distaste from his expression. Vraggen approached the wretch. "My name is Vraggen, and we are not working for any guild. What we require of you is a particular item. Failing that, we require information regarding its whereabouts. Provide us with that, and we can all be friends."

He held out the jade figurine, and Alkenen took it, eyes wide.

Vraggen indicated Dolgan and Azriim with his eyes then winked conspiratorially at Alkenen and said, "These are good men to have as friends, peddler. As am I."

He did not need to say that they were bad men to have as enemies. Alkenen understood.

"No doubt," Alkenen said, managing an uncomfortable smile. The dragon figurine vanished into the pocket of his trousers. "What item do you seek?"

Vraggen gave a satisfied smile and backed off a step.

"First things, first."

He nodded to Azriim and Dolgan and they seized Alkenen by the arms. Alarmed, Alkenen began to struggle against their grip; a feeble attempt.

"W-wait," he sputtered, spraying spit. "No!"

Vraggen began to incant a spell that would cause Alkenen to believe that Vraggen was a trusted friend, a trusted friend to whom he would not lie or tell half-truths.

It took only a moment to tap the Shadow Weave and complete the spell. When he finished, an immediate change came over Alkenen. He blinked and shook his head in confusion. Perplexed, he looked at Azriim and Dolgan, who still held him by the arms.

"Vraggen, what's going on? Call off the muscle, eh?"

Vraggen smiled as sincerely as he could manage and said, "Of course, old friend. My apologies." He looked pointedly at Azriim and Dolgan. He could not resist. "These two are thick, and often misunderstand my directives."

Azriim swallowed whatever comment he might have made, but his glare bored holes into Vraggen.

"Release him," Vraggen commanded, and they did.

Azriim bit into his apple, still staring. Vraggen ignored him and put an arm around Alkenen.

"Now, old friend. The item I'm looking for is a translucent globe of quartz, grayish in color. About so big, with many small gemstones inset. You would've purchased this item from a bearded warrior, a member of an adventuring company out of Cormyr who called themselves the Band of the Broken Bow."

Alkenen rubbed his scruffy beard and said, "I remember that warrior. A few months ago, right? Big fellow, lots of weapons, but needed hard coin. A drinker, I think. Sold that globe to me on the cheap."

"That's precisely the item," Vraggen said, and tried to keep the intensity out of his voice. "Where is the globe now? It's very valuable to me and I will pay you handsomely for it."

Alkenen sucked in some renegade spit dribbling down his chin and answered, "Sold it. If I'd a known you-"

Vraggen grabbed the peddler by the shirt and slammed him against the cart.

"Sold it! Sold it? To whom?"

Vraggen could hear the mockery in Azriim's voice when he said, "Do attempt to control yourself, Vraggen. I know I'm 'thick,' but isn't he your old friend?"

Vraggen shot Azriim an angry stare. The half-drow merely chewed his apple and smiled. Vraggen turned back to Alkenen. The peddler was wide-eyed and too stunned to breathe. Even the sucking sounds had ceased, and a stream of spit dribbled from the side of his open mouth. Vraggen came back to himself.

He released the peddler, patted him on the shoulders, and said, "Forgive me … friend. I'm not myself." He took a deep breath. "Do you remember to whom you sold it?"

Alkenen smiled at that, a mouthful of stained teeth.

"Of course," said the peddler. "As I was saying, I put it together with some other unusual items I had obtained and sold the whole lot to the old man Uskevren. Walked by with his butler, he did. Took an immediate liking to that globe and an orrery. Bought the whole lot of items on the spot." Alkenen grinned and added, "I told him it came from Evermeet."

Vraggen breathed the name, "Uskevren."

He knew of the family, of course. Everyone with any familiarity with Selgaunt did. He also knew that Thamalon Uskevren had died recently-that news was the talk of the taverns-but something else itched at the back of his brain. Someone in the Zhentarim had once had ties to the Uskevren …

"Drasek Riven," he said softly, and frowned.

"Who?" Alkenen asked.

Vraggen ignored him. Riven, one of the Network's top operatives in Selgaunt, had once had cause to surveil the Uskevren manse, but Vraggen couldn't remember why.

The answer came to him then, all in a rush.

Because Riven had tried for years to get the Zhents to put down the Uskevren butler, who had been a member of the now defunct Night Knives. Likely the same butler who had been with Thamalon Uskevren when he had acquired the globe.

"Cale," he said softly.

Alkenen's head bobbed up and down and he said, "Cale! Exactly! He was butler to old Uskevren. Tall prig, he was. Mean looking too."

Vraggen frowned. Had Cale and Riven allied? Had Riven's hostility been only a cover? Maybe this Cale had learned what the globe was. Maybe he and Riven had murdered Thamalon to take it for themselves. It seemed too coincidental that the Uskevren patriarch would buy the globe with Cale at his side and die soon after. That work stank of Drasek Riven.

Vraggen looked to Azriim and Dolgan and said, "This complicates matters." While a simple divination attuned to the Shadow Weave could reveal if the globe was in the family's mansion, dealing with Cale and Riven would not be as simple. "Cale and Riven are professionals," he said simply.

Azriim smirked and chewed his apple.

Dolgan gave a hard grin and asked, "Mean looking, huh?"

Vraggen faced Alkenen and gave an insincere smile.

"You've been of immeasurable help, friend Alkenen." Vraggen took ten platinum suns from his belt pouch, gave them to the peddler, and added, "For your trouble."

Alkenen stared wide-eyed at the coins, a small fortune by his standards.

"Take it. You've been a great help to me."

Alkenen said, "You're too generous, Vraggen. Anything else I can do-anything-you need only ask. I'll be in Selgaunt another few days, then I'm off to Marsember for the Festival of the Hart."

"Thank you, my friend. But nothing more for now." Vraggen forced himself to hold the smile. "Promise you'll spend the coin well, and soon. Otherwise, it'll chew a hole in your pouch."

Alkenen promised that he would and they parted ways.

When they had walked a block or two away from Alkenen, Azriim said, "Helpful fellow, your friend Alkenen. Maybe you two should get together for tendayly games of sava. Chess maybe. I suspect he'd give you a good game."

Vraggen resisted the urge to smack the smirk from Azriim's face, and said, "We'll track Cale and Riven for a few days. Once we've located the globe, we kill them and take it."

"Easy enough," Azriim replied.

"We'll need to involve a few more men."

"I know just the woman," said Azriim with a smile.

Vraggen looked a question at the half-drow. He wasn't sure this was woman's work.

"Don't worry," Azriim said with a laugh. "She's no lady. And she's only a woman when it suits her."

Vraggen nodded. He would trust Azriim's judgment. Azriim had brought him Dolgan, after all, and the Cormyrean mercenary had been a perfect addition to the core of their team.

"What is this globe anyway?" Dolgan asked. "What's it do?"

Azriim patted him on the broad shoulder and said, "You're only asking that now? Where've you been for the last three tendays?"

The half-drow laughed at Dolgan's dull frown. "It doesn't do much of anything, my big friend. It simply is."

"Enough," Vraggen ordered.

There were people all over the street. Azriim's careless tongue was infuriating.

Dolgan continued to frown, obviously perplexed.

"Never fear, Dolgan," Azriim said. "There's a little man with a real brain hidden in that big body somewhere. I'm sure of it. He'll figure it out in time."

Dolgan gave the half-drow a good-natured thump on the shoulder.

Vraggen glanced back the way they had come. He could no longer see Alkenen's cart.

"The charm on the peddler will wear off late this evening. After that, his loose tongue will be a danger to us. Follow him. After he's spent the coin, kill him."

Azriim raised his eyebrows and stared at Vraggen. Was that respect in his mismatched eyes?

"Seems you're not such good friends, after all, eh?" said the half-drow.

Vraggen stared back meaningfully and asked, "Why would you say that?"

The staff took the news of Cale's departure well. Only Brilla the kitchen mistress had cried. Seeing stalwart Brilla blubbering like a child had almost undone Cale. He had fled the kitchen with a knot in his throat and only some of his dignity.

Word had spread to the guards quickly, and many had come up to his room to wish him well. He would leave that very night.

Alone once more, Cale gathered a final bit of gear. Glorious orange light cascaded through his window. The sun was setting on Faerun, as the sun was setting on his time in Stormweather Towers.

He collected up a few necessities-some candles, a coil of rope, tindertwigs, flint and steel, a few favorite books-and placed them in his worn leather backpack. A peculiar numbness overcame him as he did so. It was as though his skin had grown thick.

With insensate fingers, he peeled off his butler's attire-hose, doublet, vest, tailored but still ill-fitting pants and shirt-and piled each article neatly on the bed. Next to them lay his leather armor, boots, weapons, and other traveling clothes. The two halves of his soul lay side by side on the bed: fine cloth on the one hand and worn leather on the other.

From now on, he vowed, he would wear only the leather, the clothes that fit the man.

He reached for his breeches, tunic, leather vest, and boots, and pulled each on in turn. After that he strapped on his armor. Each fastened buckle was a nail in the coffin of Mister Cale the butler. When he snapped on his weapons belt, he could not help but smile at the familiar, comfortable weight of steel on his hips. His coin purse, which was filled with the hundred or so platinum suns Tamlin had insisted he take as severance, he stuffed into an inner pocket of his vest.

Fully dressed and in his proper skin, Cale gathered up his cloak and backpack. He felt… true, for the first time in a long time. He would pick up the sphere from the parlor on his way out. Most of the staff would be involved with dinner preparations, so he would be able to exit the manse without further ado or commotion. That was how he wanted it.

He took a last look around his quarters.

A tentative knock on his door turned him around.

He composed himself then said, "Come."

Thazienne pushed open the door. She wore an informal, sleeveless green dress and a soft frown. As always, she looked beautiful. Her skin shone in the light of the setting sun. Cale fought down the pangs of hurt and desire that he felt when he saw her.

She started to say something, but stopped when her gaze took in his weapons and attire, the cloak and backpack he held in his hand. Her frown deepened.

"You weren't going to say good-bye? To me?" Her voice was soft, diffident, the timid voice of the uncertain teenage girl she once had been.

He could not look her in the eyes. His hands fumbled absently with the straps of his pack.

"I hadn't decided yet," he said.

That was true. For two days he had vacillated between a need to see her one last time and a fear of what he might say if he did.

She looked at him sharply, and her voice changed into that of the confident woman she had become.

"You hadn't decided? What is that supposed to mean?"

He returned her sharp look and snapped, "It means I hadn't decided."

She took a step back, surprised by his harshness.

Hurt made Cale's words sound more callous than he intended.

"We said good-bye months ago, Thazienne. You did, at least."

He thought of the day she had returned to the manse with Steorf, the dolt whose bed Cale was certain she shared. His knuckles whitened around the straps of the backpack.

She understood what he meant. They knew each other too well for her not to know. A flash of red colored her face from chin to ear, though from shame or anger, he could not tell. She spun as though to leave, but stopped herself, turned, and faced him.

She took a deep breath and said, "You were my friend, Erevis. My dear friend."

She could not have known that those words cut him more deeply than if she had said she hated him. Her friend? Only her friend? He swallowed the emotion that threatened to burst from him. He knew that he had misread her for years, that he had been a fool. He felt his own face color.

"Your friend." He spoke the words as though they were an expletive. "That's all?"

She started to reply but stumbled over her tongue.

Finally she said, "When I returned from abroad my mother … told me something."

She looked up at him and he could see tears pooling in her eyes.

His legs went wobbly. He held his breath.

"She said… that before you went to find the shadow demon…"

She trailed off and looked away, blinking. It took her a moment to recover.

"She said you left me a note."

His mouth went dry. He reached for his reading chair, to steady himself.

Shamur had found the note; Thazienne had never seen it.

He could not form words.

"She told me what it said."

He felt his whole body flush red. His eyes found the floor. For a fleeting, wonderful moment, he thought she might throw herself into his arms. She didn't.

"And?" he said.

She spoke softly, but Cale heard the firmness behind her tone. She had already had this discussion in her mind, tens of times probably.

"And? Gods, Erevis. What did you think would happen? We had a special relationship, but-Did you think I'd read that note and swoon? Did you expect me to fall into your arms at the power of your words? Did you-?"

"I don't know," he cut in. "I wanted you to know, that was all. Damn it!" He clenched his fist at his side. "What I expected was to die! Nine Hells, woman, I went after that thing because of what it did to you!"

The moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. It shamed him to have stooped so low.

Her face reddened, and her forehead creased with anger. She strode forward into the room, right up to him, and looked into his face.

"How dare you even suggest that, Cale. Do you think I'm obligated to you for that somehow? You do, don't you?"

He didn't answer. Mostly, he thought the answer was "no." But at least some small part of him thought the answer was "yes." She saw the hesitation in his eyes and smacked him. Hard.

"I'm not a treasure to be won, you bastard." She put a finger on his chest. "Besides, you didn't go after that thing because of me. You went after it because it hurt you. Make no mistake about it. It may have hurt you by hurting me, but it was you-you-it hurt. Don't ennoble your motivations by cloaking your need for vengeance with …"

She stopped before saying "love," but Cale knew what she meant. The word hung between them, suspended in the silence, heavier than her perfume.

Cale did love her. He still loved her, despite it all. But now her presence only hurt him, and that hurt came out of him as anger, no matter how much he wished it didn't.

She went on, merciless, just as he had always told her to be: "You don't know what to do with yourself if you're not killing things, Cale. I know what you are. I heard how you fought that demon. How could you ever have thought-"

He didn't realize what he was doing until he had already grabbed her by the shoulders and started to fling her away. He stopped himself before throwing her to the ground.

Shocked, he looked at his hands as if they didn't belong to him. She stared into his face, wide-eyed. He released her as though she were white-hot. His gaze found the floor, and tears formed in his eyes. He wanted to pull her to him and whisper an apology into her hair, but he felt paralyzed.

She had always brought out the best in him, and he had allowed her to see the worst. Shame and anger burned in him, shame that he had dared put his hands on her and anger at her words, which hit too close to his own thoughts. She thought he was a killer. She might as well have stabbed him in the gut and split him down the middle.

Silence sat heavy in the room for heartbeats that felt like hours. When at last he looked into her face again, the face of the woman he loved, he saw that it too was red with shame. She knew she had hurt him. Like him, she had done something she regretted. And both of them knew that what they had done and said could never be taken back.

"Leave, Tazi," he said.

"I'm sorry, Erevis."

She reached out a hand. He dared not take it.

"Me too," he said. "Gods, me too. Now leave. Please."

Tears welled in her eyes. She cradled her hands to her chest. He had to look away. He felt her eyes on him but neither said anything. After a few moments, she turned and hurried from the room. The slam of the door echoed in his brain. He realized then that the last touch they would share would be his hands on her in anger. In that instant, he hated himself.

After a time, he wiped the tears from his eyes and sagged onto the corner of the bed. Only then did he realize how badly he was shaking. He had killed men without allowing his heartbeat to accelerate, but arguing with Thazienne had left him a trembling idiot with no self-control.

An eternity later, a knock at his door brought him back to himself.

For a wonderful, hopeful moment, he thought it might be Thazienne returning. But he knew it could not be-the knock was too forceful, too casual. He rose from the bed and composed himself. The knock repeated.

"Mister Cale?" Cora's voice sounded from the hall.

"Yes, Cora. Come in."

The young maid opened the door. Her eyes went wide when she saw his clothing and weapons. She had not been on staff when he had fought the demon in the great hall. She did not know that he was. . what he was. He did not bother to explain.

She held in her hand a letter sealed with a dollop of dyed beeswax. She seemed to have forgotten her business.

"Cora, is that for me?" he asked, indicating the letter.

"Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, Mister Cale." She approached him cautiously, as though he was a dangerous animal, and she held out the letter. "This arrived by messenger less than a quarter hour ago. Your door was closed so I-"

"That's fine, Cora. Thank you for your consideration." He took the letter and said, "That will be all."

She fled the room without another word. Cale shut the door behind her, sat in his reading chair, and examined the letter. The wax was marked with the general seal of a licensed scribe-for-hire. He cracked it and unfolded the parchment. The letter contained only seven words:

Usual place. Tonight near midnight. Important. Riven.

Cale stared at the words without understanding their meaning. His exchange with Thazienne still preoccupied his mind. He replayed it again and again. His face still stung from where she had slapped him. His heart still stung from what he had done.

It took a few moments for the import of the letter to register.

Riven wanted a meet at the Black Stag. Why? Though the Zhents were in the midst of an internal religious war-Cale knew that the Scepters were pulling Zhent corpses from the bay almost daily; mostly Cyricists-Riven had left the Network months before. He would not be involved in that. What then?

He shook his head. He could not reason clearly. His mind seemed unable to focus on anything but Thazienne … the look of shock on her face when he had put his hands on her, the sound of her voice when she had called him a killer.

Tired to his bones, Cale refolded the letter and placed it in a pocket-a letter written by one killer to another. He looked around, at the door through which Tazi had exited his room, at the door through which she had exited his life.

There's nothing more for me here, he thought.

Whatever Riven wanted, there was only one way to find out. And it could not be worse than being in Stormweather Towers.

He threw on his cloak and walked out the door. At least he had somewhere to go.