Flick shrugged. “I look like a blushing maid to you?”
If Kalen remembered little else about Flick from more than a decade ago, he knew she could convince anyone of anything. The woman was steel cloaked in silk.
“Farewell.” He got to his feet and stepped around the counter toward the alley.
“Wait. You’ll need this.” Flick pressed Ebbius’s half-emptied bottle of rum into his hand. She appraised him shrewdly, hands on her hips. “You didn’t have to do what you did, Little Dren, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful.” Then she smiled her familiar toothy grin. “But get out of my shop, you hrasting scamp.”
Kalen stared at her a moment, then nodded grimly. “I won’t be back.”
He pushed through the door into the alley. The reek of vomit and mostly dried blood assailed his nostrils, but he put the smells out of his mind. Two hours here, and he’d already grown accustomed to the stench.
Little Dren.
He didn’t like returning to this city for many reasons, but the biggest was who-what-he’d been. He didn’t want to go back to that, but if he had to, he would.
Bending low, Kalen set Ebbius against the wall then leaned back on his haunches, considering. He uncorked the bottle Flick had given him and reversed it over the tiefling’s head, pouring a flood of dark liquid over his horned head. Then he rose and started pacing before the tiefling, prowling like a hunting cat.
In a breath, Ebbius sputtered into wakefulness. He coughed and reached up to his head. “Ow, what the Hells, Little Dren? This any way to treat an old friend?”
“The girl.” Kalen cracked his knuckles.
“Girl? What girl-gah!” He cried out when Kalen smashed the wall next to his ear with his fist. “Crazy blaggard! What the-”
Kalen studied his numb hand. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Trying to scare me won’t wash, hark? You and that Flicking bitch can just-ah!”
Kalen punched again, this time closer and harder. His fist met the wall with an audible crackle. Still, he felt nothing.
The tiefling glared at him, all defiance. “You won’t hurt me. You could have killed my men, but you didn’t.” Ebbius’s tail flicked around contemptuously. “Sorry, Little Dren-if that is you-but I know you too well.”
“You knew a boy,” Kalen said. “You do not know me.”
With that, he plucked up Ebbius’s darting tail and slammed it into the wall. Bone cracked, and the tiefling howled. “Well, well, very well!” Ebbs cried. “What do you want?”
“I told you,” Kalen said. “I’m looking for a girl taken about four days back. You’d remember her. Slim, about a score of winters, blue hair.”
“Blue hair? Boyo, now you’re just fantasiz-ahh!” His words cut off in a cry of alarm when Kalen grasped his left hand as though to slam it into the wall next. “Blue-haired girl. Of course. I heard things.”
Kalen clenched Ebbius’s hand tighter. “Things?”
Ebbius swallowed sharply. “Blue-haired girl, traveling with a dwarf caravan. Ambushers killed some dwarves, took the lass prisoner. That’s all I know.”
“Was she hurt?”
Ebbius shrugged. “She’s just some girl. Why do you care?”
His words cut off when Kalen grasped him by the collar and shoved him back against the wall. The tiefling raised his hands over his face to ward off Kalen’s blade before it got to his face. “Ai-ai! Don’t be sore! Just being plain!”
“Where is she?” Kalen demanded. “Who took her?”
The tiefling shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“Where?” Kalen slammed his fist into the wall next to Ebbius’s ear. Bone crunched and cracks spread up the stone.
“I don’t know!” the tiefling cried. “Godsdammit, I don’t know!”
Kalen believed him-not merely because of the clarity in Ebbius’s eye, but also because of the darkening stain on the front of the tiefling’s breeches. Ebbius was too afraid to lie. Disgusted, he dropped the soiled tiefling to the ground.
Once again, anger had risen in him-anger so foolish it had broken his hand. The old monster was scratching to come out. He made an effort to suppress it.
Leaning against the wall, Kalen loosed a sigh. “Who has the power to do this?”
“What?” Ebbius coughed, grasping his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Myrin isn’t weak and dwarves don’t travel unarmed.” He turned to Ebbius. “So I’ll ask one more time: Who has the resources to get this done? One of the Five?”
“One of ’em, perhaps.” Ebbius narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth. “The Dustclaws out of South Shore. Bruisers break anything if the coin’s right-windows, doors, heads, what-have-you. Leader’s a half-orc, name of Duulgrin. Nasty piece.”
“I know all about the Dustclaws.” Kalen remembered them from his boyhood: eight or ten of the toughest brutes in the city. They must have grown in power and number in his absence. He gestured back to the building. “Your hired hands are Dustclaws.”
“Right, right,” Ebbius said. “Crush ’n’ grab’s their game. That clan of dwarves got beat pretty fierce, which fits the Dustclaw way of doing things. Maybe they did it.”
“But they didn’t,” Kalen said.
“Could be.” The tiefling shrugged. “Could be the Dragonbloods.”
“The Shou, you mean?”
Ebbius nodded. “The old garrison on Blood Island-it’s a regular empire now, as much as is possible in Luskan. The Dragon could have done it.”
“Their leader,” Kalen said. “Is he an actual dragon?”
“Nobody knows.” Ebbius spat and wiped his mouth. “That one’s paranoid as a closet moondancer in shady Netheril. You get his true name, you tell me, aye?”
Kalen nodded “That’s two of the Captains. There are three more.”
The five powerful chieftains who called themselves “Captains” had ruled over Luskan for over a century. The moniker hearkened from back when the city still had a real government, when the rulers had been genuine seafaring pirate kings. The name stuck by tradition.
“Master of the Throat,” Ebbius said. “Pretty thing like yer girl make a fine consort.”
“Not him,” Kalen said.
“Necromancers get lonely too.”
“Not. Him.” If it was the necromancer, then Myrin was already dead. And worse.
Ebbius shrugged. “Spinners wouldn’t do it.”
“Spinners?” Kalen frowned. Flick had mentioned the church of Tymora.
“New outfit, the Coin Spinners,” Ebbius said. “They moved into the old temple, became one of the Five a year or so back. More like an armed camp than a church-they do food ’n’ beds, not kidnapping. ’Course it’s a front, but isn’t everything? You’d like ’em.”
Now Kalen understood the significance of the painted gold coin with the horns marking Flick’s shop. It was the Coin-Spinner’s mark. “Do the Spinners serve Tymora or Beshaba?”
“What do I know about gods?” Ebbius countered.
“True.” An uneasy certainty came over Kalen as to the identity of the fifth gang in power. “What about the Rats?”
“The Dead Rats, aye,” Ebbius said. “They’re the fifth, as always.”
The Dead Rats had a reputation even in Luskan for treachery and ruthless dealing, and they were notorious throughout the North. Their legendary blessing-some of the gang became more like rodents than men when the moon grew full-was the stuff of legend in the streets. He wasn’t sure if it was true.
“You used to run with them, didn’t you?” Kalen asked.
“No, no,” Ebbius said. “You’re thinking of some other tiefling. No blood oaths for Ebbius the Rake, nay. You know what they do when you try to leave the gang? Give you a curse, then chew you up so bad-”
“I’ve seen their leavings,” Kalen said. “So did they do it?”
“The Dead Rats,” Ebbius mused. “Can’t say as they took this girl of yours, but they certainly could’ve done. Top enforcer’s a black-hide, nam
e a’ Sithe.”
“Sithe.” Kalen shivered. “Black skin-is she a drow?”
“Nuh-uh. Can’t say for certain, but she’s sumfin’ dark, she and that axe of hers. You steer clear of her, lest you’re none too fond of your head these days.”
Kalen nodded. “Dustclaws, Dragonbloods, the Dead Rats, the Coin-Spinners, and the necromancer and his pets.” At least he had some names to start his search. “And you squeeze for the Tymorans.”
“Now where’d you get an idea like that?”
“Flick might have mentioned it.”
“Bitch.” Ebbius managed a little smile-his confidence was coming back. “Work for meself, Kalen-you know that.”
Kalen shrugged. “Well, whoever’s filling your pocket, you’ll trouble Flick no more. If I hear about retribution, I will find you.”
“Oh, I’d not worry about that.” Ebbius bared all his teeth. “You’d best watch your own back. You leave me sore like this, there’ll be mirth for all, I promise you that.”
“Best not leave you sore then.”
Kalen seized the tail anew. Ebbius wailed, but Kalen clapped a hand over his mouth. He focused his will, forcing power to gather. His hand glowed with the healing touch given to a paladin and the bones knit back together. The blessing even soothed the breaks in his hand.
“Damn,” the tiefling said. “Say, you all right?”
It was getting harder, healing at a touch. This time, it was a miracle he managed it without a blinding headache. Not that he could show Ebbius any weakness.
“Did any of this really happen?” Kalen leaned close and sniffed. “Or did you take a bath in rum and piss yourself as you imagined it?”
The tiefling glared. “They’ve truth-speakers, you son of an orc’s whore!”
“And you’ll be quick to tell them all about the information you divulged.”
The tiefling’s glare was positively murderous. “What happened to you, Kalen?” Ebbius asked. “Thirteen years back, we’d have shared this rum and bickered over that bitch’s coin. Found a god or two?” He sneered. “Or perhaps it be this blue-haired girl, aye?”
Kalen punched Ebbius across the face. The tiefling’s horns cracked against the alley wall and he fell, senseless.
Flexing his fist, Kalen considered. Ebbius had given him only a little to go on, but Kalen suspected one of those names he’d dropped was dead on for who had Myrin. He had to assume the Master of the Throat didn’t have her, or she was dead already. That left the Dustclaws, the Dragon and his Shou, the Spinners, the Dead Rats with their dark enforcer, Sithe. The name resonated in his mind for some reason.
“Time to light some fires,” he said.
He left the alley.
The red one wakes slowly, clenching his head. His skin is tough and the color of burned meat. He props himself up on the alley wall, inspecting the blood on his hand.
Red blood.
Hot blood.
It smells like the sweetest of sweetmeats.
“Son of a-” He flicks his fingers, sending blood speckling across the stone. “Sodding Little Dren. Soon as I tell …”
He looks this way. We hide in the shadows.
We wait.
We hunger.
The door opens and two other ones appear. A big one with big teeth. Another one. They are weak. They shed blood. We chitter. We hiss with hunger.
The tusked one speaks. “Ebbs. You up?”
“Dammit, Little Dren.” The red one shakes his head. “We’ll get that tluiner!”
The words mean nothing. A name. Names have no taste.
We hunger. We cannot wait.
We surge forth.
The puny metal-studded one cries out as we take him.
The other ones cry out. They call for help. Help will not come.
The red one escapes, many of us clinging and biting. He will be ours.
We have the big one. He struggles. We feast. His screamsbecome gurgles formed deep in his throat.
We leave his bones.
The red one backs against the wall. He searches for a way out.
There is none.
We swallow him.
CHAPTER FOUR
22 KYTHORN (JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT)
Midnight in Luskan was the best and worst time of night-best for the thieves and murderers, worst for their victims. Kalen stalked down the street, his cloak obscuring his face. He’d taken off his helm and stowed it in his pack, but wore the rest of his armor. Hood low, shoulders slightly hunched, he could be any other resident of the city.
Dawn lay hours off and only a few lamps lasted this long into the night. The gangs always treated the lamps as more of a game than a civic service. As the night wore on and Selune saw more dastardly deeds done in the street, the lamplights would die slowly of attrition, extinguished by muggers, thieves, and murderers in preparation for their crimes. It was a marvel the lamps were lit at all, a phenomenon due largely to their fading hold on the old Arcane Brotherhood’s power, which drove them to, light on their own. Otherwise, no one would have bothered to light them in the first place.
Kalen tried hard not to let the night take him back fifteen years, to a time when he had been just another merciless wretch on these miserable streets. A beggar boy-a street thief, mugger, occasionally a murderer. He wore the mantle of paladin now, but even that seemed far away. Where was his god-blessed sword, if he was still a paladin?
And why did the healing touch come so hard to him these days? He would gladly heal more of his injuries, but he’d used it all up on Ebbius. What a waste that had been.
A pair of figures in rough-spun robes-a man and a woman-strode down the street, crying out a call and response. Painted gold coins hung around their necks. A few folk lingered under awnings or folded-over refuse to lend them an ear.
“The man saw his enemy, all clad in steel,” the woman sang, in something like verse but not quite. “A chief of Many-Arrows, crushing men under heel.”
“How could he fight such a dangerous foe?” The man’s words carried a hint of meter, but nothing remotely musical. “Without his fine sword, with mere shards of a bow?”
“To luck he prayed and by luck was he spared,” sang the woman, whose voice was better. “Orc steel broke ’gainst sword, and he tackled his foe.”
“Then kicked the fell orc in back o’ th’ head,” said the man, “then stomped twice and thrice, ’til the orc he was dead.”
Kalen waited until they were gone. Their shared ballad-a paean to Tymora-faded. The Coin-Spinners were by all appearances true believers, though they really couldn’t sing. They were bold to venture through Dustclaw territory, where every other building bore the gang’s symbol: a dripping claw inside a rough circle. Was it faith or power?
He looked in the direction they had gone and saw Clearlight, the old temple to Lady Luck, standing on the hill. Beacon fires burned inside a high wall bare of adornment. Perhaps the Tymoran gang had removed the statuary that once studded its balconies.
“Plagues and priests,” Kalen murmured. “Strange things are happening in Luskan.”
He lingered at the threshold of an alley that stank of piss and watched the Dustclaw tavern. Meant to cow rivals and dissuade attacks, the Dustclaws’ repurposed tavern was a solid, heavily reinforced structure, its door strewn with claws torn from dozens of fearsome beasts.
Breaking into the place, he thought, would make navigating the seedy streets of Dock Ward back in Waterdeep seem like a casual stroll through a meadow full of flowers. Attempting to steal from a gang promised a gruesome death by torture. Invading their home invited worse reprisals. But for Kalen-who had spent the last year living in the dangerous tunnels of Downshadow-the Dustclaw tavern held no fear. It was a building like any other, so he bided his time and observed its weaknesses.
Reprisals didn’t matter. If the gods were kind, he’d find Myrin and be out of this accursed city by the following dawn. That is, if she even still lived. He had to believe she did. If not …
He waited an hour for the guard to change before he concluded that the warchief of the Dustclaws liked to wrench as much watch duty as possible out of his men. Damn.
He heard shuffling footsteps down the road and pulled back tighter into his hiding place. A man walked with an uneven gait-one leg moving normally, the other dragging as though he barely remembered its purpose. Blood streamed down his face, and he seemed to be talking to himself-addressing voices Kalen could not hear in a language that made no sense.
“Feh,” the man said. “Feh, feh.”
Kalen recognized the shambler as one of the thugs from Flick’s-the ugly pierced man whose ruined face he’d caved in with a kick. Why had he taken so long to get back and what had happened in the interim?
The man’s head snapped side to side, his eyes constantly rolling toward things not there. “Feh-feh,” he muttered, his words caught in a never-ending stutter. “Feh!”
Threefold God, Kalen thought. How hard had he hit the man?
“Oi!” cried one of the Dustclaws from across the street.
The man bared a mouth full of broken teeth. “Feh?” he asked.
“Oi!” A hand clapped the man’s shoulder and he fell to the ground as though struck. There he lay, panting and moaning, his hands twitching like dying spiders.
Two Dustclaws stood over the ailing man, staring down with wary gazes. “What’s the matter with him?” asked one.
“Gods only know,” said the other. “Bring him inside. Master will want to see.”
The first of the guards stooped to take the crazed man by the arms, but the man thrashed violently, clawing the hands away. When the guard reached for him again, the madman caught his arm and closed his teeth on his wrist. “Shazsah!” the guard cried. “Dhao-spawn bit me!”
“Zah!” The other guard stomped on the madman’s stomach, curling him in a pained ball. “Blood-burner. He’s on mist, perhaps?”
“He should hope that’s so,” said the wounded man, poking at his wrist. “Else, he will feel every inch of my blade through his guts.”
“Burning sand,” said his comrade with a nod.
Kalen had no more idea what had happened to the madman than the Calishite guards did, but he knew to take an opportunity when it appeared.
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