Downshadow

by Erik Scott De Bie

  Watching him, Fayne found breath difficult. She hated men who resisted her charms, and yet this Shadowbane lingered in her thoughts. She wanted another chance at him, when she could better prepare. He was a man who presented a great challenge.

  Gods, how she loved challenges.

  She looked to Kolatch, barely awake, who lay moaning and terror-dumb, and smiled.

  She loved tricks as well.

  FOUR

  Corrupt merchant attacked and magically disfigured!” shouted the boy who carried broadsheets at the corner of Waterdeep Way and the Street of Silver. He held up his wares: copies of the Vigilant Citizen. “Vigilante menace spreads in Downshadow—Watch denies all!”

  Cellica, who could pass easily for a human girl in her bulky weathercloak, chuckled ruefully and shook her head. The halfling paid a copper nib for one of the long, broad scrolls—printed on both sides with ink that would smudge in the rain—and glanced at it. Apparently, some fool named Kolatch had come away with purple hair and beard yestereve.

  She giggled.

  “Brainless Roaringhorn heiress caught in bawdy boudoir!” cried a broadcrier for the acerbic Mocking Minstrel. “Scandal rocks house; says Lord Bladderblat—‘typical’!”

  “Undead stalk the nobility!” shouted a third, this one a girl for the infamous Blue Unicorn. “You can’t see, you can’t tell—they survive by bedding the living! Interviews and tales!”

  Cellica skipped through Castle Ward, giggling at the worst news that was apparently fit to print. Most Waterdhavians called the drivel in the broadsheets ridiculous, but that hardly stopped them reading it. The printers would never go out of business as long as there was drink and stupidity and nobles to indulge in both.

  She strolled west, then north along Waterdeep Way, breathing deeply the refreshing air of the bustling city. Waterdeep grew busy just after the gates opened at dawn, the streets choked with laborers and merchants, commoners and nobles alike. She bought a jellied roll and hopped up on a bench in Fetlock Court—in the shadow of the palace and Blackstaff Tower.

  This was one of Cellica’s favorite pastimes: watching folk. She watched nobles in particular, because they amused her. She found the way they walked comical: shoulders back, chest forward, staring down their noses at commoners, laborers, merchants, and any they saw as inferior. She giggled at the sharp tongues of lords and ladies in the street, took note of arguments, and laughed aloud when a seemingly delicate old lady seized a younger male relation by the ear and hauled him, flailing and protesting, to a waiting carriage. The gaggle of lordlasses he’d been striving to impress giggled until they saw Cellica also laughing. Then their laughter died and they stared coldly at her.

  “Go on, off with you,” Cellica said. Her lip crooked. She repeated, more forcefully: “Go.”

  The young noblewomen stiffened, peering anxiously at one another. Then they shuffled away as though compelled, looking flabbergasted.

  Cellica giggled. Folk tended to do what she said, if she said it forcefully enough.

  The city raced by day in the warm light, and wouldn’t sleep until long after the sun had gone down. Trade was the blood and bile of Waterdeep, as it had been for centuries. And everyone, regardless of country or creed, was welcome in these streets—so long as they brought good coin and a fair hand.

  A fair hand was the less consistent of the two, and something Cellica read about every day. Setting aside the remains of her morningfeast, she unrolled the broadsheet—the Citizen was the most reputable—and read every tale of news, politics, and commerce in detail. Who was offering fair deals? Who stood accused of dirty trade or slavery? Who might be a spy for the Shades or Westgate or even the defunct Zhents?

  This research was largely on behalf of her partner—gods knew he wouldn’t do it himself. Looking for a target wasn’t his firewine of choice; once he fixed on one, though, no man or creature could stand in his way.

  So long as he had the right woman directing him, of course.

  He would probably be getting back from his nightly ordeal now—collapsing into his bed at their tallhouse, not to wake until evening. She worried that he rested enough, but she also knew that worry was futile. Damned if he would take her advice anyway.

  Cellica finished with the Citizen and bought a few more broadsheets, including the Daily Luck, Halivar’s, and even the Minstrel. This last (a bitter cesspool about corrupt Waterdhavian politics, lascivious noble houses, and shadowy merchant deals) hardly ever yielded anything of use. That day, its reporting of the Talantress Roaringhorn scandal—as told by the oh-so-noxious Satin Rutshear—curdled Cellica’s stomach, so she crumpled the sheet and tossed it aside.

  She much preferred the North Wind, which featured her beloved illustrations of fashionable garments and easy-on-the-eyes models, in addition to plenty of gossip about circles far above hers. As the Wind reported, the annual costume ball was upcoming at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass, five nights hence.

  “Oh, to be noble!” Cellica sighed, clasping the broadsheet to her breast. “Or at least rich.”

  After fantasizing a few moments, she polished off the last of the watered wine in her beltskin and hopped down from the bench.

  With the business of “keeping atop Mount Waterdeep” done, she cut east down alleys and turned north up the Street of Silks, deeper into Castle Ward. These were narrow, less crowded streets—filled with fewer folk and more broken crates, rotting sacks, and other refuse. The people who lived here were poorer, many of them huddled in doorways and beneath raised walks. They looked at her with hungry eyes, and she fingered the crossbow-shaped amulet that hung at her throat. Others waved to her from festhalls just opening for the day.

  Cellica pulled her hood lower to attract less attention. Few small folk appeared in this part of the city—gnomes and halflings usually kept their distance. Cellica happened to know, however, that her people were less a minority than the eye suggested. She slipped among the taller people, trying not to touch anyone. No one batted an eye or stayed her.

  “Doppelgangers infiltrate houses of ill repute!” cried a small figure who appeared to be a human boy. “Welcomed by festhall madams for their general skills and adaptability!”

  Cellica made her way toward the crier, who was not a boy but a round-faced halfling. Anyone who knew Waterdeep might see through his disguise, based on his wares. He was selling Pleased Toes, a set of tales written, printed, and sold exclusively by his kind.

  “Good to see you, Harravin,” she murmured to him. “Mum well?”

  “Aye, Cele,” he said. “When you coming back to do some more o’ that cooking?”

  “Soon.” Cellica leaned against the wall next to him and took a broadsheet from his stack. She unfolded and began to read. While she did, coin changed hands.

  “You can pay me back this month, aye,” said Cellica.

  “Cheers.” Harravin grinned, then called, “Doppelganger whores! Some reported missing—test your husband to make sure he’s your own!”

  Cellica hurried down the alley. As she went, she heard a sound and looked up at the edges of the roofs above her. Water dripped off split, moss-covered roofs—old rainwater fell on her forehead and she wiped it off. She thought she’d heard … but no, of course not.

  She gave a little smile and turned to look down the alley. A trapdoor, covered by a heap of dirty cloths and broken crockery, was set into the cobbles. She bent down. A soft thumping sounded from below, like a machine working in the distance.

  She pulled open the trapdoor and a dozen bright eyes blinked up at her from smoky candlelight. Farther in, she saw a frame press working, turning out Pleased Toes and lurid chapbooks. A halfling turned toward the sudden light and wiped his forehead, removing a thick coating of black soot.

  “Philbin,” she said, nodding to him.

  “Well,” he said. “S’bout time th’tyrant of a paladin lets you out. Ready for second print!”

  “Celly!” came a cry. The small ones within started cheering and hopping u
p and down.

  “Well met,” Cellica said. She climbed down a stout ladder, closed the trapdoor behind her, and joined her adoptive family.

  The little halflings crowded around her, cooing and yipping like puppies. She saw their mother, Philbin’s wife Lin, cooking a meal over the steaming frame press engine: eggs and sausage and toasted thin loaves. Her stomach growled.

  “You’ve come for more coin, I take it,” Philbin said. “And our free food too, eh?”

  Though the gruff halfling patriarch didn’t look it, he was one of the wealthiest merchants in Waterdeep—partly because he was such a skinflint.

  Cellica drew a bottle from her satchel. “I brought wine.”

  Philbin rolled his eyes.

  “Just in time for morningfeast!” said one of the little brothers, Dem.

  “Silly!” said a halfling girl—Mira. “Second morningfeast!”

  Cellica found peace among the halflings of the Warrens, one of the cities beneath Waterdeep. It wasn’t home—that was the ruined city of Luskan, far to the north—but for a time, she could pretend.

  At least until her tasks called her back.

  FIVE

  Perched on the corner of the desk, Araezra said, very clearly, “Ellis Kolatch.”

  “Ellis Kolatch.” Kalen’s monotone gave no indication of recognition.

  Araezra sighed. Of course Kalen would be indifferent. The damned man was a stone.

  They’d been taking their evening leisure hour—waiting for the Gateclose bells to sound, signaling the shutting of the gates for the night—before going out on another inspection. They were alone in the room, pointedly not speaking.

  Though Kalen seemed calm, Araezra had been boiling with anxiety, wanting to talk but not to be the first to speak. Her nerves manifested in anger that went undirected at either Kalen or herself. Instead, she turned it against their commander.

  Damned Commander Jarthay, who’d declined her request for day work. Twice-damned Jarthay, who’d argued so logically that more villainy would be afoot by night than day!

  What she wouldn’t give for a good invasion or riot to thwart—preferably incited by Shadovar spies or Sharran cultists or any of a thousand enemies of goodness in Faerûn. But no, it was a time of relative peace, and peace meant schemers and conspirators.

  She’d take Kalen, of course—and Talanna, if she was at liberty—but she couldn’t speak freely with Kalen then. She could now, though, if only he would pay attention to her.

  Araezra set aside the locket with the half-done miniature she’d been painting in it: a gilded chamber, with light filtering through a flower-laced window. It was an amusing hobby—one perfectly suited for boring hours at the barracks between patrols.

  She fixed her eyes on Kalen—on his hard, grizzled face with the constant layer of stubble, framed in the brown-black hair that fell in spikes. His oddly colorless eyes, like slits of glass, avoided hers, but she was not about to let go now that she’d got a reply out of him.

  “Ellis Kolatch,” she said again. “The crooked merchant we met yestereve.”

  “Ah.” Kalen pushed the spectacles up his nose.

  He’d been looking through Watch ledgers all day, much to Araezra’s chagrin. He hadn’t told Araezra why, and she hadn’t asked.

  “I’m told …” Araezra shifted her position so Kalen had to look at her. “Kolatch presented himself at the palace today in a frightful state—clothes a mess, eyes puffy—and demanded we lock him up for trade violations and dirty dealing.”

  Araezra’s mouth turned up at the corners in a way she knew her admirers adored.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know aught of this?”

  Kalen shrugged. He moved the ledger away from her and kept working.

  Araezra frowned, then draped herself across his ledger, setting her face level with his. “Seems his hair and beard had turned the most frightful shade of purple as well. No?”

  Kalen’s eyes met hers, and she saw a little flicker in his face—a tiny tic in his lips. Was that anger, or a smile?

  “Araezra,” he said chidingly, “I’m working.”

  No one called her by her full name—no one but him, always so damned polite and cold.

  She hated his formality when they were supposed to be at leisure. To set an example, she wore her uniform breeches and boots but not her breastplate or weapons. With her hair unbound and cascading in liquid black tresses around her linen chemise, she knew damn well how good she looked, and yet—confound the man—Kalen hadn’t even noticed.

  She’d never had this sort of trouble with a man. Usually, it was the opposite, and required a stout stick to fend away unwanted hands.

  “Who are you looking for so intently?” she asked.

  He looked at her over the rim of his spectacles. “Arrath Vir—a dwarf. No beard—turned his back on his blood, I suppose. Suspected of crimes against the city and citizens.”

  “Why the interest?” she asked.

  Kalen kept reading. Perhaps she was irritating him, or perhaps he was simply ignoring her—she had no way of knowing. Kalen kept his own counsel.

  She tried again. “That scar, on your arm.” She pointed to a long red-and-white mark, as though from a burn, visible out his left sleeve. “How did you come by that?”

  He shrugged. “Clumsy with the simmer stew,” he said. “At times it burns me and I don’t realize, because …” He trailed off.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” Araezra said. “I didn’t mean to mention it.”

  “It’s naught.” He adjusted his sleeve over the burn.

  Araezra sighed and looked at the ceiling. She wished she could talk to him without putting her boot between her teeth. And his illness … she wondered if he would feel it if she hit him in frustration. Likely not.

  She tried a third time. “Kalen, there’s a costume revel at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass,” she said. “I was hoping—er, I think a guard presence might—”

  “If that is your order, Araezra.”

  Trying to hold in a scream, Araezra tapped her painted nails on the darkwood desk. Kalen turned back to his ledger, adjusted his spectacles, and scritch-scratched another note. She marked the ring on the third finger of his left hand—with a sigil of a gauntlet—but he turned another page and obscured her view before she could observe it more closely.

  Frustrated, she picked up her locket and the delicate little brush and set back to work on painting the light through the window. Kalen’s pen scratched. Araezra’s teeth clicked.

  Finally, she could take it no longer.

  She rolled her eyes, threw the locket down on the table, and raised her hands. “Gods, Kalen! It’s Rayse. How long have we worked together? You can’t call me that?”

  “If that’s an order, Araez—”

  “Rayse.” She grasped him by the shoulder and he winced. “Bane’s black eyes, Kalen—after what we’ve been through? After we …”

  She cut herself off. Oh gods, had she almost just said that? Talanna was going to kill her.

  But gods-burn-her, she couldn’t help it. She—a woman infamous for her calm, unreadable face—just went to pieces around him.

  “Araezra.” Eyes calm, Kalen gave her a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Must we?”

  Her heart started beating faster. “Kalen, we should talk about this,” she whispered.

  “And say what?” He looked back at the ledger. “You were the one who ended it, not I.”

  “Only because—” Araezra scowled. “Kalen, only because you wouldn’t … stlaern.”

  She expected him to correct her language, but he only shook his head. “Rayse, I told you about my illness,” he said. “You know I don’t … I can’t. You knew that.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt me.” Araezra put a hand against his cheek. “I wouldn’t let you.”

  He gave her a half smile. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want—”

  The door opened, and his hand darted away from hers. Araezra almost fell from her seat but caught
herself and stood, straightening her linen chemise and cursing herself for taking off her armor. The silvered breastplate lay on a nearby chair, next to her helm, the five tiny gauntlets denoting her valabrar rank staring at her like five sly, winking eyes.

  She composed herself in a flash, exercising her iron self-discipline to the fullest.

  Into the room came Talanna Taenfeather, still sporting the wild rack of horns woven out of her vivid hair. On her breastplate, she wore three gauntlets, identifying a shieldlar.

  Talanna would have been fine company, but behind her strode an older man—thirty or so winters, brown hair, bright eyes, bemused smile—whom Araezra recognized only too well. Bors Jarthay’s badge depicted a single gauntlet clutching a drawn sword—the sigil of a commander.

  Talanna froze and looked first to Araezra, then to Kalen. Her smile curled in the way it did when she was about to say something particularly cutting. “Ooh,” she crooned. “We’re not interrupting aught, are we, Rayse?”

  Araezra opened her mouth, but Kalen grunted no without looking up from his work.

  “And what a shame that is,” Bors added. He nodded to Araezra’s breastplate and helm. “Taking our ease, lass?”

  “My steel is always near to hand.” Araezra smiled tightly. “Do I need to don it?”

  “Your breastplate against me, Rayse? Nay!” Bors grinned. “I would hardly want to discomfort two of my best lady Watchmen.” He nodded to Kalen. “Good day, Vigilant Dren.”

  Kalen looked up. He started to rise, stiffly, as though to salute, but Bors waved him down. The commander grinned at Araezra, but she refused to look at him.

  “Need you aught, sir?” she started to ask, but Talanna rushed to Kalen’s side.

  “See this, Kalen?” On the forefinger of her left hand she wore a ring of interlocking golden feathers. “A gift of Lord Neverember.” She smiled wryly. “The Open Lord’s passionately in love with me, you know.”

  “Oh, don’t be a dolt,” Araezra said. “He knows your inclinations.” Talanna whirled, heat in her cheeks. “But a little banter hurts no one, aye?”