by Paul S. Kemp
Riven nodded at Cale’s blade hand and asked, “You nervous, Cale?”
Cale ignored the barb but took his hand off his sword hilt.
“I said I’d find you,” said Cale. “You tailing me?”
It concerned him that Riven had tracked him down. If the assassin could do it, so could the wizard and the half-drow.
“You look like the Ninth Hell,” Riven said, and grinned through his goatee.
“I asked if you were following me.”
“Not exactly,” Riven said, and he pulled the chain that held his holy symbol out from behind his blue tunic. The onyx disc looked like a hole in the assassin’s callused palm. “A mutual friend told me where to find you.”
Cale stared at the symbol, nodded. Mask had probably spoken to Riven in a dream, or a vision. The Lord of Shadows had often so spoken to Cale.
Looking at the holy symbol, Cale wondered again, with a pang of jealousy that surprised him, if Riven could cast spells. After a moment’s thought, he decided not. Riven was smart, but his intelligence was more of a practical street wisdom. Cale thought spellcasting required a kind of insight that Riven lacked, a sort of philosophical introspection.
Or at least he would choose to think so.
He wondered too why Riven and he served the same god but used different holy symbols. For that, he had no ready answer, but it somehow comforted him. Mask distinguished between them. Cale liked that.
“What else did he tell you?” Cale asked.
“Nothing.”
Riven’s sneer softened, and he replaced his holy symbol behind his tunic. Cale nodded knowingly.
“Get used to it,” Cale said. “That’s his method. He reveals only what he thinks you need to know to serve his purposes. You know why?”
“Don’t care.”
“Because to him, you’re only a tool,” Cale answered anyway, though he could tell from Riven’s face that the assassin wasn’t listening. “You think you’re more than that, don’t you?”
Riven’s one eye narrowed and he said, “You be a tool, Cale. I’ll be a weapon.”
That made Cale wonder what promises Mask had made to secure Riven’s loyalty.
“We’ll see,” Cale replied. “But I’ll do you a favor and tell you something: he’s as much your tool as you are his.”
He realized how arrogant it sounded the moment the words left his mouth—A god his tool? But, yes. Foolish or not, he regarded Mask as serving him as much as he served Mask. Jak had once described it as a confluence of mortal and divine interests. Cale thought that put too nice a dress on it. It was mutual utility, nothing less and nothing more. Because Cale realized that, he could resist Mask’s imperatives and stay his own man. He wondered if Riven could do the same.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Riven asked.
Cale looked him in the eye and said, “You want in on this? All the way? It’s ugly.”
Riven’s mouth was a tight line, but he said, “I’ve been in this since those sons of whores blew me out of the Stag. I’m in it all the way.”
“Well enough. Let’s keep moving.”
They fell into stride together, heading for the Lizard. As they walked, Cale filled Riven in on what had occurred at Stormweather.
“So there are at least five of them,” Riven said afterward. “That’d be manageable. Where’s this sphere then?”
“Half-sphere,” Cale corrected. “It’s safe. And we’re not handling this alone. I’m bringing in Fleet.”
Riven stopped cold and pulled Cale around by the shoulder to face him. Cale stared at his hand. Riven removed it.
“That little prig halfling bastard?” Riven sneered. “He’s a liability, Cale. You and I can handle this alone. We’ve taken down Cyricists before.”
Cale remembered. They had worked together well. Too well.
“True,” Cale acknowledged.
“So why bring in Fleet?”
Because he’s my friend, Cale thought but didn’t say.
Instead, he stared evenly at Riven and said, “Because I can trust him.” He paused before adding, “And I don’t trust you.”
Riven looked angry for a moment, then recaptured his sneer.
“Pleased to hear it,” said the assassin. “I thought you were getting soft.”
Cale decided to resolve a few things right then and there. He knew that Riven despised Jak. Several months before, the halfling had nearly killed Riven with a stab through the back. That had been business though, and Cale thought Riven could put it aside as such. After all, he and Riven had scarred each other previously too. But Cale knew that it must have galled the assassin that he had been split by a halfling. Cale had to set some rules. He put a finger on Riven’s chest and looked him in the face.
“Fleet’s my first choice on this, Riven. It’s us, and it’s you. You’re along for the ride, nothing more, holy symbol or no. We can use your blades, but we can get by without them.” He waited for a reply but Riven made none. Cale went on, “If you can’t handle being around the little man, then walk away now. You move on him and I’ll put you down without a second thought. Clear?”
Riven stared at him, his good eye unreadable, his other an empty hole. A long moment passed. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.
“You know, Cale, you’ve threatened to kill me before, yet here I stand. You’re losing credibility. And one day your threats are going to make me angry.”
Cale tensed, let his hand glide near his blade hilt. If he had to, he would take Riven down right then.
Through his goatee, Riven smiled a mouthful of stained teeth and said, “But not today. I hear you. Fleet keeps breathing. But I want in on this, all the way through.”
Cale heard the sincerity in Riven’s voice. The assassin owed the shadow mage a blood-debt for whatever that spell had done to him in the street.
“You’re in then,” said Cale. “All the way.”
They started walking, the tension still thick. For a time, they said nothing and the silence stretched.
At last, Cale said, “What’s it like to have no one to trust, Riven?”
Riven surprised him with laughter—a genuine laugh. Cale didn’t think he’d ever before heard the assassin really give vent to true mirth.
“For being so smart, Cale, you sure are a stupid bastard.” His laugh gave way to a dark, knowing chuckle. “You don’t have anyone you can trust either. You’re just blind enough to think you do.”
Cale could think of no reply to that. But as he walked, the words “mutual utility” again floated to the front of his consciousness.
Fortunately, the innkeeper at the Lizard, a slim, efficient man named Preht, was up early that morning. His wife and daughters had already begun breakfast preparations. Cale could smell the aroma of cooking sausage coming from the kitchen.
Cale and Riven purported to be travelers from Cormyr. Preht looked doubtful—he obviously wanted no trouble. But when Cale prepaid for a full tenday’s lodging, the innkeeper’s smile returned tenfold. They declined breakfast. Cale needed rest more than food. After asking Preht to keep an eye open for a halfling who was to meet them there, they headed upstairs to their room.
The room had two cots with clean linens, a night table with a few candles, a chair, a washbasin, a chamber pot, and one small window. Riven closed and latched the shutters. A few beams from the rising sun leaked through the slats.
“You take a few hours,” Riven said. “Gods know you look like you need it. I’ll watch. Afterward, I’ll take a couple myself.”
Too tired to argue, Cale only nodded.
Riven took a seat in the chair, his magical sabers drawn and laid across his knees. His eye burned a hole through the door.
Cale laid his bare blade beside him and stretched out on one of the cots. Given their situation, he felt obliged to be honest with Riven. Even the assassin deserved to understand the risk. He did not bother with a preamble.
“I’ve got the half-sphere in my pack.”
The assassin didn’t even look at him when he said, “Of course you do. Where else would you have it? A safehouse? I know you too well.”
Cale ignored the tone and continued, “The ward I put on it to keep divinations from locating it will expire soon. I can’t renew it. Not yet.”
Riven stared at him, his eye cold, and asked, “And?”
“They’ll be coming for it.”
“If anyone other than the innkeeper or Fleet walks into this room, Cale,” Riven said with a hard, mirthless grin, “they don’t walk out.”
Cale gave a nod, and after a moment he said, “You haven’t yet asked the play.”
It surprised him that Riven had not asked him what was the plan. Had their situations been reversed, Cale would have asked back on the street.
Riven ran a thumb along the blade of one of his sabers and said, “That’s because I don’t care, just so long as I get to put a handbreadth of steel through that wizard. That part of the plan?”
Cale chuckled.
“All right, then,” Riven said. “That’s all I need to know. Now, get some sleep.”
Cale did just that. As he drifted off, it occurred to him that he ought to be concerned to have a former Zhent assassin sitting with drawn blades only a few paces from where he slept. Inexplicably, he wasn’t, and the hours passed too fast.
Riven shook him. Cale came instantly awake.
“I’m drifting, Cale. Give me two hours, then let’s get some food.”
Riven was asleep almost instantly. Cale kept watch, tense, but nothing untoward occurred. Except Riven’s dreams.
Less than half an hour after falling asleep, Riven began to toss about. His brow furrowed and he muttered in an alien tongue, “Nirtfel caul ir vel …”
The words, alien and vulgar, spilled from between Riven’s lips. Though he had been a “letters man” back in Westgate, even Cale had never before heard a language like that. It called to mind moonless nights and blood sacrifice.
Riven grinned fiercely in his sleep, clutched at the disc that hung around his neck, and in that moment, Cale realized that Mask was speaking to Riven in his dreams, showing him, teaching him.
But what?
And why does it bother me so much? he wondered, though he knew the answer.
It bothered him because it meant that Mask saw him and Riven as equally worthy, as peers. Cale didn’t like to think he shared much in common with Drasek Riven.
Except that both were killers, through and through.
In his dream, Riven laughed softly.
Cale put Mask out of his mind. He had more immediate concerns than his god’s fickleness. He knew Vraggen and the half-drow had to be scouring the city for him. It was only a matter of time before a spell latched onto the half-sphere.
Riven ceased muttering and the next hour passed slowly.
Cale touched the assassin lightly on the shoulder. Riven came awake in an instant.
“You were dreaming,” Cale said. “Speaking in your sleep.”
He wondered if Riven remembered what Mask had shown him. Riven grunted, sat up, and sneered.
“Oh?” said the assassin. “Did I say anything interesting?”
“Nothing I understood.”
Riven nodded and the effort replaced his sneer with a wince.
“My head feels like I took a dwarf’s warhammer to the temple.”
Cale saw significance in Riven’s choice of the word “temple” but said nothing.
Riven tucked his holy symbol under his tunic and the two of them headed downstairs to eat whatever might be leftover from breakfast. Afterward, they moved outside to wait. Neither of them wanted to get caught inside a common room again. Vraggen had already shown a willingness to torch an entire establishment to get at them.
Riven ducked down an alley and climbed atop the roof of an eatery two buildings down from the Lizard. From there, his crossbow marked the whole of the street as well as the Lizard’s entrance. Cale could barely see his head above the roof edge.
Cale stayed at street level, eyeing the steady stream of passersby, moving randomly along the block, but always keeping the Lizard in his sight. He saw nothing suspicious. That put him at ease. Perhaps the wizard and half-drow were not as hard on his trail as he suspected.
Jak showed up late that afternoon. He approached from the northeast, moving easily through the street traffic, a lightweight blue cloak thrown over his green pantaloons, gray shirt, and embroidered green vest. As always, a feathered cap topped his head. When Cale saw him, he sighed in relief. He had feared the halfling would not show for days. He could always count on Jak.
Cale signaled Riven, who nodded and left off his post. Then Cale moved to intercept the halfling. Before Jak spotted him, Cale considered invoking the spell that would allow him to detect illusions but decided against it. His enemies used illusions, true, but they could not have learned of Jak and the Lizard so quickly. If they had, they would have already attacked.
Besides, he would not, he could not, stay suspicious of everyone. It drained him, made him edgy, made him Riven. Riven’s words from the previous night sounded in his mind: You’ve got no one you can trust either. You just think you do. Cale rejected that. Jak was Jak and he could trust no one more.
He separated from the crowd and walked toward the halfling. Jak spotted him immediately, smiled, and gave a hail. Cale walked up to him quickly. Jak must have seen the urgency in his face and stride. The halfling’s smile vanished.
“Trickster’s toes, Cale, what is it?”
“You got here fast. I just left the signal today.”
Jak smiled and doffed his cap.
“I check the lighthouse every day, Cale,” the halfling said. “You get in more scrapes than my drunken uncle Cob. Now, what’s going on? You look pale, even for you.”
Cale grinned, took the halfling by the arm, and turned him around.
“Let’s walk, Jak. We don’t want to stay in one place any longer than necessary.”
To keep up, Jak took two or three strides to each of Cale’s.
Cale went right to the point: “I’ve got something sought after by some powerful people, Jak. And they’ve got something—someone—I want to get back alive.”
“One of the Uskevren?” Jak asked.
“No, but one of the house guards. A boy.” Cale paused before adding, “Riven’s involved.”
Jak nodded knowingly and said, “No surprise there. That murdering basta—”
“No,” Cale interrupted. “Riven’s with us, Jak. He’ll catch up with us in a few moments.”
Jak stepped in front of Cale and put up a hand for Cale to stop.
“What did you just say? Riven? Drasek Riven?” He looked around for the assassin, didn’t see him, then stared into Cale’s face, bristling. “Riven’s an indiscriminate killer, Cale. Did you fall asleep in a mistleaf den or something?”
Cale couldn’t help but smile. That seemed to round the edge of the halfling’s anger. Jak raised his eyebrows and looked at him uncertainly.
“It’s a long story, my friend,” Cale said. “For now, Riven’s with us. But he and I have already had a talk. He crosses you, I put him down.”
Jak harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest.
“He crosses me and I put him down,” said the halfling.
“Fair enough,” Cale said, still smiling. He put a hand on Jak’s shoulder. “We’ve got a room in the Lizard. Let’s head back and go up.”
They did. In the room, Jak took a seat on one of the cots, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. Riven arrived moments later.
Jak stared at the assassin. The assassin stared at Jak. Neither said anything. Cale let it go. If this partnership was to work, Jak had to establish some of his own rules. Cale knew the halfling knew that, full well.
Riven swaggered across the room to stand over the halfling, a sneer on his face. Jak continued to stare, unflinching.
“Jak Fleet,” Riven said, with sarcastic c
ourtesy. “Well met indeed. I’d hoped to see you under … different circumstances.”
Riven held out his hand, a disingenuous offer of peace, and Jak stared at it contemptuously.
“You better put that back where it belongs before it gets lighter by a few fingers.”
Riven gave a cold, hard smile and teased, “Yap, yap, little dog. Do you ever bite? I haven’t forgotten anything, you know.”
Jak stood up, hand on his short sword hilt, chest puffed out, and said, “Neither have I. You still wearing a scar in that kidney?”
Riven’s intake of breath was as sharp as a razor. He glared down at Jak, hands on the hilts of his own blades.
“You pull them,” Jak said, “you’d better be ready to see it through.”
The halfling’s lower lip noticeably twitched, and his green eyes blazed.
Riven held Jak’s gaze for a moment longer, chuckled, and backed off a step.
“He’s got backbone, Cale, and no denying that,” Riven said. “Maybe I’ll see it sometime.”
Still chuckling, he turned and took a seat on the other cot.
Jak followed him with his eyes, sitting only after Riven did.
That was that, Cale thought, and made sure not to smile. Well done, little man.
Jak glanced at Cale, his cheeks red under his bushy sideburns, and said, “These people after you must be something for you to partner up with him.” He jerked a small thumb at Riven, who only sneered. “What is it they want?”
Cale took the half-sphere from his pack, unwrapped the burlap, and showed it to the halfling. Jak hopped to his feet and walked over to Cale.
“This?” the halfling asked as he took the half-sphere in his hands, eyeing the tiny, colored gemstones set within the quartz. “Gems are valuable, but other than that, it doesn’t look like much. I’d probably bypass it on a second story job.” He pulled out his holy symbol, a jeweled pendant he had lifted from somewhere, and intoned a prayer to Brandobaris, the halfling god of rogues and tricksters. “It’s not magical either. You sure this is what they want?”
“I’m sure,” Cale said.
