Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  This was the distraction Kalen had needed. As all eyes went to the exchange—even Myrin watched with rapt attention—Kalen stepped subtly around a set of storage crates. He unclasped and palmed the sword amulet that hung around his neck, hidden under his shirt. It was Cellica’s amulet, in which Vindicator was concealed. Cellica had regularly concealed a crossbow or other blade, and it pleased Kalen to think of the halfling’s guile. Moreover, he had found he could summon the sword out of the amulet without trouble—before he’d confirmed this, he had worried the magics would interfere with one another. He could abandon the sword here and recall it at need.

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said. “You may be gone, but you still save us.”

  He stuffed the amulet out of sight between two crates and returned to Myrin’s side.

  “Mystra, look at her.” Myrin nodded toward the noblewoman, who had thoroughly charmed the Justice Knights. “She has those men begging like hounds for a pat of her hand.”

  “They aren’t the only ones.” Kalen coughed when Myrin looked at him sidelong. “They’ll come this way next. Just nod and do whatever they ask.”

  The noblewoman had the Justice Knights laughing by the time she took her leave with her bodyguard. The peculiar pair came toward Kalen and Myrin, and Vharan glanced at them and scoffed as they passed. The noblewoman moved in a way Kalen found familiar, and he thought he had recognized her voice. Something about her called to him, although he couldn’t quite name it. Either way, she walked past them with a graceful stride, not sparing them even the slightest glance.

  The four Justice Knights talked quietly among themselves. Jhorak cast a fleeting look in Kalen’s direction, but the men seemed to have forgotten them and passed on without incident.

  Myrin frowned. “Shame. I was rather looking forward to being demure.”

  “You?” Kalen asked. “Demure?”

  She nudged him.

  They moved on, past the spot where he’d hidden Vindicator. Kalen reached into the niche, but found nothing. He furrowed his brow. Sure enough, the sword-amulet was gone. How could someone have taken it in the thirty-count he’d left it there?

  “What’s the matter?” Myrin asked.

  “Nothing,” Kalen said.

  It was no matter, as he could always summon the sword back into his hand. He wondered, rather, who had taken it and why. Like as not, the theft hadn’t been random. Even if an opportunist had been tailing them since the city gates, the amulet had been hidden under his shirt until just before he hid it. That meant the thief was either very lucky to see the amulet at just the right moment, or he had expected them. If so, said thief might lead him to the man—or woman—who’d sent the blood-scrawled note that had brought Kalen to Westgate.

  Moreover, perhaps not having the sword was a blessing in and of itself. Like Myrin’s magic, Vindicator drew attention. He’d felt uncomfortable carrying Vindicator before Luskan, and he’d felt entirely too comfortable with it since. Perhaps he was well rid of it, at least for now. Either way, there was no sense worrying Myrin about it.

  The wizard looked to be concentrating hard.

  “What troubles?” Kalen asked.

  “I know that woman … Did you sense it?”

  “She did seem familiar.”

  “Not that,” the wizard said. “She’s spellscarred. Can’t you feel it?”

  Kalen didn’t feel it. His spellscar practically sang in the presence of Myrin’s powerful mark. His broken soul yearned for Myrin’s, like an unfinished half calling for its remainder. It hadn’t felt the same with the veiled woman, or any other spellscarred people, for that matter.

  He began to suspect the woman’s abrupt appearance and the sudden theft of Vindicator were no coincidence. He peered down the King’s March, trying to see where she had gone, but alas, she had vanished. No doubt, if she had taken Vindicator, they would meet again.

  “I don’t understand,” Myrin said as they walked. “Why didn’t you welcome those knights with open arms? Didn’t you train with the Eye of Justice? Aren’t they allies?”

  “Not quite,” Kalen said. “Whoever killed Rhett—”

  “You mean kidnapped him,” Myrin said.

  Kalen shrugged. “I think someone in the Eye might be behind this. If we reveal ourselves before we know, it could be dangerous.”

  “So we keep a low cloak for now?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hmm.” Myrin crossed her arms over her stomach. “That thing I had before—an orange, you said?—that was awful, and now I’m starving. Westgate must have decent food somewhere.”

  Kalen smiled.

  They put some distance between themselves and Castle Thalavar before Kalen settled on a window booth at the Black Eye for a repast. The tavern stood a block south of the entrance to Tidetown, where steep streets lined with recently built houses led down to the Sea of Fallen Stars, which had been much higher once upon a time. Fare at the Black Eye wasn’t very good and the atmosphere—sweaty dockhands and painted coinlasses and lads—left much to be desired, but Kalen and Myrin were running low on funds.

  The central locale did provide Kalen a chance to tell Myrin about the city, particularly which districts would not do for casual exploration. The Eye of Justice operated in the west end, where they had entered. At the east end of Westgate lay the Shou district, claimed by the Nine Golden Swords—a gang of Shou warriors who had grown in power in Westgate recently. First Lord Jaundamicar Bleth counted most of the city south of the Black Eye as his power base, but the east lay beyond his reach, and Tidetown proved a frequent battleground. When Kalen had left Westgate three years ago, a gang war had been brewing, and based on the widened territory markers—the distinctive Shou music and the scripted lanterns that hung on Shou-claimed buildings—it seemed the Nine Golden Swords had made no small gains since his departure.

  Myrin listened patiently as Kalen outlined the balance of power in short declarative sentences, but she did not seem to be absorbing the lesson. At one point, she seemed to remember her platter of bread and sea chowder and set to it with zeal. Between bites, she stared out the window at the falling night. Just when Kalen thought she had forgotten about him entirely, she spoke so suddenly it caught him by surprise. “What of the Masks?”

  “Masks?” Kalen furrowed his brow.

  “Something I remember. Something about a thieves’ guild—the true rulers of Westgate.”

  Did she mean the Night Masks? They were a century-old story—a relic of history—but she spoke of them in almost a colloquial tone, as though they were the matter of the day. It disturbed him. “You mean the Fire Knives?”

  “No, I don’t—” Myrin’s expression was uncertain. “Perhaps. Tell me of them?”

  Kalen leaned closer to her across the table. “The Fire Knives are an assassin’s guild—the hands of House Bleth. Their allegiance to the First Lord is an open secret.”

  Myrin looked unconvinced. “Why doesn’t the Watch do something?”

  “The council of lords owns the Watch, and the First Lord owns the council. Bleth provides half the warriors on the Watch himself. The Fire Knives are here to stay—for now.” He wondered if the Nine Golden Swords were going to take over Westgate entirely one day.

  “No, that sounds wrong.” Myrin went back to looking out the rain-streaked window.

  “We should think about where to stay,” Kalen said. “It might not be safe to stay in the city, and I’m not sure we can afford it, anyway.” He rubbed his eyes. “We passed half a dozen inns outside the gate. Perhaps we should try one of those. Attract less notice.”

  “I don’t think so.” Myrin’s voice was dreamy. “I think we’ll stay … there.”

  She was staring across the street at a decrepit black fortress. Moss encrusted the stone walls, and ivy hung down from spines carved in the shape of black stars. A palatial structure rose in the center of the complex, with a single tower that stood at its westernmost corner. The dark windows and run-down atmosphere gave the impression o
f having been vacant for decades.

  Kalen had passed by that building often enough during his training in Westgate, but to his knowledge no one had lived there for a century, much less rented out rooms to coin-shy travelers. No one climbed behind those walls—not even thieves looking for scraps left by a long-ago lord of the castle. That the place had seen no overt residents was uncommon but not unknown in Westgate, a city built for many more folk than currently huddled behind its walls. One would have expected an enterprising lord to make use of the castle, or at least the land. Perhaps the occasional stories folk told of phantom footsteps and unexplained disturbances kept greedy would-be owners at bay.

  “Myrin, that isn’t—” Kalen realized she had left while he was looking out at the building. He glanced around, but she was nowhere to be found, either in their booth or in the Black Eye. Finally, he saw a flash of blue hair outside the greasy window. “Damn.”

  He dropped some of their last remaining coins on the table and shoved himself to his feet. The effort made his heart race, but he resolved not to let his spellscar debilitate him—not when Myrin needed him. His legs fought him, but he pushed through the numbness and out into the cloudy Westgate night.

  The cold rain cut visibility either way down Silverpiece Way to a daggercast. Clouds blocked the light of the full moon, painting the people around him into bleary shadows, long-faced caricatures of themselves, monsters rather than men or women. But as the spellscar numbed his body and blurred his vision, his other senses sharpened to make up for it. He took in the stale aroma of the docks—spilled beer and spoiled fish, moldy wood and sweaty bodies—mingled with the scents of cruelty beneath—spilled blood, spent bile, and the salt of unanswered tears. Westgate’s vileness was almost palpable in the air—this city that pretended at civilization but was, underneath, as corrupt as Luskan. In the rain, it all seemed rotten.

  He opened himself to the hungry curse inside his body and let it reach for Myrin. No other spellscar he had encountered made his scar ache the way hers did. And yearn after her it did, leading him around the ivy-draped wall of the abandoned keep. Beneath a dripping overhang, he saw a heavy iron gate wrought in a series of interlaced black stars, long ago sealed by rain and rust.

  Before this gate stood Myrin in her familiar pose: one elbow clasped behind her back, biting her lip, and digging one toe into the ground. Rain plastered her blue hair to her forehead and neck, and her clothes clung to her frame.

  “Myrin?” Kalen touched her arm.

  The rain eased and died away.

  At first, Myrin did not seem to notice his touch, as though she had grown as numb as Kalen. Then she shook off her stupor and met his eyes. “This,” she said. “I know this place.”

  “Do you remember this?” Kalen asked. “This manor house?”

  “I don’t,” she said. “But Umbra does.”

  Kalen remembered the doppelganger king of the Dragonbloods of Luskan. Myrin had absorbed his memories at a touch, drawing so much from him that he turned to dust.

  Myrin slowly nodded. “His memories—he remembers coming here with me. We passed this way together. I think …” She stepped toward the gates and raised one hand.

  Abruptly, the gate shivered as though to shake off a deep-set sloth. It made a sound simultaneously like that of rusted metal twisting and of a weary man sighing, and the iron curled into something like a human face.

  Kalen knew little of magic, but he recognized a gatekeeper ward when he saw it. Myrin’s eyes were wide—her expression amazed.

  “Well met, Mistress Darkdance.” The gate twisted itself open with a groan.

  Myrin turned an incredulous look to Kalen, who nodded. Even more than the ward keyed to her, the name confirmed it for both of them. He unbuckled his axe and followed at her side.

  Inside the courtyard stood an ancient, overgrown garden, its grasses all gone to weeds. Willows hung over the mossy, cobbled path, tracing their fingerlike branches across Kalen and Myrin’s faces and shoulders. Shapes that might have been statues lurked in the shadows of the trees, poised to lunge upon them at the least provocation. If not for the moon filtering dully through the brooding clouds, the courtyard would have been completely dark.

  “Easy.” Kalen’s eyes scanned the garden around them.

  “I’m not afraid,” Myrin said. “This is my place. I belong here.”

  They came to a set of stone steps leading to a very old set of oak doors twice their height. Stone braziers stood outside the doors, caked with dirt and filled with brownish water. Rainwater dripped off the eaves far overhead to spatter the stone at their feet.

  “Will someone answer if we knock?” Myrin asked.

  “Unlikely.” Kalen saw no lights in the whole of the palace, although he’d heard stories of passersby who’d seen things. He shrugged, then pounded his hand firmly on the oak.

  The sound echoed away into nothing, and silence reigned between them. They stood upon the threshold of the closed manor and waited. “Perhaps—” Kalen let the word trail away.

  They heard it at the same time—quiet footsteps from inside the door. Kalen tensed and raised the black axe. Myrin, by contrast, only stared.

  Finally, wood dragged against stone and one of the oak doors edged open. There was no light inside, but the moonlight filtered down to illuminate a squat figure. An ancient dwarf peered up at them with muddled white eyes. He was blind. Nonetheless, the dwarf turned to Myrin and offered his hand in silence.

  “I—” Hardly breathing, Myrin kneeled and put her head under his hand.

  His expression seemed at first mournful, then relaxed into contentment. He reached down with heavily wrinkled fingers to brush her cheek. Kalen saw bright azure runes spring into being on her skin and trail down her throat, deep into her road-dusty leathers.

  It lasted only three breaths before the contact broke. Myrin’s eyes fluttered and tears traced down her cheeks, parallel to the line of runes on the left side of her face.

  “He … He was holding me as a babe. I …” She rose and threw her arms around the dwarf. “This is Elevar, seneschal of my family’s estate—Darkdance Manor. I’m home.”

  In the dwarf’s embrace, Myrin shut her eyes tight and sniffed. “I’m home.”

  Kalen felt warmth kindle in his chest and a great weight slide from his shoulders. A tenday past, finding the path of Myrin’s memories had seemed so important and so impossible. Now he sighed, and for the first time in more than a month, the sound was peaceful.

  He looked up into the dark, cloudy sky and traced shining Selûne’s progress with weary eyes. Finding Myrin’s lost past was of great import, but so was the quest that had brought them to Westgate. An apprentice Kalen had let down. A mistake to be corrected.

  He had work to do this night.

  MIDNIGHT, 24 FLAMERULE

  THE MAN IN BLACK CROUCHED AMONG THE CARVED DRAGONS that guarded the House of Winds, the temple of Gruumsh the Destroyer, the god that the people of Westgate still called by his human name of Talos. Rumor had it that these fearsome rooftop edifices took life on certain dark nights when the full moon hid behind looming storm clouds—nights much like this one. In truth, far darker things patrolled the dank streets and moonlit rooftops of Westgate.

  Things like Shadowbane.

  Rain traced rivulets down his cloak and dripped off into darkness. He waited, motionless among the statues, and gazed out over his quarry. Across Eastgate Way stood the well-guarded network of taverns and warehouses that were the dominion of the Nine Golden Swords. With the influx of Shou into Westgate over the last century, it was no surprise they had managed to insinuate themselves in the chambers of power in the city. House Thorsar had intermarried long ago, and its heirs were half-Shou and fully supportive of the Nine Golden Swords as a consequence. After years spent quietly building their power, the gang had risen up and carved out their kingdom. Today, everyone knew it was death to cross them within its bounds.

  Smoky torches warded off the shadows as the sentries took
their watch duties seriously. They were anxious that night, moving with greater speed than usual, which would make access hard but not impossible. Getting in would be dangerous, but he had yearned for action in this—his city—for so long. This was his moment, which he had been awaiting and dreading in equal measure. Three years had passed since Shadowbane had skulked along the rooftops and alleys of Westgate, taking vengeance upon the guilty. He needed to make an impression.

  A statement.

  A group of haggard men stole down the road from the west, guiding two whickering horses that pulled a wagon behind them. By the way its wheels rolled lightly over the cobblestones, he knew it was empty, but he doubted it would remain so. The men wore deep cowls, but when one of them spoke to a sentry, the Chondathan accent came across clearly. These were servants of House Bleth, out to make a deal.

  Shadowbane would have something to say about that.

  He wasn’t sure he’d earned that name—not until just recently—but now he wore it proudly. It was a name of fear and of justice. He put his hand under his cloak and remembered that he did not have Vindicator. Summoning it now would not suit his plan. The sword was better left in the wind for now. He could make do without.

  The sentries turned away, and it was time at last.

  He threw himself out into the night, the rain tumbling around him. He slid down the sloping rooftop of the Temple of Winds and tensed his legs as he neared the edge. He leaped across the intervening distance to the hard wood roof of the nearest building—a brothel called the Roaring Dragon—and landed in a roll. He crouched on all fours, tense and unmoving while he listened for cries of alarm, but he heard nothing from the sentries and only muted speech from within. Keeping low, he stalked toward the window in the roof. There, he wiped away some of the filth and peered into the gloom.

  Half a dozen Shou—five warriors of the Nine Golden Swords and the long-bearded Old Man Tay, a lieutenant in the gang—waited inside a sumptuous sitting room. Tapestries of stylized dragons billowed from the walls and intricately carved statuary adorned the many tables of varying heights. A sort of magic imbued the room, Shadowbane recalled, the kind of ward that muffled the words uttered within, giving conspirators a sense of privacy. As expected, the Fire Knives pushed in through the opposite door, their bodies communicating wariness.