“A fine sun that brings you through my door, lady,” said Ellis Kolatch, a greasy, unpleasant man who sold jewelry and fine silks—also knives, flints, and small crossbows, if the rumors were to be believed. “And timely, for I have need of the Watch!”
“Guard,” Kalen corrected indifferently, but no one seemed to hear. He continued scribbling down the merchant’s words and those of the accused thief: a small half-elf boy.
“I tell you, this little kobold pustule is stealing from me,” Kolatch said. “He’s been in here twice in the last tenday, I swear—him, or someone like him. Always some half-blood trash that’s lashed me with his tongue an’ stolen my wares!”
“Blood-blind pig!” The half-elf grinned like the scamp he was. “I’ve never been in this place afore—you must think all the pointy ears be the same, aye?”
“You!” Kolatch raised his fists threateningly.
“Goodsir.” Araezra’s voice snapped like a whip. “Have peace, lest I arrest you!’
Nothing about the valabrar’s fine face—widely and fairly thought to be one of the best in all of Waterdeep—suggested impatience. Here was the controlled seriousness that had won her the respect and love of the Guard, the Watch, and much of Waterdeep. One who knew her well, as Kalen did, might see her fingernails straining and failing to pierce her gauntlets as if to draw blood from her palms.
“Aye, my apologies.” Reining himself, Kolatch put his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “I am sorry, gracious lady Watchman.”
“Guardsman,” Kalen murmured, but kept writing.
The distinction meant less and less, these days. The City Guard had become a division of the Watch, and while the guardsmen might be—as professional soldiers—better armed and trained than the average Watchman, the names meant little to the ordinary citizen. Kalen, who had been an armar in the Watch proper two months before, didn’t mind.
Araezra had commissioned him as her aide based on his record as a lion who had to be lectured more than once regarding his “impressive but nonetheless embarrassing zeal.”
Now things had changed, though she couldn’t have known they would do when she called him to service. His debilitating sickness had been his first confession, and he knew he’d become a disappointment to her: he was a kitten and not a lion.
But Araezra had a great love of kittens, too. He smiled.
“Sst—Kalen!” Talanna hissed.
Kalen looked around to find Talanna poking at him. He hadn’t felt it, of course—because of his sickness—but he heard her quite well. He raised an eyebrow.
The red-haired lass held a sapphire necklace to her throat. “What of this? Aye?”
Kalen sighed and turned back to his parchment booklet.
“And you, boy?” Araezra asked the half-elf accused of thievery. “Name yourself.”
He bowed his head. “Lueth is the name my father gave me, gracious lady.”
Kalen noted this, recalling that “Lueth” meant “riddle” in Elvish. A false name? The boy was unremarkable, forgettable in face and form, but for the sharp gray eyes that peered up at Araezra with intelligence, wit, and bemusement. Something was not quite right about him. Kalen’s neck tingled.
“What have you to say?” Araezra asked.
“Naught but what I said, good lady,” said Lueth. “This stuffed puff of a blood-blind don’t know what he seen. Was just admiring the baubles and gewgaws, and he done accuse me of stealing.” The boy spread his hands. “Why’d I need jewels, aye? They’d better laud your beauty, good lady.” He blushed and winked.
Kalen saw Araezra stiffen and recalled the one time he had brought up her looks on duty—and the blackened eye he had suffered. Not that she minded being beautiful, or being beloved of half the Watch (and half the magisters, merchants, and lordlings of the city), but when she ceased to be taken at her word because of her face, it tended to … irritate her.
Araezra hid her feelings behind a cool, lovely mask. “If there is no evidence,” she said, “then I cannot arrest you, boy.”
Lueth stuck out his tongue at Kolatch, who glared at him. Then the merchant turned his glare on Araezra. Talanna giggled. Kalen smiled privately.
“On your way, child,” Araezra said to the boy. She gave him a little smile. “And in the future, best not to admire gewgaws with your hands, aye?”
Lueth flashed a wide, pleased grin and skipped toward the door, where Kalen stood.
Casually, Kalen swept out his hand and caught the boy’s arm. “Hold.”
“Ay!” The boy struggled, but Kalen was deceptively strong. “Why stay me, sir?”
Calmly, Kalen transferred his notebook to his teeth, then reached down and tugged on something in the boy’s sleeve. A bright red kerchief fluttered forth, studded with gold and silver earrings and a large, dragon-shaped brooch. The fat merchant gasped.
“That,” young Lueth said. “I can explain that.”
Kolatch blinked as Kalen continued to pull. Tied to the end of the kerchief was another—this one the blue of the sea after a storm—that also sparkled with jewels. Knotted to it was a long scarf, and finally a puffy pink underlinen, such as a lady of the night might wear beneath her laced bodice, had she the coin for silk.
“Ay,” the boy said. “That—”
“My jewels!” Kolatch shrieked. “Thief!”
“Hold, you!” Talanna said from where she stood trying on bracelets. “I’ve got him, Rayse!” She leaped forward, the spikes in her hair bobbing and the half of her orange-red mane left unspiked dancing around her shoulders.
The boy gave an eep! and twisted out of Kalen’s grasp, shedding his patched and frayed coat as he did. He caught at the red kerchief as he ran, tearing it and sending jewels tumbling across the room. Kalen lunged, but phlegm boiled up in his throat and he coughed instead of grasping the thief. Lueth darted out the door, Talanna in immediate pursuit. Kolatch, puffing and red in the face, stormed after them.
Araezra stepped toward Kalen, eyes worried, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Kalen?”
“Well,” he said under a cough. “I’ll be well.”
He didn’t meet her gaze and tried to ignore the pain in his back. He could feel her hand only because it fell on a bruise—it felt distant, far removed from his empty body.
They stepped into the street. A furious Kolatch shouted and cursed after the distant red head of Talanna, who was running westward like a charger after the boy. They turned south along the busy Snail Street, cutting back into Dock Ward.
“Think he’ll escape?” Kalen asked softly.
“Unlikely. Tal’s the fastest lass in Waterdeep.”
“And this Lueth is only a boy,” Kalen said. “Short legs.”
Araezra smiled and laughed.
Kolatch, hearing their voices, wheeled on them and glared. “Smiling fools! That knave has taken hundreds of dragons from me!”
“The Watch will return your good when the thief is caught,” Araezra said. “We know his name and face—have no fear.”
“Bane’s breath,” Kolatch cursed. He stared at Araezra and his lip curled.
Kalen felt a familiar tingle behind his eyes: cruelty hung in the air. Araezra seemed to sense it too.
“Though it’s to be expected,” the merchant said, wiping his sweat-covered brow in the morning sun. “Those damned pointy ears—can never really trust ’em.” He spat in the dirt.
Kalen hid his contempt. Waterdeep was a free city, one where any blood was accepted so long as the coin was good, but there existed some few who held these sorts of views.
“I’m not sure I take your meaning, goodsir,” Araezra said.
Kolatch sniffed. “One day, thems that buys from pointy-eared, thin-blooded freaks like them, or the spellscarred, what should stay down below in Downshadow,” he said. “One day, the taint on that coin’ll be seen. And on that day, we’ll rid ourselves of the whole lot. Keep ’em away from our homes and our lasses—” he grinned and stepped toward Araezra, who narrowed her ey
es.
“That will be enough, goodsir,” said Araezra.
Kolatch spread his hands. “Just trying to watch over you, ere you find a husband.”
“I hardly need your protection.” Araezra fingered the sword at her belt.
“Just a concerned citizen,” Kolatch said. “But as you wish. And if a handful of those tree-blooded elves or those spellscarred monsters winds up … uncomfortable in sight of my dealings, I’ll make sure not to protect them either, eh?” He pursed his lips. “All for you, sweetling.”
Kalen knew the man was dangerous. But he had confessed nothing, so they could do nothing against him. Kalen knew how that would infuriate Araezra—she, who would take good and justice over the law of Lords any day of any year.
The fat merchant gave her a “what are you going to do, wench?” grin.
Kalen heard a roar beginning in Araezra’s throat and started toward her. “Araezra …”
Kolatch looked over at the unassuming Kalen. He said nothing, but his eyes were laughing—asking what a beautiful woman was doing trying to wear a uniform and sword, and whether Kalen was going to defend her honor.
“The day goes on,” Kalen said. “Let us leave Goodman Kolatch to his coin gathering.”
The merchant gave a little chuckle, and Kalen could see the arrogance in his eye.
Araezra turned smartly on her heel and started down the Street of Silver.
Kolatch grinned after her. “And of course, sir and lady,” he said, “if you catch the thief, I shall lower my prices for your custom—for the service you do me.”
Araezra bristled, and Kalen braced himself.
“My thanks,” she said tightly. “But bribes tend to insult me rather than flatter.”
Kolatch’s smile only widened. “Well, have it your own way,” he said. “Lass.”
Araezra’s eyes narrowed and Kalen knew she wanted to say something—loudly—but stopped herself only by virtue of her discipline.
“Come,” Kalen said, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “We must let justice work itself at times.” He smiled at Kolatch.
The merchant gave Kalen a little nod and the sort of sneering smile nobility-striving merchants reserved for men they thought lower than themselves.
After they had walked half a block down the Way of the Dragon, Araezra uttered a sharp curse that would have startled an admirer of her self-discipline.
“You should have hit him,” she said. “Not as a guard, of course, but …”
“Araezra,” Kalen said.
“Hells, I should have hit him,” she said. “Not out in the street, of course, but … we could have brought someone from the Watchful order to wipe his memory, aye? No harm done, aye?”
Kalen smiled and shook his head.
She sighed. “You’re no help.” She looked down the street where Talanna had run. “Reckon we should follow?”
“You know how I am on my feet.” Kalen coughed.
“True,” she said. “I imagine Tal can handle one little scamp. Aye.” She shook out her long black braid and yawned. “Forget the barracks—let’s go to the Knight for a quick morningfeast. Feel like a stroll?”
Kalen put out his arm and Araezra, with a smile, took it. They turned back down the Dragon toward south Dock Ward. She leaned her head against his shoulder briefly, almost without realizing it. Kalen was familiar with her habits.
He could feel a cough boiling up inside and bent all his focus to stop it.
Araezra yawned again and stretched. “If Jarthay gives me patrol duty outside the walls one more time, I swear I shall fall asleep in the saddle, or fall out of—Kalen?”
Trying and failing to fight it, Kalen coughed and clutched at his burning chest.
“I will make of myself a darkness,” he whispered. He cupped his hand over his ring, which bore the sigil of a gauntlet with an eye. “A darkness where there is no pain—only me.”
“Feeling well?” Araezra’s face was concerned. “Kalen? Kalen, what’s wrong?”
Only me, he thought, and tried not to taste the blood on his tongue.
It subsided—his last meal slowly sank back to his belly.
“Well enough,” he said. He reached down, fingers trembling, and found Araezra’s hand. Numbness stole the feeling from his fingers, so he squeezed her hand only gently—he couldn’t be sure how hard he was clutching her. She didn’t seem pained, and that pleased him.
Araezra’s eyes searched his face. “These morning duties are hard on you, I can tell,” she said. “I’ll speak with Jarthay—move us to a less nocturnal schedule.”
“I’ll manage,” Kalen said, as he always did.
Araezra smiled. They walked on, each in their own space this time.
“Thank you, Kalen,” she said. “Back there … you know how I can be.”
“I know,” he said absently, and he laid his hand on her shoulder. His touch was brotherly. “Your coin at the Knight?”
“Agreed.” She smiled at him. “Come, aide—lead the way.”
“Sir,” he replied.
As they walked south, Kalen reviewed his mental note of the jewelry—surely cheap, likely fenced—that he had seen in Kolatch’s shop. Kalen’s sharp eye had noted it all: three earrings, a ruby-eye pendant that would be easily recognized, and the dragon brooch. He studied it in his mind, making sure he remembered it keenly.
They reached the Knight ’n Shadow, at the corner of Fish and Snail streets, after a brisk walk. The bells of Waterdeep’s clock (named, by its uninspired dwarven builders, the “Timehands”) chimed: one small bell past dawn.
Kalen guided Araezra through the door of the tavern and waved for a pair of ales.
TWO
The Knight ’n Shadow was a two-story tavern, connected by a long, poorly lit staircase that spanned two worlds: Waterdeep above, and Downshadow below.
The Sea Knight tavern, which previously occupied the site, had utterly collapsed in 1425. Whether the result of a wizards’ duel or a bout of spellplague (the accounts of locals differed), no one could ever say for certain. Some enterprising miner had dug out the cellar and discovered its connection to Undermountain. He built stairs, platforms for sitting, and a rope ladder, hired burly, ugly guards with spears to keep the monsters and coinless hunters at bay, and the shadow—dark half of the tavern—was born. The knight above ground grew shabby and dingy, like a sheet of parchment soaking up blood from below. It absorbed the stink of Downshadow and became the same sort of place: a squatting ground for unsuccessful treasure hunters, coin-shy adventurers, and other criminals.
Men like Rath.
The dwarf savored the tavern’s duality. It reminded him of himself: smooth faced, even handsome on the surface, but hard as steel beneath. Perfect for his line of work.
Quite at ease in his heavy black robe despite the moist heat of the shadow below, Rath sipped his ale, ignoring the two dwarves who—like all dwarves who approached him—had come to test their mettle. Like all dwarves in every wretched land he visited, he mused.
They had seated themselves, uninvited, at his table, and had stared at him without speaking for the last hundred count. The first—an axe fighter with a thick black beard tied in four bunches that brushed his hard, round belly—sipped at his tankard. The other—a dwarf with a thick red-gold beard that spilled over his wide chest—was trying hard not to let Rath catch him laughing. He’d cover his mouth so as not to erupt with laughter, but the sounds that escaped his fingers were reedy and almost girlish—grating in Rath’s ears.
Finally, when the stench of the dwarves had grown too much for his nose, Rath said, in a mild, neutral tone, “May I help you gentles in some way?”
The two dwarves looked at one another as though sharing some private joke.
Blackbeard smirked at Rath. “Lose a bet?”
It was the smooth face. Dwarves could respect a bald pate, as many went bald at a young age, but to have no beard was practically a crime against the entire dwarf race.
The red-bearded
one let loose a loud burst of his childish laughter, as though this was the funniest jest he had ever heard, and slapped the table. Rath’s tankard of watered ale toppled, spilling its contents across the grubby wood and into his lap.
Anger flared—hot dwarf anger that was his birthright. Immediately he rose, and the pair rose with him, hands touching steel. Their eyes blazed dangerously.
“Now, now, boy,” said the smiling Blackbeard, hand going for a knife at his belt.
Cold swept through Rath, smothering his natural reaction. It was a trick, he realized, so he did not meet their challenge. Instead, he waved for more ale, then sat down and began picking at his black robe, unable to keep the disdain from his face. He’d just had his clothes laundered.
The dwarves watched Rath warily as he sat, and he knew their game. That had been a move calculated to provoke a brawl. Now, though, their trick spoiled, they stood uneasily, halfway to their seats, half standing. Rath found it amusing and allowed himself the tiniest smile.
“You’re just going to sit there?” asked Blackbeard. “After I insult you?”
“Obviously,” said Rath.
Redbeard chuckled, but Blackbeard scowled and cut his companion off with a hiss. He leaned in close. “What kind of dwarf are you that won’t rise to fight?”
“A kind more pleasant than yours, it seems.”
Blackbeard’s face went a little redder, and his red-bearded friend stopped laughing. The eyes in the tavern turned toward them and Rath could hear conversations subsiding.
Rath wondered if these were native dwarves or foreigners. The dwarves of Waterdeep were few enough, but trade and coin were good in the city. Thus they came, those more accustomed to the merchant’s scales than hammer and pick. Plenty of mining went on to employ those with traditional skills, in the bowels of fabled Undermountain or in the new neighborhoods popping up all over the city. In Undercliff, beneath the eastern edge of the old city, dwarves sculpted homes out of the mountainside (illicitly or not). Or in the Warrens, where they could dwell amongst others their own size.
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