Downshadow w-3 Read online

  They stepped into the street. A furious Kolatch shouted and cursed after the distant red head of Talanna, who was running westward like a charger after the boy. They turned south along the busy Snail Street, cutting back into Dock Ward.

  "Think he'll escape?" Kalen asked softly.

  "Unlikely. Tal's the fastest lass in Waterdeep."

  "And this Lueth is only a boy," Kalen said. "Short legs."

  Araezra smiled and laughed.

  Kolatch, hearing their voices, wheeled on them and glared. "Smiling fools! That knave has taken hundreds of dragons from me!"

  "The Watch will return your good when the thief is caught," Araezra said. "We know his name and face-have no fear."

  "Bane's breath," Kolatch cursed. He stared at Araezra and his lip curled.

  Kalen felt a familiar tingle behind his eyes: cruelty hung in the air. Araezra seemed to sense it too.

  "Though it's to be expected," the merchant said, wiping his sweat-covered brow in the morning sun. "Those damned pointy ears-can never really trust em." He spat in the dirt.

  Kalen hid his contempt. Waterdeep was a free city, one where any blood was accepted so long as the coin was good, but there existed some few who held these sorts of views.

  "I'm not sure I take your meaning, goodsirj1 Araezra said.

  Kolatch sniffed. "One day, thems that buys from pointy-eared, thin-blooded freaks like them, or the spellscarred, what should stay down below in Downshadow," he said. "One day, the taint on that coin'll be seen. And on that day, we'll rid ourselves of the whole lot. Keep 'em away from our homes and our lasses-" he grinned and stepped toward Araezra, who narrowed her eyes.

  "That will be enough, goodsir," said Araezra.

  Kolatch spread his hands. "Just trying to watch over you, ere you find a husband."

  "I hardly need your protection." Araezra fingered the sword at her belt.

  "Just a concerned citizen," Kolatch said. "But as you wish. And if a handful of those tree-blooded elves or those spellscarred monsters winds up… uncomfortable in sight of my dealings, I'll make sure not to protect them either, eh?" He pursed his lips. "All tot you, sweetling."

  Kalen knew the man was dangerous. But he had confessed nothing, so they could do nothing against him. Kalen knew how that would infuriate Araezra-she, who would take good and justice over the law of Lords any day of any year.

  The fat merchant gave her a "what are you going to do, wench?" grin.

  Kalen heard a roar beginning in Araezra's throat and started toward her. "Araezra…"

  Kolatch looked over at the unassuming Kalen. He said nothing, but his eyes were laughing-asking what a beautiful woman was doing trying to wear a uniform and sword, and whether Kalen was going to defend her honor.

  "The day goes on," Kalen said. "Let us leave Goodman Kolatch to his coin gathering."

  The merchant gave a little chuckle, and Kalen could see the arrogance in his eye.

  Araezra turned smartly on her heel and started down the Street of Silver.

  Kolatch grinned after her. "And of course, sir and lady," he said, "if you catch the thief, I shall lower my prices for your custom-for the service you do me."

  Araezra bristled, and Kalen braced himself.

  "My thanks," she said tightly. "But bribes tend to insult me rather than flatter."

  Kolatch's smile only widened. "Well, have it your own way," he said. "Lass."

  Araezra's eyes narrowed and Kalen knew she wanted to say something-loudly-but stopped herself only by virtue of her discipline.

  "Come," Kalen said, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "We must let justice work itself at times." He smiled at Kolatch.

  The merchant gave Kalen a little nod and the sort of sneering smile nobility-striving merchants reserved for men they thought lower than themselves.

  After they had walked half a block down the Way of the Dragon, Araezra uttered a sharp curse that would have startled an admirer of her self-discipline.

  "You should have hit him," she said. "Not as a guard, of course, but…"

  "Araezra," Kalen said.

  "Hells, /should have hit him," she said. "Not out in the street, of course, but… we could have brought someone from the Watchful Order to wipe his memory, aye? No harm done, aye?"

  Kalen smiled and shook his head.

  She sighed. "You're no help." She looked down the street where Talanna had run. "Reckon we should follow?"

  "You know how I am on my feet." Kalen coughed.

  "True," she said. "I imagine Tal can handle one little scamp. Aye." She shook out her long black braid and yawned. "Forget the barracks-let's go to the Knight for a quick morningfeast. Feel like a stroll?"

  Kalen put out his arm and Araezra, with a smile, took it. They turned back down the Dragon toward south Dock Ward. She leaned her head against his shoulder briefly, almost without realizing it. Kalen was familiar with her habits.

  He could feel a cough boiling up inside and bent all his focus to stop it.

  Araezra yawned again and stretched. "If Jarthay gives me patrol duty outside the walls one more time, I swear I shall fall asleep in the saddle, or fall out of-Kalen?"

  Trying and failing to fight it, Kalen coughed and clutched at his burning chest.

  "I will make of myself a darkness," he whispered. He cupped his hand over his ring, which bore the sigil of a gauntlet with an eye. "A darkness where there is no pain-only me."

  "Feeling well?" Araezra's face was concerned. "Kalen? Kalen, what's wrong?"

  Only me, he thought, and tried not to taste the blood on his tongue.

  It subsided-his last meal slowly sank back to his belly.

  "Well enough," he said. He reached down, fingers trembling, and found Araezra's hand. Numbness stole the feeling from his fingers, so he squeezed her hand only gently-he couldn't be sure how hard he was clutching her. She didn't seem pained, and that pleased him.

  Araezra's eyes searched his face. "These morning duties are hard on you, I can tell," she said. "I'll speak with Jarthay-move us to a less nocturnal schedule."

  "I'll manage," Kalen said, as he always did.

  Araezra smiled. They walked on, each in their own space this time.

  "Thank you, Kalen," she said. "Back there… you know how I can be."

  "I know," he said absently, and he laid his hand on her shoulder. His touch was brotherly. "Your coin at the Knight?"

  "Agreed." She smiled at him. "Come, aide-lead the way." "Sir," he replied.

  As they walked south, Kalen reviewed his mental note of the jewelry-surely cheap, likely fenced-that he had seen in Kolatch s shop. Kalen's sharp eye had noted it all: three earrings, a ruby-eye pendant that would be easily recognized, and the dragon brooch. He studied it in his mind, making sure he remembered it keenly.

  They reached the Knight 'n Shadow, at the corner of Fish and Snail streets, after a brisk walk. The bells of Waterdeep's clock (named, by its uninspired dwarven builders, the "Timehands") chimed: one small bell past dawn.

  Kalen guided Araezra through the door of the tavern and waved for a pair of ales.

  TWO

  The Knight 'n Shadow was a two-story tavern, connected by a long, poorly lit staircase that spanned two worlds: Waterdeep above, and Downshadow below.

  The Sea Knight tavern, which previously occupied the site, had utterly collapsed in 1425. Whether the result of a wizards' duel or a bout of spellplague (the accounts of locals differed), no one could ever say for certain. Some enterprising miner had dug out the cellar and discovered its connection to Undermountain. He built stairs, platforms for sitting, and a rope ladder, hired burly, ugly guards with spears to keep the monsters and coinless hunters at bay, and the shadow-dark half of the tavern-was born. The knight above ground grew shabby and dingy, like a sheet of parchment soaking up blood from below. It absorbed the stink of Downshadow and became the same sort of place: a squatting ground for unsuccessful treasure hunters, coin-shy adventurers, and other criminals. Men like Rath.

  The dwarf sa
vored the tavern's duality. It reminded him of himself: smooth faced, even handsome on the surface, but hard as steel beneath. Perfect for his line of work.

  Quite at ease in his heavy black robe despite the moist heat of the shadow below, Rath sipped his ale, ignoring the two dwarves wholike all dwarves who approached him-had come to test their mettle. Like all dwarves in every wretched land he visited, he mused.

  They had seated themselves, uninvited, at his table, and had stared at him without speaking for the last hundred count. The first-an axe fighter with a thick black beard tied in four bunches that brushed his hard, round belly-sipped at his tankard. The other-a dwarf with a thick red-gold beard that spilled over his wide chest-was trying hard not to let Rath catch him laughing. He'd cover his mouth so as not to erupt with laughter, but the sounds that escaped his fingers were reedy and almost girlish-grating in Rath's ears.

  Finally, when the stench of the dwarves had grown too much for his nose, Rath said, in a mild, neutral tone, "May I help you gentles in some way?"

  The two dwarves looked at one another as though sharing some private joke.

  Blackbeard smirked at Rath. "Lose a bet?"

  It was the smooth face. Dwarves could respect a bald pate, as many went bald at a young age, but to have no beard was practically a crime against the entire dwarf race.

  The red-bearded one let loose a loud burst of his childish laughter, as though this was the funniest jest he had ever heard, and slapped the table. Rath's tankard of watered ale toppled, spilling its contents across the grubby wood and into his lap.

  Anger flared-hot dwarf anger that was his birthright. Immediately he rose, and the pair rose with him, hands touching steel. Their eyes blazed dangerously.

  "Now, now, boy," said the smiling Blackbeard, hand going for a knife at his belt.

  Cold swept through Rath, smothering his natural reaction. It was a trick, he realized, so he did not meet their challenge. Instead, he waved for more ale, then sat down and began picking at his black robe, unable to keep the disdain from his face. He'd just had his clothes laundered.

  The dwarves watched Rath warily as he sat, and he knew their game. That had been a move calculated to provoke a brawl. Now, though, their trick spoiled, they stood uneasily, halfway to their. seats, half standing. Rath found it amusing and allowed himself the tiniest smile.

  "You're just going to sit there?" asked Blackbeard. "After I insult you?"

  "Obviously," said Rath.

  Redbeard chuckled, but Blackbeard scowled and cut his companion off with a hiss. He leaned in close. "What kind of dwarf are you that won't rise to fight?"

  "A kind more pleasant than yours, it seems."

  Blackbeard's race went a little redder, and his red-bearded friend stopped laughing. The eyes in the tavern turned toward them and Rath could hear conversations subsiding.

  Rath wondered if these were native dwarves or foreigners. The dwarves of Waterdeep were few enough, but trade and coin were good in the city. Thus they came, those more accustomed to the merchant's scales than hammer and pick. Plenty of mining went on to employ those with traditional skills, in the bowels of fabled Undermountain or in the new neighborhoods popping up all over the city. In UnderclifF, beneath the eastern edge of the old city, dwarves sculpted homes out of the mountainside (illicitly or not). Or in the Warrens, where they could dwell amongst others their own size.

  Rath had never considered going to either of those cesspools, and he had no drive to dig or mine. These two did not look like builders or diggers-more like fighters. Foreigners, he decided-sellswords or adventurers, the kind who itched for trouble. He could see it in their bearing and in their confident glares. Besides, had they been Waterdhavian, they might have heard of the beardless, robed dwarf who stalked Downshadow and thus known better than to bother him.

  The beardless dwarf, for true, he mused. He hadn't thought of himself as a dwarf in some time-not since he had shaved his beard on his twentieth winter solstice, forty years gone.

  "I don't like being ignored," Blackbeard said finally, unable to hold back his anger. "You get on your feet, or Moradin guide me, I'll cut your throat where you sit." He drew his knife.

  The red-bearded dwarf gave the same wheezing giggle and reached for his own steel.

  Rath opened his mouth to speak, but a murmured "sorry" stole the dwarves' attention. The serving lass with her bright red hair and high skirt came and left his ale, sweeping up the coppers he'd set on the table. Rath thanked her without looking up-without paying her the slightest attention. The other dwarves ogled her, as sellswords are wont, and Rath felt queasy.

  "You going to say something?" asked Blackbeard. "Or am I going to say it for you?"

  At that, Rath had to accept that they weren't going to go away. He took up his tankard and sipped. Nothing for it, he thought, but to deal with the situation.

  "Your Moradin," he said softly over his tankard, "weeps for his people."

  The dwarves looked surprised at the sound of his gentle voice. "Care to say that again, soft-chin?" said Blackbeard, his voice dangerous.

  Rath set his ale on the table and folded his hands. "Do you know why so many of your gods have faded and died since the world before?"

  The two dwarves stared. Redbeard uttered a nervous giggle that died halfway through.

  "It is because of faith like yours-that of weak, unquestioning dwarves," said Rath. "The gods thrive upon courage, and when you fear the truth, the gods become weak."

  "What?" The black-bearded dwarf was aghast, and the others face was turning red as his beard. "How dare you?"

  "You bluster and boast, but I see fear in your eyes-cowardice that would shame your fathers. You have never questioned your heritage, but accepted it without thought, and so you do not know what it is to be a dwarf. I know this, and I choose not to accept it. You…" Rath looked at them directly for the first time, "you do not deserve to be dwarves. You are nothing."

  His speech had exactly the effect he had expected-expected, not merely hoped for. Rath was not a dwarf given to hope.

  The black-bearded dwarf drew his dagger and spat at Rath, hitting his tankard. "You beardless thin-blood," he snarled. "You take that back, or you draw and fight me."

  Redbeard giggled again-malevolently.

  Rath picked up his tainted tankard and looked at it distastefully. He made no move to draw his sword-sacred to his order-from the gold-leafed scabbard at his side.

  "It is simply the truth," he replied.

  Blackbeard growled low like a murderous dog. "You insult your blood, smooth-face. Take it back!" He prodded at Rath with his blade. "Take it!"

  "As you wish," he murmured.

  Rach flicked his half-filled tankard in the air to draw their eyes. They looked.

  In a blur of motion, Rath twisted the dagger out of the black-bearded dwarves hand and plunged it-to the hilt-into his companion's right lung. Redbeard looked down at the hilt sticking out of his ribs and his giggle turned into a wet cough.

  Blackbeard just watched dumbly as the tankard fell and clattered to the floor, splitting open and sending ale over his boots.

  The dwarf looked mutely at his unexpectedly empty hand, then at Rath, then at his companion, who gaped down at his injury. As if on cue, the red-bearded dwarf's eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he slumped in his chair.

  "Really," Rath said. "Why would you stab your companion like that?"

  The dwarf looked at him again, eyes wide, and they went even wider when Rath smiled. It was not a pretty smile-handsome enough, but cold and sharp as drawn steel. The dwarf didn't bother to catch his ally but turned and ran for the stairs.

  Trembling hands pawed at his side. Rath glanced down at the panting, wheezing dwarf and looked at him indifferently. The dwarf, mouthing pleas for help that went unanswered, fell to the floor with a wet burble that might have been a laugh.

  Rath waved for more ale.

  "Here's for the tankard-and the blood," he said, pressing silver into the terrifi
ed serving woman's palm.

  In a secluded corner, behind the half-closed velvet curtain drawn for private dealings, a pair of gray eyes set in a feminine half-elf face sparkled as they watched, with some bemusement, the beardless dwarf defending himself against his assailants. A trifle unsubtle, that one, but some matters did not demand subtlety.

  "That," said her patron, indicating her breast with one languid, silk-gloved finger, "is a passing fair brooch."

  "It pleases?" Fayne ran her delicate fingers over the edges of the dragon-shaped brooch. "I just obtained it today. Had to elude the fastest red-haired chit of a guard, but I managed it."

  She went back to watching the beardless dwarf, and she giggled when he drove one antagonist to the ground and scared the other away with a glance. Hesitant tavern-goerestepped forward to recover the bleeding dwarf-Rath did not so much as acknowledge their presence.

  That sort of man, Fayne thought, could be very helpful in certain situations. She would have to see about acquiring hold of his stringscoin-pouch or breeches. Either. Both.

  "Whence?" Her patron pointed at the brooch.

  Time for business, it seemed. Fayne turned to him. "A bumbling old fool of a merchant up on the Dragon," she said. "I've been robbing him blind for two tendays now."

  "Different faces?" Her patron's tone was mild.

  "What am I, dull? Of course." She rolled her eyes. "Art is pointless if you don't use it."

  "Quite right."

  Her patron rubbed at his cheek, where she could see two small scratches that were the only flaw on his otherwise smooth, ever-bemused face. His elf cheekbones were thin and high, his nose sharp without being aquiline, and his eyes a rich gold that matched the soft hue of his skin and his deeper golden hair. He wore a fashionable doublet and coat, rich but not attention grasping, and several rings over his white silk gloves. Each high, pointed ear bore several jewels, and though a great flounce of lace hid it, she knew he wore a thin silver chain around his throat with a locket that she'd never seen him open.

  He bore no weapon, but Fayne knew he needed no such thing.