Twilight Falling

CHAPTER 4

Cale exited Stormweather Towers through one of the manse's less-trafficked side doors. With the family at table and most of the staff occupied with dinner preparations, he managed to exit the house unseen by anyone. That was just as well. He had already said his goodbyes.

He walked a flagstone path through one of the manse's many gardens to the small gatehouse in the wall facing Rauncel's Ride. The two house guards on duty there, Velorn and Del, seemed surprised to see him. He reassured them that all was well, explained that he wanted to leave quietly, and bade them farewell. They understood. They opened the narrow wrought iron gate and reminded him to keep his blade sharp-an old military farewell.

When he reached the street, he did not look back. He dared not. He feared he would lose his resolve.

A brisk spring breeze blew from the direction of Selgaunt Bay. Even at a distance, Cale could taste the subtle salt tang in the air. The sun had nearly set and the city's linkboys had already done their work. Rauncel's Ride glowed orange in the light of the tall, charcoal-burning street torches. Carriages and pedestrians peppered the street, going about their evening business. No one paid him any heed, just another evening traveler about his affairs. He fell into step among them and wandered the streets until well into the night. Only after he had walked for hours did he realize that he had forgotten to take the sphere from the parlor. Dark! His parting with Thazienne had left him distracted.

He told himself that it didn't matter. He didn't need a token to remind him of Thamalon. He would always remember the Old Owl.

From Temple Avenue, the bells of the House of Song and the gongs of the Palace of Holy Festivals sounded eleven bells. Time to move. He headed south for the Stag.

Fewer and fewer torches lit the streets as Cale moved into the rental warehouse district. There, adventurers, cutthroats, and seedy merchants ruled the packed-earth avenues. Prostitutes stood on corners, opportunistic muggers and pickpockets lingered at alley mouths, and purveyors of drugs went quietly about their illicit business. As much coin moved through Selgaunt's underground economy as through the coffers of the legitimate trading costers, and everyone knew it. The late Hulorn and his Scepters had made no effort to stop the trade in drugs and flesh so long as the associated violence was kept largely out of sight. In Sembia, the economy of vice was respected nearly as much as trade in Chultan spices. Business is business was the canon of the Selgauntan trader, whether pimp or coppersmith.

Passersby traveled in the safety of pairs and trios.

Hired muscle sometimes accompanied the wealthy. The poor traveled without bodyguards but had little worth stealing. Out of professional habit, Cale kept an alert eye on everything and everyone around him, though not out of fear. He was not the prey, but the predator. The thieves and pimps must have recognized that, because none challenged him, and few held his gaze for long.

Ahead, he saw the Stag, a ramshackle two-story building at the corner of two narrow avenues. The wooden structure leaned noticeably, as though itself as drunk as its patrons. The open shutters, their black paint long since flaked away to near nothingness, hung crookedly from the window frames. Smoke, laughter and a fairly steady stream of profanity boiled out of the windows and into the spring air.

On the street outside the Stag, a thin stream of traffic filed past: carts, horses, carriages, pedestrians. Cale lingered for a time, in the darkness of an unoccupied alley, observing. Though he felt a strange connection to Riven-perhaps only empathy for another of Mask's pawns-he was not foolish enough to trust the assassin fully. Riven could have decided to try an ambush for his own reasons. After waiting for a time, Cale saw nothing that gave him cause for alarm. He exited the alley and walked for the Stag's front door.

He pushed it open and stepped inside. As usual, the Stag stank of sweat, smoke, and stale vomit. Blueleaf, an herbal incense, burned in a tin dish behind the bar but did little to obviate the smell. The haze of smoke hovering near the ceiling stung his eyes.

A crowd thronged the Stag, as thick as the dock market at noon-typical for the time of year. Adventurers of every stripe streamed into Sembia in the early spring, all of them looking to make quick coin, convinced that riches lay in their future. Most ended up taking work as mere caravan guards, just to keep enough ravens in their pockets to buy a few days of food and lodging. But Tymora always smiled on a lucky few. Those managed to make a fortune and a name. Bards later sang ballads of their victories, and more and more returned each spring, certain they would find similar success.

The Heartlands suffered no shortage of fools, Cale thought.

While he stood in the Stag's doorway, appraising eyes took him in, apparently saw nothing of interest, and looked away. Conversation hummed.

The Stag's owner coated the planked floor in wood chips to ease the clean-up of the inevitable blood and puke that accompanied the influx of adventurers. The serving girls hired on for the season weaved through the crowd with tankards and platters held high.

Cale pushed his way in and scanned the tables for Riven. Because Cale stood a head taller than most of the patrons, he spotted the assassin at once. Riven sat alone at a small table in a dark corner near the bar. As usual, Riven wore his scarlet cloak, his twin sabers, and an unhappy scowl. Though the Stag was overflowing with sellswords, no one lingered within arms' reach of Riven. Even adventurers, an imprudent lot in general, could see the promise of violence in Riven's one good eye.

The assassin noticed Cale too. He raised his tankard to draw Cale's attention. Cale nodded and began to pick his way through the crowd.

A man stepped from the crowd to Cale's right and bumped him-hard. In one motion, Cale's hand first found his coin purse-he still had it-then moved for his blade. He stopped himself just before he reached the hilt.

"Mind your manners, dolt," said the man.

The half-elf-the half-drow, Cale corrected himself, to judge from the long pale hair, narrow cheeks, and dusky complexion-had an unusual accent that Cale could not quite place. The fool stared a challenge into Cale's face. Though dressed in the expensive silk finery of a noble fop, the half-drow's features had a hardness Cale did not miss. His reckless smile and mismatched eyes, one the palest blue, one a deep brown or black, gave him an unbalanced look. His slim hands hovered near the steel that hung from his belt. Cale took in the hilt with a glance: well worn from much use.

Ordinarily, Cale would have ignored a fool like that, but his parting with Thazienne had left him in a foul mood. He grabbed two fistfuls of silk shirt, lifted the half-drow off his feet, and pulled him nose to nose. A few faces turned their way, but only a few. The Stag's patrons saw fights and violence most every night. A confrontation didn't get interesting until steel was drawn.

"And you mind your tongue, irinal," Cale spat into the half-drow's face.

He'd deliberately chosen to insult the half-drow with a word that surface elves used to refer to the drow. It meant "forsaken," and the drow were notorious for their dislike of the term.

Surprisingly though, the half-drow showed no anger. His expression didn't even indicate that he understood the word. Instead, he stared Cale in the face with crazed eyes, smiling hard. His hand moved to his sword hilt but he did not attempt to draw.

"If that blade comes a fingerwidth out of its scabbard, I'll split you right here," Cale promised.

The half-drow held his smile and said, "If you've ripped my shirt, I'll have first your tongue, then your heart."

Cale's knuckles whitened, and for an instant he considered tearing the half-drow's shirt intentionally, but thought better of it. The fool was likely just an adventurer with too much bravado and too little sense. Cale had seen his type before. Hells, Cale had killed his type before. But that night, he would let it pass. He had business with Riven.

"I don't have time to waste with you, irinal," said Cale. "Consider yourself fortunate."

He tossed the half-drow aside.

To his credit, the half-drow showed some agility by managing to keep his feet and avoid bumping other patrons. He did not look up at Cale, but examined his shirt with exaggerated care.

Cale put the incident out of his mind and began walking toward Riven's table.

Before he had taken five strides, above the thrum of the crowd he heard the half-drow call after him, "It's not ripped after all. Wrinkled though. Consider yourself fortunate … Cale."

That stopped Cale cold. He spun around-

— and somehow the half-drow had vanished into the Stag's crowd. Cale went after him a few steps, pushing a few patrons out of his way while scanning the crowd. He did not see the half-drow.

The hairs on the nape of Cale's neck rose. How had he vanished so quickly? More importantly, how did he know Cale's name? Cale was certain he'd never seen the man before. He would have remembered a half-drow. And he had been careful to keep a low profile in Selgaunt's underworld. The last thing he wanted was a reputation. One of Riven's men, maybe?

Maybe. He turned and headed for Riven's table.

The assassin greeted him with his signature sneer. To Cale's surprise, he saw that Riven wore a featureless black disc, perhaps of carved onyx, on a silver chain around his neck. A holy symbol of Mask? That tangible evidence of Riven's and Cale's service to the same god made Cale feel soiled.

Riven noticed Cale's gaze and his sneer deepened. He held the disk from his neck for Cale to see.

"Maybe it's exactly what you think, Cale. That make you uncomfortable?"

Cale stared in Riven's good eye and said, "No, but I'll wager it makes you uncomfortable." He pulled out a chair and sat. "I guess even Mask has lepers among the faithful."

Riven grunted an insincere laugh, took a pull on his tankard, and nodded at a spot behind Cale.

"I saw that bit with the half-elf," he said. "You stooping to picking fights with the itchies now?"

Professional assassins often referred to adventurers as "itchies"-as in, itching to prove themselves, itching for a fight.

Cale knew then that the half-drow was not one of Riven's men. That alarmed him.

"He's not one of yours."

Riven scoffed. He'd interpreted Cale's observation as a question.

"Are you jesting?" Riven said. "A little drip of piss like that? I'd as soon work with your boy Fleet."

He took another quaff of his beer.

Cale ignored Riven's barb at the halfling. Jak had once stabbed Riven in the back and the assassin had never forgotten-or forgiven.

Cale's mind turned to the half-drow. Who was he? If he was not one of Riven's, then for whom did he work? An uneasy feeling took root in his gut. His instincts told him to heed it. He resolved to hear Riven out, tell him to bugger off, and get the Hells out of the Stag as quickly as possible.

Riven eyed Cale over the rim of his tankard. Cale stared back. The silence stretched.

Riven lost patience first. "Well? I don't have time for more cryptic nonsense. What have you got? Your note was as clear as fog."

Cale's breath caught.

"My note?" he said. "You sent me a note."

They stared at each other for only a heartbeat.

"Dark!" Cale breathed.

"Damn!"

Both jumped to their feet, toppling their chairs in the process, and looked for the nearest exit. There! A large, open window.

Riven was off like a bowshot, dancing nimbly between the patrons. Cale, trailing a step or two behind and much larger than the assassin, had to shove his way through. He had no idea what was coming, but he knew it would be bad.

"Get out! he shouted to the patrons as he ran. "Everybody out now!"

Eyes looked his way, questioning glances and furrowed brows, but no one paid his words any heed.

Riven hopped atop a table, scattering plates and startling the two mercenaries seated there. He dived through the window as the sellswords jumped to their feet and went for their steel. Before they could draw fully, Cale shouldered one to the ground and drove the other back with a punch in the chest.

"Get out!" he shouted at them.

He jumped atop the table and grabbed the window jambs. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny orange sphere streak through an open window on the wall kitty corner. He knew it for what it was.

He cursed and launched himself through the window as the pea-sized ball slammed into one of the Stag's crossbeams. It exploded into a hell of fire and heat. Screams erupted, but only for an instant before being cut off by the dull roar of the explosion. The pressure of the blast and the superheated air blew Cale through the window and sent him flying. He hit the ground with a grunt a full dagger toss away from the Stag, in the middle of the street.

It took him a moment to recover his wits. When he did, he rolled over onto his back and stared up into the night sky, breathing heavily. His pants below his knees smoldered and the fire had scorched his boots, but otherwise he was largely unburned. He patted at his trousers dazedly and slowly rose to his knees. His eyes went to the Stag.

Fire engulfed the first floor, and thick black smoke gushed from the windows of the second. The street was alight in orange. Waves of heat blew from the blaze, so intense they stung Cale's face. The Stag had gone up like kindling-wood walls, wood tables, wood chips … and human flesh.

Cale had expected to see a flood of flaming people, screaming in agony and streaming from the doors and windows. He would have healed those whom he could have, but no one came out. The smoke and fire had done its work almost instantly. The only sound was the hungry crackling of the flames. The Stag had been reduced to an inferno in a matter of moments. So too the people inside. Dozens of them. A few charred corpses that the explosion had blown clear of the building lay smoldering in the street. He didn't see Riven.

The second floor of the Stag began to give way. Timbers cracked, the sound like bones snapping. Great showers of sparks rose into the night as the building shifted.

Without warning, another orange sphere streaked from somewhere to his left, flew into the Stag, and exploded with a roar. Flames blew from every window in long streamers, as though the building was spitting fire. The upper floor, already weakened, collapsed with a crash into the first. Flames and sparks roared into the sky like a swarm of fireflies.

Cale traced the path of the second fireball back to two men standing in the shadows of an alley a block and a half up the street. In one of the men Cale recognized the slim build and finery of the half-drow who had bumped him on his way into the Stag, the half-drow who had known his name. The other, a tall, dark man with his brown hair cropped close to his scalp, wore a dark cloak. Oddly, the darkness of the alley seemed to cling to him. Streams of shadow swirled around him like smoke swirled around the burning Stag. Cale figured him to be the mage responsible for the fireballs. Neither of the two appeared to have spotted Cale. He had been blown too far from the building.

Moving quickly but keeping low, Cale crawled the rest of the way across the street and sunk into the darkness near a closed chandler's shop. He drew his long sword and started to move in the direction of the half-drow and mage.

They had lured him and Riven there with forged notes to assassinate them. That they had used a spell in a public place and not steel in an alley suggested that they were not professionals. But why? Cale had never seen them before.

Riven then. What had the one-eyed assassin drawn him into?

To find out, he decided he would kill the wizard quickly, then question the half-drow. He would find out later if Riven had survived the inferno.

Before he had cleared the chandler's shop, a hand reached from the darkness of the doorjamb, closed on his shoulder, and pulled him close-Riven

Out of instinct, Cale grabbed a handful of Riven's shirt and thumped him hard against the shop's door. Riven's sabers pressed into Cale's chest. Cale's long sword found Riven's jawline. They exchanged glares for a few heartbeats while the Stag burned behind them.

From behind the door, a man's voice sounded, tentatively, "Go away. I want no trouble here."

"Stay inside and you'll have none," Cale hissed.

The chandler said nothing more. Cale stared into Riven's face. The assassin had discarded his scarlet cloak and had a hard look in his eye.

"What in the Nine Hells are you into, Cale?"

Despite his desire to open Riven's throat, Cale heard the sincerity in the assassin's voice. He calmed himself and lowered his blade.

"I'm not into anything, Riven. You're not either, it seems." He released his grip on Riven's shirt, turned his back to the assassin, and pointed down the block to the half-drow and his comrade. "There."

Riven stared for a time, straining to see them in the light cast by the fire.

"The short one is that half-elf prig who bumped you," said Riven.

Cale nodded. "And the other is the wizard who torched the Stag-who tried to torch us." He turned to face Riven. "I've never seen either of them prior to tonight. You?"

Riven shook his head, but didn't look sure.

Cale went on, "This was a hit. On you, on me, maybe both of us. The half-drow walked out as I walked in, probably to signal the wizard that we were inside." Cale indicated the burning Stag. "Then that."

Riven shook his head and spat. "Friggin' amateurs. Steel, speed, and stealth for a hit. Never spells. And sure as Hells never fire. How can you confirm a kill with a burned body?"

Cale made no comment. He knew well the assassin's code, but he also knew well the efficacy of spells for either combat or assassination. Since Riven had not learned that lesson, perhaps he wore the symbol of Mask but could not cast spells. Somehow, that thought gave Cale comfort.

Riven started to head up the street.

"Let's go," the assassin said. "I'll take the wizard. Alive, if possible. If not…."

"Then not," Cale said. "I've got the half-drow. We'll take him alive."

Using the shadows and keeping low, both moved forward. As they did, Cale spared a glance behind them.

Spectators had already begun to gather around the burning inn. Passing carts and pedestrians stopped to stare. A few shopkeepers along the street had emerged from the rooms above their shops to watch the blaze from second story balconies. Soon the Scepters and dutypriests would arrive to contain the blaze. That would leave Cale and Riven only a little time to put down the wizard and capture the half-drow before the street would be too crowded.

For the moment, the half-drow and wizard seemed content to observe their work from the shadows of the alley. Cale figured they were watching to see if either he or Riven had survived the blast. They would know that soon enough.

"Wizard's got a spell on him," Cale said softly. "See the way the shadows swirl around him?"

"I see it." Riven reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of throwing daggers. "I recognize him too, now that I see him more closely. Vraggen's his name-a shadow adept in the Network. I heard he was dead."

A shadow adept. Cale had heard of such mages. They seemed more common since the return of the city of Shade.

"Why would the Network want to hit us?" Cale asked.

"They wouldn't. Vraggen's a Cyricist."

Cale nodded. The Banites were driving the Cyricists out of the Zhentarim. Vraggen must have gone rogue, though that still didn't explain why he had targeted Riven and Cale.

"Payback for Gauston?" asked Cale.

Perhaps Cyric had sent his followers to put down Riven and Cale in the same way that Mask had used Riven and Cale to put down a Cyricist priest several months before.

Riven shrugged and said, "Maybe." He stared up the street. "No way to get all the way up before they see us. We open with missiles, then finish it in close."

"Good."

Cale had a pair of throwing daggers, but also had a spell he thought would work better. He pulled forth his holy symbol.

Moving more slowly, and using as cover building eaves, barrels, posts, and the flickering shadows cast by the fire, they continued to close. Gawkers jogged past them, shouting and pointing. No one spotted them. They kept their eyes on their targets.

When they got to within a long toss of Riven's daggers, Cale signaled a halt. Any closer and they'd risk being seen. Both scooted in behind some water barrels. Cale's keen ears caught the tail end of a heated exchange between the half-drow and Vraggen.

"… was reckless!" said the wizard. "I told you not to underestimate those two."

The half-drow waved a green-gloved hand dismissively and said, "I wanted to see his face and hear his voice. He suspected nothing. Nor did Riven."

"It was foolish and unnecessary."

The half-drow chuckled-a menacing sound with no mirth in it-and pointed a finger at the wizard's chest.

"I'll not argue with this, Vraggen. If you want to have a discussion with me, you come and look me in the eyes yourself."

Cale didn't know what that last meant, but he had confirmation that both he and Riven had been the target of the fireball.

"One may have escaped," continued Vraggen.

"Perhaps," acknowledged the half-drow with an enigmatic smile. "Watch, and we'll soon know."

That ended their discussion. They turned and watched the street near the Stag. Firelight lit their faces. Cale saw that the wizard wore a brass cloak pin in the shape of a jawless skull within a sunburst-the symbol of Cyric.

"See the pin?" Cale asked softly.

Riven spat. He saw it.

"Ready?" the assassin whispered.

"Ready."

Cale began his prayer to Mask. Riven stood to throw. The moment he rose, the half-drow looked directly at them and grinned. His expression showed no surprise. He had known the whole time, Cale realized.

Riven didn't notice, or didn't care. He threw anyway, one dagger, another, then leaped over the barrels and charged for the wizard.

Riven's first dagger pierced the wizard's throat, his second the wizard's chest, but both passed through him as though he was a ghost. The blades stuck in the wall of the building behind, quivering from the force of the throws. The wizard, or the image of the wizard, stared contemptuously at the onrushing assassin and began to cast.

In the midst of his prayer, Cale felt an itch behind his eyes, a splinter in his mind. He blinked and shook his head.

What the-?

A voice sounded in his brain. He recognized it immediately as that of the half-drow.

This is bigger than you, Cale. I'd stay incidental if I were you.

He saw the half-drow watching him, a feral grin on his face, a blade in his hand.

Cale gritted his teeth. Despite the uncomfortable feeling occasioned by the half-drow's presence in his head, he maintained his concentration and completed his spell. He mentally selected a location just behind the half-drow. There, a glowing long sword of magical force took shape and hovered in the air, poised to strike. At Cale's mental command, the blade slashed crosswise at the unsuspecting half-drow as though wielded by an invisible warrior. The blade sheared through the half-drow's silken pants, cut deep into his thigh, and erased his self-satisfied grin. Blood peppered the alley.

Uttering a surprised gasp of pain, the half-drow clutched at his slashed thigh and staggered. The magical blade continued to attack without Cale's further mental command, following up with another slash. Despite his wound, the half-drow whirled and managed to avoid a second blow. It took him only an instant to recover himself and parry the magical blade's next slash. The voice in Cale's head burned with genuine vitriol, though the subject matter was absurd.

These were new pants, Cale! For that, I'll tear off your head and eat it raw.

Cale put the threat out of his mind, stuffed his holy symbol into his vest, and ran for the half-drow. Between his own bladework and the summoned sword, he figured to make short work of the white-haired swordsman.

The mage, paying no heed to either the wounded half-drow or the darting blade of force, completed his spell well before Riven could reach him.

He waved his hand and a field of dark energy formed around the assassin, crackling. It stopped his charge cold, and …

Cale could scarcely believe his eyes. He faltered in his own charge. Riven's shadow, cast on the road before him by the light of the fire behind, rose up from the ground and tackled the assassin. Too late Riven whirled to avoid its grasp. Man and shadow went down in a heap, a tangle of limbs, blades, and swirling darkness. Though prone and scrambling, Riven lashed out with his sabers and tried to regain his feet, but the animated shadow, a featureless black copy of the assassin, anticipated every move and blanketed him like a dark cloud.

Cale shook off his surprise and ran forward to help, but before he could close, the shadow expanded and engulfed the assassin in an ocean of pitch. From within the darkness, Cale heard Riven shout faintly, as though from a great distance, but he could not make out the words. The darkness imploded. A soft pop sounded, and the road was bare. Riven was gone.

"Dark," Cale murmured.

He couldn't help it. He had never seen a spell like that before. Never even heard of one.

The wizard began to cast anew.

With Riven gone and the wizard free to cast, Cale changed plans. The wizard-or the image of the wizard, he thought, recalling the half-drow's words and the ineffectiveness of Riven's daggers-seemed immune to weapons, perhaps even to Cale's enchanted blade. And the half-drow, though engaged in a vicious, whirling duel with Cale's magically summoned sword, was clearly more than he seemed. Gods knew what else he could do in addition to telepathy.

Cale knew he had to get out of there.

With a mental command, he switched the target of his summoned blade from the half-drow to the wizard, hoping against hope that it might somehow affect the image and disrupt the mage's spellcasting. Cale turned and darted to his right, heading for the nearest alley.

The half-drow responded instantly. Free from attack by Cale's summoned sword, he limped after as quickly as his wounded thigh allowed. The wizard ignored the attacking sword. To Cale's frustration, even the blade of force passed harmlessly through the image of the mage, just as had Riven's daggers.

The alley was three strides away.

Before Cale reached it, the wizard completed another spell. A narrow beam of black energy streaked from the mage's extended finger and caught Cale in the ribs.

He felt as though he had been dumped into ice water. His breath left him, his body went cold, and he stumbled. His senses went dull. Several spells he had prepared vanished from his consciousness. Only adrenaline allowed him to keep his feet and remain moving.

From behind, he could hear the half-drow limping toward him, maybe ten or so paces away. Cale glanced back to see the half-drow gaining speed with every step, as though the wound bothered him less and less. Cale groaned and staggered for the darkness of the alley.

Running? The half-drow's mental voice mocked. Are you frightened now, little man?

The alley stank of urine. Barrels and trash lay scattered in his way. Breathing heavily, Cale stumbled down the narrow alley a few steps, nearly fell, and caught himself against the right hand wall. Far enough, he deemed. Before the half-drow reached the alley, he fumbled out his holy symbol and whispered a prayer to Mask.

Magical darkness took shape around him, filling the alley almost to its mouth. To Cale, objects within the darkness looked gray and colorless, but otherwise appeared as they would in twilight. To everyone else, within or without the spell's area, the darkness was impenetrable. The half-drow would be blind if he entered the globe.

Cale leaned against the wall and tried to quiet his breathing and recover his strength. He wiped his hands on his pants to get rid of the sweat and awaited the half-drow. He didn't have to wait long.

Limping only slightly, the half-drow came into view. His leg had ceased bleeding. He stopped at the edge of Cale's magical darkness, frowning thoughtfully. He peered within the globe. Cale was again struck by the mismatched eyes and the precision with which he moved. Cale had heard drow were enemies to be respected, and he believed it.

I've got my own darkness to visit on you, Cale. The half-drow looked back in the direction of the wizard. But not now.

Cale quietly withdrew a throwing dagger and considered whether or not to throw. No. If he did, they would know he had not fled. He sheathed the blade.

The half-drow stared at Cale, as though he could see through the darkness. Who in the Hells was this man?

Questions, questions, the half-drow's mental voice mocked. I'll consider giving you answers as I chew out your kidneys.

The hairs on the nape of Cale's neck stood on edge. Could the half-drow read his mind?

The half-drow called back over his shoulder, "Vraggen, dispel this darkness. Cale and I need to talk in a more intimate way."

Cale heard the sound of casting from the road and his heart began to race. He wanted to run but knew he would only further exhaust himself. He would have to face the half-drow and wizard there, and he'd have to face them alone.

Whispering, he incanted a spell that would give him Mask's blessing in combat. Casting it brought him comfort. It reminded him that he wasn't alone.

He decided then to do what he had never before done-request something from Mask other than spells. He suspected that the half-drow would 'hear' his prayer, but he prayed nevertheless, prayed that Mask himself would bolster Cale's spell and resist Vraggen's attempt to dispel it.

The sound of Vraggen's casting ceased.

And nothing happened! The darkness remained. Cale gripped his holy symbol so tightly it made his fingers cramp. Mentally, he thanked the Lord of Shadows.

Now come down here and let's get intimate, he thought, for the half-drow's benefit.

The half-drow scowled and mumbled something unintelligible. Cale expected the wizard to appear presently, but he did not. Strange. Cale used the opportunity to cast another spell, a protective dweomer that would make him undetectable to divinations and hopefully keep the half-drow out of his head.

Passersby began to stream past the alley, followed by occasional troops of Scepters. The half-drow tried to look nonchalant as they passed, but the traffic was thickening. More and more people streamed past. Cale had never before been so happy to see the city's watchmen.

After a few more moments, the half-drow gestured at his pants, shot a hate-filled stare down the alley, and walked out of view. Cale didn't need to have a voice in his head to read that look.

This isn't over, it had said. Cale agreed.

He slid his sword back into his scabbard and incanted a healing spell. The energy warmed him, but otherwise did little to obviate the dullness he still felt from the wizard's spell. Time would have to heal that. He wondered again why the wizard had not pursued him. Perhaps the spell that had projected the image of the wizard could not move far from the location in which the spell had been cast? Perhaps.

He gave himself a few more moments to recover.

From down the street, he heard the calls and shouts of the men and women who were struggling to contain the fire at the Stag. Wanting to avoid the street traffic, he turned and scaled the rough wall behind him. When he reached the roof, two stories up, he mentally dispelled the globe of darkness in the alley below. No one had seemed to notice it, but if he left it there too long, someone surely would.

Staying low on his belly, he slid forward to the roof's edge and scanned the street below. No sign of the half-drow or wizard. Up the block, smoke choked the air, and a full crowd milled in a semicircle around the Stag. He surveyed the crowd carefully but saw no sign of the half-drow or the wizard there either. They were gone. For now.

The Scepters, holding their glaives crosswise, had formed up a line to keep the crowd at bay. Priests of Milil, dressed in flowing burgundy robes, summoned water into the air above the fire and let it cascade down into the flames, all the while singing a soft dirge. Each such spell resulted in a hissing cloud of steam and smoke. Gondar priests in scale mail, obviously protected by fire wards, actually walked unharmed in the midst of the flames. Mindful of the smoke, which could still kill, they pulled bodies from the cinders and laid them in a neat row in the street. As Cale had feared, there appeared to have been no survivors.

The fire at the Stag had not spread to other buildings and seemed under control. The priests did their work well. Cale couldn't linger overlong. Given the number of deaths, he knew there would be an investigation. He did not want to get caught up in that.

He crouched on the roof and considered the night's events. The wizard was a rogue Zhent, but why target him and Riven? Riven was out of the Zhents and Cale had never been a member. In fact, Cale had not had any interaction with Riven since the events with Gauston. While it could have been vengeance for that, Cale doubted it. Gauston had been mad-even the Cyricists probably were pleased to be rid of him.

Why take the trouble to lure him there?

The answer came immediately and brought him up short-to get him out of Stormweather Towers. They had sent him a letter there to get him to leave. Getting him out of the manse, away from the Uskevren, had been the real goal. Why? Were they acting as agents of a rival family? They had known his name and his affiliation with Riven. That meant that they knew what he was and what he could do. No wonder they wanted him out of Stormweather.

They've got another team infiltrating the manse, he realized. Dark and empty!

He prepared to drop to the street, but before he did, doubt chinked the armor of his certainty.

If who or what they wanted was in Stormweather Towers, why involve Riven at all?

He shook his head. He couldn't see it, but he needed to get back to Stormweather.

With his mind made up, he hung from the roof's edge and dropped to the street. In his immediate vicinity the avenue was deserted. Everyone was up the block watching the fire. Cale turned and headed west at a run.

From behind, he heard a soft pop followed by a low groan. He turned around.

Riven lay sprawled in the street, flat on his back, loosely clutching a saber in each hand. Cale hesitated. He felt no particular sympathy for Riven and he needed to get back to Stormweather Towers, but finally he hurried to Riven's side. The assassin's good eye was open but obviously unseeing. His breath came rapidly, and his skin had gone gray.

"Riven?" Cale nudged him unsympathetically with his foot. "Riven!"

No response.

Cale kneeled at his side, took out his holy symbol, and whispered the words to a healing spell. The moment the energy flowed into Riven, he gave a sharp gasp and sat up straight. Before Cale could pull away, Riven snarled and grabbed him by the wrist with one hand. His eyes were wild, his face contorted with rage and fear.

"Not anymore! I'll kill you-"

Cale grabbed Riven's forearm to keep him from inadvertently stabbing with his steel.

"Riven!" Cale repeated. "Riven!"

The assassin's gaze cleared. He stopped struggling and looked around, dazed.

"Cale? Where are they?"

"They're gone. I didn't get either of them." He looked up the street to the fire. "We need to move. Scepters are all over."

Though it took a conscious effort of will, he helped the assassin to his feet. He gazed into Riven's eye, the eye in which he had just seen fear for the first time.

"What in the Hells happened to you?" asked Cale.

The assassin stood on wobbly legs. His eye grew distant.

"I'm not sure," he said. "The spell… took me somewhere … else. Somewhere dark. I-"

He seemed suddenly to realize what he was saying, and how he must look. He shook his head, pushed Cale's helping hand roughly away and recovered at least a semblance of his sneer.

"It doesn't matter what happened," Riven said. "We didn't get them, but they didn't get us. They're going to wish they had."

That sounded like Riven. Cale gave him a nod.

"I need to get back to Stormweather Towers. Where are you staying?" said Cale. "Never mind, I'll find you later. In the meantime, see what you can find out. We know he was a Cyricist."

"Whoresons are everywhere. When do we meet?"

"I said I'll find you," Cale replied, and he sped off down the street.