Dawn of Night

  Cale made no reply.

  “Hmm, then,” the innkeeper continued, frowning. “Two rooms it shall be. Top of the stairs, last two doors on the left, then. I’ll see to it that a washbasin finds its way to your room. Meantime, sit where you will and I’ll have food brought.”

  “Thank you,” Cale said.

  The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and extended one.

  “Call me Crovin, or Crove if you prefer. I’ll answer to either.”

  Cale took the man’s palm in his right hand. “Crove,” he acknowledged, but did not offer his own name.

  “Hmm. Very well, then,” Crovin said, frowning still deeper.

  He walked back toward the taproom.

  Cale found an isolated table to the right of the hearth and eased into a seat. Afternoon sun poured in through the open shutters of the common room’s windows, but Cale’s table was comfortably cast in shadow. With an insignificant exercise of his will, he increased the intensity of the shadows around his table, creating a cocoon of darkness in which he could relax.

  In moments, a thin young woman with her long sandy hair pulled into a horsetail brought him a meal of mutton stew, bread, and a creamy cheese made from goat’s milk. Absently, he thanked her and began to eat. The fare was good, but his mind remained on the slaadi: finding them and killing them. He had an idea of how to do the former, and he’d never needed instruction on the latter.

  The heat he felt when he considered the slaadi surprised him. Jak burned with desire to stop the Sojourner and his slaadi in order to save innocents. Though Cale understood the sentiment, he knew that saving innocents didn’t motivate him, at least not primarily. The slaadi had tortured Ren, murdered other Uskevren house guards, nearly killed Jak, taken Cale’s hand, and indirectly stolen his humanity. That motivated him—revenge.

  Or justice, he thought, trying to prettify it.

  He found it telling that in ancient Thorass, the words for revenge and justice, charorin and chororin, shared a common linguistic origin, distinguished only by a difference in vowels. That was the fine line between the two concepts—vowels. Fortunately, Cale was not interested in distinguishing them. He cared not at all which of the two he was after, so long as at the end of it the slaadi and the Sojourner ended up dead. And if doing so saved innocents and served Mask—and Cale knew that it would accomplish at least the latter, he just couldn’t see how—then so much the better.

  He swirled his ale. It felt good to put a name to his anger: chororin, he decided to name it. Justice: for Ren, for Jak, and for himself. He coiled his anger, his need for chororin, into a tight ball and placed it close to his heart. It would be his compass, the new sphere about which his universe would turn until the slaadi and their master were all dead.

  He thought of something Riven had said to him back in Selgaunt: You be Mask’s tool, Cale. I’ll be his weapon.

  Cale would be a weapon too. And it was time to sharpen his edge.

  He flagged the barmaid as she passed by. She smiled down at him, the tired smile of a tired woman. He removed a platinum coin from his belt pouch and handed it to her. Her eyes went wide.

  “Please see to it that a few extra ewers of clean water are placed in my room,” he said.

  She slipped the coin into her bodice.

  “Uh, um …Of course, sir,” she stammered, then bustled off.

  Cale took some time to savor the last of his cheese and stew. After gulping down the ale, he headed upstairs to his room to hunt slaad.

  He opened the last door on the left to reveal a small room that smelled faintly of stale sweat and the smoke from poor-quality pipeweed. A straw-stuffed mattress sat against one wall under the room’s only window, while a chair, chamber pot, and a rickety wooden table stood against the wall to Cale’s right. Atop the table sat a ceramic washbasin, three tin ewers of water, and a clay oil lamp. Cloak pegs stuck out of the wall like fingers. Cale doffed his filthy attire. Stripping down to only tunic, vest, breeches, and weapons belt, he hung the rest on the pegs.

  Cale crossed the floor and pulled the shutters closed, sealing out most of the sun and the sounds from the street below. But for the grid of light cast on the floor through the shutter slats, darkness cloaked the room. He willed it darker still, and darker it grew.

  To fully prepare himself before casting the powerful divination he was contemplating, he donned his mask and sat cross-legged on the floor. He regulated his breathing, offered a prayer to Mask, and focused his mind on one thing: Azriim. In his mind’s eye, Cale pictured the slaad in both his natural form and in his half-drow form. He imagined the slaad’s mismatched eyes, one brown and one blue, the asymmetry seemingly always present irrespective of the form Azriim took.

  Cale let the darkness embrace him, as soft as a feather bed. He pulled out the need for chororin and let it feed his intensity, until the image of Azriim in both of his known forms had burned itself into Cale’s brain. When that image felt as sharp in his mind as the edge of a hornblade, he rose and went to the table. Intuitively, he knew what to do.

  Cale filled the washbasin with the water from one of the ewers. He whispered a word of power, spiraled his regenerated hand in the dark air, and came away with his fingers enmeshed with a cats-cradle of reified threads of shadow. He held his hand over the basin and let the liquid shadows slip from his fingers to coil in the water. He unsheathed one of his daggers and without even a wince, opened the palm of the same hand. He held the slash over the basin and let his blood drip into the water. In the darkness, the crimson fluid looked black, as black as his thoughts. The wound bled for only a few heartbeats before the regenerative properties of his flesh sealed the gash. With his dagger blade he stirred them all together—water, shadows, and blood—all the while praying to Mask to consecrate the brew.

  When the surface of the water became as black and reflective as polished obsidian, he knew the Shadowlord had answered. He stared at the mirrorlike surface of the water, seeing his masked face reflected there, and whispered the words to a spell that allowed him to scry a person or thing that he mentally selected, wherever they were. He imagined Azriim.

  Cale’s reflection vanished from the surface of the basin. Points of dim ochre light lit the water like distant embers in the deep. Cale felt the intangible threads of magical power scouring Faerûn, searching for the slaad, searching …

  Nothing. The light within the basin dimmed and died.

  “Damn it,” he softly cursed.

  Cale leaned back in the chair and took a breath to calm himself. He knew that a variety of factors could prevent the success of the spell, including magical protections or simple bad luck, so he was not alarmed. Since Azriim couldn’t know or suspect that Cale was looking for him, he believed that sooner or later his spell would take.

  He cut his palm again and recast the spell. Again no success. He repeated the process again and again, growing more and more frustrated with each attempt, until the basin contained as much of his blood as it did water, and the harsh light leaking through the shutter slats had faded to evening’s twilight. Still nothing.

  “I’ll find you,” he promised the slaad—promised himself.

  Distantly, Cale recognized the beginnings of obsession, but ignored it and cast the spell again.

  Sometime later, hours perhaps, the door to the room opened and Jak entered, bathed, shaved, fed, and bedded. Light streamed in from a lantern in the hallway. Cale blinked in the sudden brightness but barely spared the halfling a glance.

  “Cale?” Jak asked in a concerned voice, his silhouette framed in the door by the lantern. “Dark, man! It’s pitch in here. Did you even eat?”

  “Yes,” Cale replied.

  “Cale …”

  “Not now, Jak,” Cale replied, focusing on the basin.

  He put Jak out of his mind, concentrated, and cast again. The image of the slaad’s eyes was imprinted on his brain. He focused …

  There!

  In the depths of the basin, a light sparkled. He fixate
d on it, willed the spell to follow it. “Cale?” Jak asked.

  A wavering image took shape in the water. He saw a gray-skinned, grizzled dwarf walking a torchlit street. Decrepit buildings made of scrap wood lined a packed earth road. At first, Cale thought the spell might have gone awry, but when the dwarf turned and Cale saw the perfect teeth and the eyes—one blue and one brown—he knew his spell had located Azriim. He tried to contain his exultation and keep the spell focused.

  He couldn’t hear the sounds around Azriim, but he could see the surroundings. Shadowy buildings, creatures, and people moved in and out of the spell’s field of vision. Most of the people and creatures appeared to be running. Several were shouting and pointing.

  “Where are Riven and Mags?” Cale asked the halfling. “Next door,” Jak answered.

  “Get them. And all three of you get in here,” Cale said. “Right now. I’ve found them.”

  Jak took Cale’s meaning right way. The halfling ran to the room next door and pounded on the door. Cale heard muffled voices and boot stomps. Magadon, Jak, and Riven piled into his room, shutting the door behind them.

  “It’s pitch black in here,” Magadon said. “What are you doing, Cale?”

  “Scrying for the slaadi,” Jak answered. “He’s got them.”

  “You’ve got them?” Magadon asked, excitement in his voice.

  Cale nodded and beckoned them over, saying, “Look for yourself.”

  His three comrades gathered behind and around him, and stared into the bowl.

  Azriim walked the dark street beside a gray haired, balding human with a giant pot belly.

  “But …” Magadon started to protest, then the dwarf’s eyes became clear.

  “Dark and empty,” Riven breathed. “That’s him. That’s his eyes, Mags, and no mistaking. The bald one must be one of the other slaadi.”

  “Where are they?” Jak asked, standing on tiptoes to see into the bowl.

  Cale shook his head. From what they’d seen, Azriim could have been walking the nighttime streets of any city in Faerûn. He needed more information. He concentrated, working to expand the field of vision afforded him by the spell.

  The vista spread out. People and creatures of all sorts—gnolls, orcs, even drow—crowded the streets around Azriim and the pot-bellied human. A coffle of nearly naked slaves stood in the background. A troll shambled by. They were all looking up at something.

  “What in the name of the goddess …?” said Magadon.

  With an effort of will, Cale moved the scrying eye to view the object of attention. The spell dispelled the moment they focused on it, but in that single instant they all saw it well enough: a glowing skull floating amidst a backdrop of rope bridges and catwalks.

  Riven’s sharp intake of breath rang loud in the quiet of the room. Cale sat back in the chair, his mind racing.

  “Burn me,” said Jak.

  Magadon looked from one face to another. “What? What is it?”

  “Skullport,” Cale said, turning to face his comrades.

  The guide’s face showed recognition.

  “Skullport?” Magadon blew out a soft whistle, looked to Riven, then to Jak, and asked, “What I’ve heard … Is it as bad as that?”

  “Likely worse,” Riven said. “Imagine Waterdeep is a sieve. The Lords of Waterdeep shake their city and the worst of the residents fall down to Skullport, there to join the worst the Underdark has to offer.”

  “You’ve been there?” Magadon asked Riven.

  The assassin nodded, his face thoughtful.

  “Once, a long time ago,” the assassin said, his voice low. “Slaves … drugs … life is worth coppers. The worst things you can imagine, those things you can buy cheap. It’s the things you won’t even consider until you see them that cost the real coin.” He shared a glance with Cale then eyed Jak meaningfully. “If we’re going there, we need to understand that it ain’t nice. And we can’t try to fix it and make it so. Understood? Fleet? Cale?”

  Jak pulled out his pipe, tamped, and lit. The tindertwig gave their faces an eerie cast. The smell of pipeweed, rich and deep, filled the room.

  “I hear you,” the halfling said.

  “Is that new leaf?” Magadon asked absently.

  Jak raised his eyebrows and looked impressed.

  “It is. Bought it today.”

  “I purchased some new gear for us,” Magadon said, still in that same thoughtful tone. “New cloaks, boots, road tack….”

  Riven ignored all that and said, “You enter Skullport knowing what you want. You get it, then you leave. As fast as possible. And no one crosses the Skulls. I’ve seen what they can do.”

  Jak blew a cloud of smoke up into Riven’s face and grumbled, “I said I understood.”

  Riven inhaled Jak’s exhaled smoke and blew it back at the halfling.

  “Good,” the assassin replied. “If things go ugly there because you can’t keep your conscience in your—”

  “Enough,” Cale said, standing and interposing himself between Jak and Riven. “We know what we want in Skullport. We’re hunting slaadi. The question is, how do we get there?”

  Cale knew that Skullport was somewhere below Waterdeep, Faerûn’s largest city, over half a continent away.

  Jak shrugged, drew in some smoke, then said, “Magic?”

  Riven scoffed and took out his borrowed pipe.

  “You have something better to offer?” the halfling asked.

  Riven lit, inhaled, then replied, “No. The way we—the way I used before won’t be available. We need another way.”

  Magadon used one of his own tindertwigs to light the wick of the oil lamp on the table. Shadows sprung up on the walls. Cale realized then how cognizant he had become of the presence or absence of darkness and shadows. He also knew that in darkness he could use his own power to instantaneously transport himself, and possibly his comrades, from the shadows in Starmantle to the shadows in Skullport. Not shadowstepping, but teleporting. Still, something caused him to hesitate. He remembered: Long ago, he had overheard something about the dangers of teleporting into and out of the Underdark. Stories of men materializing half in and half out of solid rock, screaming in agony for the last few heartbeats of their lives. He didn’t want to risk that with his comrades. If there was no other way, he could go alone….

  “I know a way,” Magadon said. His pale eyes glowed in the lamplight. “But it’s four days away, even moving quickly.”

  Cale barely acknowledged the relief he felt at Magadon’s pronouncement.

  “Four days is too much time,” he said. “But I may be able to get us there sooner. What’s your way?”

  Magadon looked at Cale with raised eyebrows and asked, “How can you get us there sooner?”

  Cale indicated his skin, the shadows leaking from his fingertips, and said, “With this. I can teleport us there if you can describe the location to me.”

  Magadon nodded and said, “I can do better.”

  Before Cale could ask what he meant, Riven asked, “Then why not teleport us all the way to Skullport?”

  “Something I heard once,” Cale replied. “I think teleporting that deep underground is dangerous.”

  “I’ve heard that too,” Jak said, nodding and blowing a smoke ring.

  Riven seemed to accept that. No doubt he’d heard something similar.

  Magadon said, “The way I know is dangerous too.”

  Shaking his head, Cale replied, “Not as much.”

  He said it as a statement, but there was enough of a question in it that Magadon smiled.

  “We’ll see,” the guide said. “The guardian can send us anywhere we want to go, provided there’s water at the destination.”

  All of them knew that Skullport sat on the shore of an underground harbor.

  “Guardian?” Jak said from around his pipe stem.

  “Describe your route, Mags,” Cale said.

  “A Crossroads,” Magadon said, as though that explained it all.

  Cale had
no idea what the guide meant.

  “Explain,” said Riven, echoing Cale’s thoughts.

  The guide shrugged and frowned, seemingly surprised that none of his three comrades showed any recognition.

  “Faerûn is crosshatched with secret ways,” he said. “Druids call them the Hidden Paths, but most know them as Crossroads and Backroads. They are not quite portals, they’re more like … folds in the world. A tunnel of one step that carries you through a space of a hundred leagues. Take a step onto a Backroad in Selgaunt and instantly find yourself outside of Arabel. Does that make sense?”

  Riven’s narrowed eye and furrowed brow said, “No.”

  Cale wasn’t quite sure he understood either.

  “So you’re saying these Crossroads are all over?” Jak asked. “Only, we can’t see them?”

  Magadon smiled and said, “Not quite, Jak. The Backroads are everywhere, or at least most everywhere. The Crossroads are the access points, where the Backroads intersect our perception of the world. It is there that we can enter the Backroads. And no, most people don’t see them.”

  Jak shook his head, obviously still confused.

  Cale too was uncertain. He had never in all his travels heard of anything resembling the phenomenon Magadon was describing. Perhaps comprehending the nature of the Hidden Paths had something to do with Magadon’s psionic abilities. He suspected Magadon’s careful choice of the phrase, “our perception of the world,” went to the core of the issue.

  “Where do they come from?” Cale asked.

  The guide scratched his nose and shook his head.

  “The Hidden Paths are part of the nature of creation, Erevis. They did not come from anything. They just are and have always been.”

  Cale digested that.

  “And one leads to Skullport?” he asked at last.

  Magadon nodded and said, “They lead everywhere.”

  Riven took a long draw on his pipe.

  “How did you come to know about these things?” the assassin asked.

  Magadon gave his best Drasek Riven sneer and tapped his temple.

  “I looked for them, Drasek. And I’m willing to see.” His voice grew colder when he said to the assassin, “It’s surprising the things you can see when you’re willing.”