Shadowbane: Eye of Justice

by De Bie, Erik Scott

  “He has his quest,” she said finally. “I have mine.”

  With a satisfied nod, Ilira put out her gloved hand, which Myrin took in her own. She could feel the blue fire in the elf surge in response to her touch. This was right.

  “It will take some time—two days for me to confirm what we need. But first.” Ilira eyed Myrin up and down. “There is something we must do. Desperately.”

  “Oh?” Myrin’s stomach turned over.

  “Indeed.” Ilira gave her a suggestive smile. “We simply must get you out of that dress.”

  “Um.” Myrin’s knees quaked. “I, that is—”

  “And into the one I made for you.” Ilira smiled. “I hope you like blue.”

  Myrin beamed.

  The Bent Mermaid Inn at the edge of Tidetown was a Westgate institution, known as much for its awful service and swill as for the lascivious figurehead of a sea vixen bent almost double. Only pirates, freebooters, and other such refuse frequented its common room, paying in blood more often than silver.

  The Trickster’s body drew more than one eye as she passed through the creaking front doors of the ramshackle inn. She’d made no attempt to hide her identity other than her outward disguise, and she took some satisfaction in how many speculative eyes she drew. She crossed the common room, her heels clicking on the ale-drenched floor, and used the agreed-upon knock to gain entrance to the back chamber.

  “Ostentatious?” Hessar lounged on the couch with a handsome coinlad on one side and a coinlass on the other, both of whom he dismissed immediately. “That look hardly suits you.”

  “Perhaps.” The Trickster slid into a padded chair and folded one leg over the other. “Did you have something to ask me, or has it just been too long since you looked upon me?”

  “Rude as well as attention-seeking.” He rose and peered out a crack in the boarded-up window. “The Darkdance girl must be an idiot if she does not suspect something.”

  “Then she is an idiot,” the Trickster said. “I know her far better than you do, and I know exactly how to play her. This will be simple.”

  “As you say.” Hessar shrugged. “I have enough to worry about dealing with Levia and her once-student. Who would have thought he’d be so difficult to remove from our path?”

  “He does seem rather stuck on the little mageling. That was the problem between us.”

  “Us?” Hessar’s yellow eyes narrowed. “You’ve a history with this Kalen Dren?”

  “That hardly matters,” she said. “I’ve my task, and you’ve yours.”

  “That I do.”

  He crept closer to the edge of her chair and she stood, unsettled by his presence. “Maid of Misfortune,” she snarled. “I hate it when you do that.”

  “I know.” He settled into the vacated seat. “Our mutual master has another task for you. A certain item he wants recovered from the place Lady Darkdance is going next, in two days’ time.” He passed a piece of parchment to her. “That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.”

  “To steal it from under her fingers? Nay, that should be simple.” The Trickster unfolded the parchment and scanned the contents. “What is this? Magic of some sort?”

  “Nothing to concern you. Only that our master wants it, and what he wants—”

  “Yes, yes, but answer me, anyway. What—” The monk was gone. She sighed.

  She folded the parchment and stuffed it in her bodice. She rose to go, then thought better of putting on her coat. She had two days, he had said—why not make the most of them?

  “Maid! A drink!” Then, eyeing the lovely young woman: “And possibly some entertainment as well.”

  NIGHT, 30 FLAMERULE

  TWO DAYS LATER, MYRIN, ILIRA, AND BRACE HEADED down the Silverpiece Way under the watchful walls of Castle Vhammos to the south. Ilira led them toward the River Bridge that connected the Shou quarter to the rest of Westgate.

  After she’d agreed to help Myrin, Ilira had said she needed to acquire information and equipment, and told them to be ready. She wouldn’t tell them exactly what they would be doing, but Ilira had assured them it had to do with Myrin’s lost memories. For his part, the gnome had been less than enthusiastic about the trek—at least until Ilira had appeared that night in a tight suit of black leather that flattered her quite well. After that, Brace offered no objections.

  Ilira had also brought Myrin a gift wrapped in waxed paper that smelled distantly of flowers. The wizard caught her breath when she saw the contents: a figure-clinging gown of deep blue fabric that looked like silk but felt like warm sunlight.

  “Zlathas, harvested with silver sickles under the full moon in a Feywild grove,” Ilira had explained. “Mortals call it ‘feyweave.’ It takes no dirt nor suffers easy damage, and has an enchantment or two as well, as you’ll no doubt discover.”

  Myrin marveled at the amazing, perfectly tailored gown. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It was originally a gift from a … friend.” She donned an enigmatic smile. “I altered it to suit your figure. I have an eye for a lady’s measurements.”

  That made Myrin blush. “I can hardly accept—”

  “Please.” She put her gloved hands on Myrin’s shoulders. “I am glad to see it worn once more, to honor he who gave it to me.”

  Now, two hours later, Myrin imagined that conversation—and thought about the way her new-made dress made her feel absolutely heroic. Silvery mithral laced the sleeves, woven in the shape of stars that gleamed in the moonlight. She looked up into the dark night sky and wondered if she had donned a piece of the heavens itself. She felt heroic, in a sense, as though everything she’d done up until now had been the work of an apprentice, but now she had grown into a proper wizard.

  If only she could see the look on Kalen’s face now. Myrin’s neck tickled, as though someone was watching them from a distance, but she said nothing of this. Most women, she suspected, would feel unsettled to find themselves watched in this manner, but she felt relieved. Not because she needed—or wanted—Kalen following her, but it meant he was safe.

  “Same old Kalen,” she murmured to herself.

  They came to the River Bridge, but instead of crossing, Ilira led them over a fence of stout logs and down a rocky outcropping around to the space under the bridge. The river thundered over the precipice at their feet. Nearby, a sealed grate covered what looked like a sewer opening. That, Myrin realized, must be their destination, and she started toward it.

  “Wait.” Ilira put out an arm to ward Myrin back. Shadows coalesced around her fingers. “Come out now.”

  A figure rose from behind the rocks—how Ilira had seen her, Myrin couldn’t begin to guess—and stepped out of the shadow of the bridge. The shadow had one hand on the hilt of a sword sheathed at her belt, and she kept her white, pupil-less eyes on Ilira, offering a challenge.

  “All’s well, lady!” Brace stepped between them. “I asked Rujia to meet us here.”

  Myrin recognized Rujia now, although she’d never seen the deva quite so close. Her purple-on-white skin (or was it the reverse?) seemed to gleam in the moonlight, but otherwise she looked like a normal woman. Somehow, Myrin had expected her to project an aura of divine majesty, but she felt very mortal—made of flesh and blood like them.

  “I thought we could use another sword,” Brace said. “And Rujia’s grown bored at the studio over the last tendays. Methought she could help.”

  Rujia inclined her head. “Well met, Ladies Darkdance and Nathalan.”

  “Well met.” Myrin bowed.

  Ilira weighed the deva with her eyes. Myrin used the same technique Ilira had suggested to her that day at the manor: selecting a single focus—in this case Ilira’s haunting gold eyes—to let her perception expand. She picked up the elf’s wariness, surely, but also an undercurrent of genuine animosity. Myrin saw Ilira’s huge shadow coursing at her feet, reflecting her anxiety.

  Amazing, Myrin thought, how Ilira had opened her perception. With just those brief words, she’d expanded tenf
old upon the lessons Kalen had taught.

  “Right,” Brace said, oblivious to the tension between the women. “I would have gone first, but—” He gestured to the chain and lock that secured the grate.

  Taking her eyes hesitantly from the deva, Ilira kneeled at the door, drew out two metal wires, and set to work on the lock. “I have some oil in my bag. Work on the hinges, would you?”

  “With pleasure.” Brace grinned. “I shall oil anything you ask, my lady.”

  The work seemed to come as naturally to Ilira as scrawling her name or using a spoon might to Myrin, and why not? A century of practice at anything probably made it into a habit.

  As Ilira worked, Myrin saw Rujia watching her. “Well met,” she said again.

  “Lady.” Rujia nodded. Myrin wondered what lurked behind the deva’s otherwise impenetrable eyes. Rujia seemed more a mystery than Ilira, which was saying much.

  “So … you’ve come to help us because Brace asked you to?” Myrin asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh?” The deva hadn’t tried to lie to her. “Then why are you here?”

  “Someone has to keep Brace out of trouble.”

  “Ah.” Myrin had only known the gnome a matter of days, but she understood quite well. “Welcome, then.” She offered her hand in friendship, but Rujia only looked at it blankly. Myrin withdrew her hand. “Right.”

  The lock clicked and Ilira pulled it away, along with a cloudburst of rust that cascaded to the ground. The door opened rather easily, thanks to Brace’s work on the hinges. True to his word, the gnome stepped into the gloom first, followed by Rujia. Myrin made to go third, but Ilira laid a gloved hand on her arm to still her.

  “Be wary,” Ilira said. “Devas have hard faces to read, and we do not know her.”

  “We hardly know each other,” Myrin said. “And Brace knows her, so that’s well. I trust his judgment.”

  Ilira gave her a dubious look, then shrugged. “As you will.” She went inside.

  Myrin lingered outside the entrance to the sewers, that feeling of scrutiny making her neck prickle. She looked out at the rooftops, but of course she would not see him.

  “I hope you’re safe tonight, Kalen.” She clasped her elbow behind her back. “I—”

  “Lady Darkdance?” Brace called.

  Myrin nodded. “I miss you,” she said to the night.

  Then she went in.

  As he ran along crenellations and leaped from rooftop to rooftop in the old central district near the market, Kalen chided himself for hesitating to call on Levia for aid immediately upon his arrival in Westgate. Not only did she have better information than he did—her contacts had led them to this night’s destination—but he had to confess he enjoyed hunting with her.

  Clad in gray woolens and carrying both Vindicator and Sithe’s axe, he chased his former teacher over the treacherous rooftops, trying to spot her as she ducked into shadows or around chimneys. As adept as Kalen had become at free-running over the years, Levia still outdid him at every turn. He had always suspected magic made the difference, and he would not have been surprised if she used an invisibility charm at times when she vanished only to reappear suddenly just behind him. “Keep alert,” she would say, and run on.

  There had been numerous reports of a leather-clad vigilante stalking thieves at night, and every night in Westgate saw a thousand intrigues in various stages—every one a potential hit. Kalen might have been lost at the sheer scope of the options, but Levia had always possessed an amazing knack for choosing the right place to be at the right time. With some study of her detailed logs, a few interrogated guttersnipes, and a little coin spread around, she’d come up with an answer by the second day.

  The Fire Knives had put out rumors of a second meeting with the Shou, and there was a high degree of likelihood the false Shadowbane would show himself, if only to carry on his work. This time, they were meeting on Bleth’s home terrain, where the Fire Knives would have the advantage. Construction scaffolds studded the nearby buildings. Crossbowmen stationed many of these projects, passing the time with pipeweed or dice. It was clearly a trap, but not for them. Thus, Kalen and Levia sneaked through without difficulty.

  He was glad Levia had not insisted on bringing the shade along with them. Instead, she had told Hessar to keep up appearances at Castle Thalavar, covering for her so she could “go deep,” as she put it. This was her element—working at Kalen’s side—but even so he detected a slight hesitation in her movements. Perhaps her age was catching up to her, or perhaps her heart truly wasn’t in this. She had wanted to play a longer game—to wait for the false Shadowbane to come to them, rather than hunt him down—but Kalen had insisted. Levia had closed the discussion by remarking on Kalen’s impatience, which apparently had not changed since their years of training together, and agreed to follow his lead nevertheless.

  When Levia fell short on a leap to the escape ladder of a tallhouse, Kalen couldn’t help mocking her a little. “With the scene you’re making, he’s probably already seen us coming. You’re not trying to warn him off, are you?”

  The priestess gave him an unhappy pout, but he could see laughter in her eyes. Levia was having a good time, and Kalen was as well. They were old friends playing a familiar game.

  Kalen couldn’t help but think about newer friends, though, thanks in part to his yearning spellscar. He hadn’t seen Myrin in days. He hoped she was well and had the good sense to stay away from the Nathalan woman.

  “Kalen?”

  They’d paused on the rooftop of a tallhouse near the Bleth yards, where the meeting was supposedly taking place. They still had an hour yet, but already Fire Knives had gathered in the surrounding area, making an effort to seem disinterested, there by coincidence.

  Levia turned to him where they crouched behind a sharp-slanted roof for cover. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Lady Darkdance. I can’t help thinking I made the wrong choice, and that she needs me.”

  “That’s always been your problem, Kalen Dren,” Levia said, looking cross. “You think everyone needs you all the time.”

  “Don’t you need me? To do this, that is.”

  She edged a bit closer, a challenge in her eyes. “Is that all you’re going to ask me? You’ve been away three years, and now it’s just business between us?”

  That seemed unusual to Kalen—both that Levia would be so forward in asking and that she would be so loud. Was she trying to get them caught?

  Then he glimpsed, over her shoulder, a leather-clad man crouching in the shadows of the rooftop opposite their own. The man bore no weapon, but sure enough, Kalen could feel that same distant pull on Vindicator, growing stronger with proximity. And as easily as Kalen had detected him, so, too, did the false Shadowbane catch sight of Kalen’s hiding place. He ran.

  Levia’s face dipped toward him, but Kalen pulled away.

  “He’s made us,” he said, and immediately gave chase.

  Men shouted and crossbow bolts flew through the night, narrowly missing the fleeing men. Levia sat there, startled that Kalen had gone so suddenly—and stunned after what she had almost done. Had she truly been about to kiss him?

  And more importantly, how would he have responded if she had? After what had passed between them three years ago, surely trying to kiss him invited nothing but disaster. But she had been caught up in the moment, invigorated by the run across the rooftops. Had she grown so addled in these last years as to expect anything more of him?

  Now she could only watch as he leaped across to the next rooftop, chasing Shadowbane.

  “Time to be serious, Levia,” she told herself.

  “Agreed,” a voice said. “You really should stop embarrassing yourself.”

  Levia summoned a spell to her lips, but held her magic when she saw Hessar, who had appeared out of the shadows at her side. The Calishite wore a cold smile.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  The monk didn’t immediately answer, but rath
er looked after Kalen, who had gained the opposite roof and bounded across after the imposter Shadowbane. “Your lovely man certainly is dedicated,” he said. “But his attentions should be moved in a different direction, I think.”

  “Kalen charts his own path. And I can’t keep lying to him, Hessar.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “Are you here for a purpose, or are you delaying me to no good end?”

  The monk bristled a touch at that, but he said nothing. He drew a folded piece of parchment from his sleeve. “I’ve been following the Nathalan woman.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Levia pointed after Kalen.

  “You’ll want to see this,” Hessar said. “As will he, albeit for a different reason.”

  “Different—?” Levia asked, but the monk had vanished, the way he often did. “I hate that man sometimes.” With no convenient pocket, she stuffed the note into her bodice.

  Levia looked to where the two Shadowbanes had gone, and sure enough, Kalen had almost disappeared over a far rooftop. Hesitation cost battles, Gedrin had always told her, and Levia felt her heart pick up speed. She needed to catch Kalen and stop him before he unmasked the new Shadowbane. Also, the trapdoor leading onto the roof opened as she watched and Fire Knives climbed out to investigate. She ducked behind temporary cover and cursed. If she stayed still, she would lose Kalen and Shadowbane, and if she moved, the Knives would see her.

  Fortunately, she had a solution to both problems, in the form of a ring she wore with the stone facing into her palm. She righted it to activate its magic, and immediately her body began to shake. The world around her seemed to slow and drag, and to anyone else she would look like a blur of motion. When she started moving, they would hardly see her at all. As the Fire Knives appeared on the roof, their crossbows sluggishly rising toward her, she whirled and ran. The world moved slowly around her hastened state, making leaping to the opposite roof a simple matter. Crossbow bolts floated lazily beside her, and she eluded them without thought.