“I always do,” replied Riven.
Cale stood and said, “Let’s get a room in another inn closer to the Crate and Dock. Mags and I will back you up. You read the broker, and let us know through Mags. We’ll improvise after that.”
“Improvise?” Riven asked with a smile.
Cale shrugged and said only, “Let’s go.”
Walking through the darkness, Jak held his holy symbol in one hand and kept his other on the hilt of his short sword, his wont when traversing Skullport’s streets. He stayed near Cale, who he knew could see better in the dark than anyone else they might meet, a fact from which he refused to draw any conclusions. Cale was still a man, he reminded himself, and still his friend.
They stalked the narrow, dimly-lit avenues past ogres, lizard-pulled carts, stray rothé, gangs of kobolds, and other beasts for which Jak didn’t even have a name. Slaves, rolling cages lit with torches, bugbear overseers holding like clubs shanks of an unknown meat, nervous goblins, and dead-eyed zombies all shared the road. The stink and sounds wafted out of the darkness like nightmares. Jak kept his eyes alert and his blade at the ready.
From ahead, the pained yelp of a wounded animal sounded above the general murmur of the city street. About fifteen paces in front of them, a grizzled female hound dragging a visibly broken hind leg pelted as best it could out of the doorway of a tavern and into the street. It stumbled as it ran, yelping with pain each time its broken leg touched the packed-earth road. A faded wooden sign hung outside the tavern. On it was the name of the place, written in phosphorescent lichen that the innkeeper must have tended to daily. The Pour House, it read.
A giant of a pirate, covered in a coarse beard, a chain shirt, and sharp steel, burst through the shell curtain doorway of the Pour House and stormed after the dog, stomping and cursing it in a gruff voice. Two other similarly armed men stumbled out of the tavern behind the pirate, smiling and watching with eager eyes. A one-armed elderly man raced through the door after them, gesticulating wildly with his one arm. Jak deemed him the innkeeper, to judge from his apron. The two sailors grabbed him by his shirt and prevented him from getting past.
“You leave her be,” cried the old man at the huge pirate, barely holding back tears. “Leave her alone!”
With a surprising demonstration of dexterity, the old tavernkeeper managed to slip the two sailors’ grasp and squirm past them, but before he could take a step, they grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him backward to land hard on his rump.
“Leave her alone!” the old man shouted again, trying to rise.
“Shut up,” the sailors said, and used their boots to hold him down.
“Mongrel bitch!” the big pirate shouted, and attempted to stomp on the scrabbling hound. He missed, but only just. The dog, whimpering with pain, tongue lolling, gave up trying to escape on its broken leg, and instead rolled over on its back in the dirty street and showed his belly to the pirate—a sign of submission.
Jak saw Magadon put a restraining hand on Riven. Riven batted it away, his eye hard and cold.
“She meant no harm,” the old man said, and again tried to stand. “Don’t you hurt her, Ergis! She’s old is all.”
The pirate, Ergis, still looming over the submissive dog, turned and glared at the tavernkeeper. The old man quailed. To judge from Ergis’s musculature, the coarse hair that covered his arms, and the feral eyes, Jak deemed the pirate to be orcspawn, not more than two generations removed. A savage lot.
“It pissed on my boot,” Ergis growled, and lifted his leg to show a leather boot stained dark. “My new boot. I’m going to kill the mongrel and stew it in your own pot, Felwer.”
At that, the old man summoned up his courage and cried out a protest. The two sailors laughed and stomped on him with their boots.
“Kill it, Captain,” encouraged one of the sailors.
Ergis turned back to the dog and raised his shiny black boot high. The dog, too tired or too pained to move, just lay there, tail wagging uncertainly.
Just as Jak prepared to charge the pirate, just as Cale pulled Weaveshear half its length from its scabbard, a sliver of balanced steel spun through the air and stuck in the half-orc’s calf. The pirate screamed in surprise and pain, hopped on his unwounded leg, and clutched at the throwing dagger stuck in the meat of his leg. Blood poured from the wound. The dog rolled over onto his belly, crawled away a bit, then stopped and licked at its wounded leg.
All eyes turned to the thrower: Riven. Jak had never even seen the assassin draw a blade.
Dark but he’s fast! thought the halfling.
Already Riven held another throwing dagger in his right hand. His eye was an emotionless hole but anger visibly tensed his entire body.
“You touch that dog, whoreson, and the next one finds your eye,” the assassin said, his voice as gelid as an ice storm. To his comrades, Riven softly stated out of the side of his mouth, “The dog is my problem. Remain here.”
Without waiting for a response, without taking his eyes from the half-orc, Riven stalked forward with a purpose.
Magadon broke the surprised silence between the three by softly saying, “He’s always been soft for dogs. I still don’t know why.”
Jak couldn’t imagine Riven being soft for anything, but there he was, championing an old bitch on the streets of Skullport. He eyed the passersby—a slaver, a trio of drow, four humans, and a halfling that looked shockingly similar to Jak’s dead Uncle Cob. At first, Jak feared that one of the shapeshifting slaadi had read his mind and taken a form familiar to him, but he saw no malice in the halfling’s dancing eyes. Before Jak could hail him, the halfling shot him a rakish grin and vanished into the darkness. The other passersby too spared only a quick glance at the brewing confrontation before moving on. Either everyone in Skullport took care to mind their own affairs, or violence was so common in the streets that it scarcely warranted notice.
“You’re a dead man, human,” Ergis promised.
He jerked the throwing dagger from his calf with only a slight wince. The hole continued to bleed freely, but the half-orc seemed not to care.
“First you, then the dog,” he promised.
Keeping his weight primarily on his unwounded leg, Ergis tossed Riven’s dagger to the ground, burying its point in the street, and drew his oversized cutlass. Armed, he shot Riven a fierce grin that showed his orc’s canines. His two companions drew their own blades, gave the tavernkeeper one last kick each, and hopped forward onto the street to stand beside their captain.
At that, Jak started to pull his own blade but both Cale and Magadon stopped him with a hand to either shoulder.
“There’s three of them,” Jak protested.
“This is the way he wants it, little man,” Cale said.
Magadon nodded and said, “Not going to matter.”
Jak hesitated for a moment then let his hand fall off the hilt of his blade.
Despite three opponents armed with larger blades, Riven didn’t break stride. He walked toward them with a throwing dagger in his hand and blood on his mind.
“This is your last chance to walk away,” Riven said.
The pirates shared a grin.
“Ain’t no walking away from this,” the half-orc said.
“I’m going to cut him, Captain,” said the thinner of the two sailors.
The sailor faked a lunge at Riven. He stuck out his tongue and leered.
Cale, standing beside Jak, said, “All three have been drinking. Riven will take the one who spoke first, just to make a point, then the other. The half-orc he’ll save for last.”
From behind, the sailors the tavernkeeper climbed to his feet.
Patting his thighs with his one good arm, he called to the dog, “Here, girl. Here, Retha.”
Hearing that, the old dog clambered unsteadily to her feet and started to limp toward the tavernkeeper, whimpering all the while. Ergis did not take his bestial eyes off Riven, but the thinner of the two smaller pirates drew back his leg as though to kick at the dog.
br /> Riven’s dagger flashed and embedded itself in the man’s throat. The pirate clutched futilely for the blade and didn’t even manage a gurgle before he fell over dead. Only a slight trickle of blood squeezed from around the buried blade.
The dog limped to its master.
“Dirty bastard,” said the other pirate, though he didn’t charge, and Jak heard the doubt in his voice.
“He’ll be next,” Cale said from beside Jak.
Riven said not a word, only continued to advance. He was not visibly armed.
When the assassin got within two strides, the smaller pirate lunged at him drunkenly, crosscutting with his cutlass at Riven’s throat. Riven ducked under the blade, leaped in close, arm-locked the sailor’s sword arm, and wrenched it at the elbow. While the sailor squealed, Riven slammed the crown of his head into the man’s nose. Blood sprayed. With his other hand Riven drew a punch dagger from a sheath on the back of his belt.
Jak marveled at the assassin’s fluidity.
Beside Jak, Cale called the combat as though he and Riven were one and the same.
“Lung, lung, heart,” he said, and Riven did exactly that with the punch dagger, penetrating between the links of the sailor’s light chain mail shirt.
The sailor sagged. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
Moving quickly, the assassin spun the dying sailor around and stabbed the awl point of the punch dagger into the base of his skull.
“Brain,” Cale said.
Magadon uttered a low whistle.
Blood soaked the front of the sailor’s tunic. His eyes were open but his body was already dead. Riven kept him upright with a hand on his shoulder and the dagger stuck in his head like some bloody marionette.
The entire exchange had taken less than five heartbeats.
“Now the half-orc,” said Cale.
Jak looked to Cale and remembered then the words that Cale had said to him many times before: Only an assassin knows an assassin. His friend—his best friend—was separated from Drasek Riven by no more than the edge of a blade, if that.
With nothing but ice in his expression, Riven put his foot into the back of the corpse and shoved it at Ergis. The body collapsed in a heap at the half-orc’s booted feet. The pirate’s feral eyes showed fear.
“I’m leaving,” the half-orc said, and took a single step backward. He lowered his blade and held up his other hand. “All right?”
He looked past Riven to Cale, Jak, and Magadon as though for support.
“I’m sorry, Felwer,” he said to the innkeeper. “I won’t be back.” To Riven, he said, “Umberlee’s arse, man. It’s just a dog.”
Riven eyed Ergis with a gaze devoid of emotion. He ominously tapped the blade of the bloody punch dagger against his palm. He looked back at the wounded dog, which was licking the dirty hands of the innkeeper and whining.
Jak saw a ripple of anger run the length of Riven’s body.
The assassin turned back to Ergis and said, in a tone so low that Jak could barely hear him, “And you’re just a number. There ain’t no walking away from this, Captain.”
The half-orc paled, turned, and ran. But he couldn’t move quickly on his wounded calf.
Riven bounded after him, would have closed on him, but Cale’s voice stopped the assassin cold.
“Let him go,” Cale ordered.
Hearing those words, Jak almost grinned in relief. Cale and Riven might be separated by only a blade’s edge, but that edge was keen and clear. Cale showed mercy. Riven did not.
The assassin stopped his pursuit but did not otherwise acknowledge that he had heard Cale. Ergis vanished into the darkness of the street. For a moment, Riven simply stood with his back to them, a bloody punch dagger in his fist, anger written clear in the bunch of his back. After a moment, he turned, picked up his daggers, and stalked over to the innkeeper and the wounded hound. With surprising gentleness, the assassin knelt, let the dog sniff his hand and scratched it behind the ears.
“The gods smile on you,” said the innkeeper, taking Riven’s other hand.
Jak caught Riven’s sneer.
The assassin muttered words under his breath, entwined shadows around his fingers, and touched them to the dog. The little hound yelped as its leg bone twisted back into place and reknit.
Riven gave the dog one last pat, stood and said to the innkeeper in a cool tone, “Gods smile on the strong, granther. Go back inside and mind your dog.”
The old man’s thankful smile grew uncertain. Visibly confused, he turned and walked back into the tavern, trailing his hound.
Riven spun on his heel and marched up to Cale, still holding the punch dagger, still wearing that emotionless expression. Cale gave no ground and shadows leaked from his skin.
“Don’t ever tell me what to do, Cale,” Riven said.
Cale’s eyes narrowed.
“Then don’t make me. You made your point.” He nodded at the two corpses cooling in the street and added, “The dog was safe.”
Riven replied, “You save whores, I save bitches, and we both let someone walk away. Those are bad habits, Cale.”
The shadows around Cale’s head and hands intensified.
“Those are my habits,” he replied. “You don’t like them, walk away. And don’t ever call her a whore again in my presence.”
Riven’s eye narrowed and his voice lowered.
“Softness for women is another of your bad habits, First of Five.”
Jak had no idea what woman they were talking about and he dared not ask, at least not just then.
Cale answered with a cold stare and colder silence. For a moment, they stood there glaring into each other’s faces, priest and assassin, saying nothing, saying everything.
Magadon broke the tension.
“Let’s get to where we’re going and get off the street,” the guide said, eyeing the passersby.
Jak realized that he had been holding his breath. He blew it out. Cale and Riven could go from working as smoothly together as interlocking cogs one moment, to grating against one another like flint and steel the next. The constant underlying tension was exhausting to Jak.
“A good idea,” Riven said. “And this may as well be where we’re going.” He indicated the Pour House. “Likely the old man will give us free room and board. Meantime, I’ve got to get ready for my meet.”
With that, he spun on his heel and walked away.
Cale stared daggers into Riven’s back as the assassin walked away.
As they passed through the curtain of seashells that served as the doorway of the Pour House, Jak looked back to see several skinny humans in tattered clothing emerge from nearby alleys and begin to strip the dead sailors of valuables like a pack of dogs stripping a kill of meat.
The moment Cale and Magadon had procured a room from the innkeeper—Riven had been right; the old man insisted on providing them free lodging—Cale said to him, “Little man, stay here for this. We’ll be back within two hours. Mags, you’re with me.”
From a rope bridge suspended a dagger’s throw above the street, Azriim had watched the confrontation between Cale and the one-eyed assassin. He hadn’t been abole to hear their words, but he could see the genuine tension between them, and could sense the latent anger.
When the assassin stalked off and Cale and his comrades entered the inn, Azriim sped off down the hemp highway. Azriim-as-Thyld had arranged a meeting with the assassin within the half hour. After the confronation with Cale, he knew the assassin would come alone.
NEW TRICKS
Azriim watched the one-eyed assassin stalk into the common room of the Crate and Dock. The human moved with a grace, a predatory sinuousness, that reminded Azriim of his broodmate Serrin. The human’s efficiency too—at least to judge from the fight with the sailors in the street—was also reminiscent of Serrin. No wonder Azriim’s broodmate hated the human so. Serrin and Azriim had nearly come to blows over Serrin’s insistence that he be allowed to attend the meeting with the human. Azriim had
refused, concerned that his broodmate’s hostility for the assassin would have shown through even a changed form. Instead, he’d stationed Dolgan on the street outside, in the big slaad’s habitual form of a street drunk, and left Serrin back at the storehouse.
Anything unusual? Azriim projected to his broodmate.
He was alone, Dolgan responded.
Dressed in a non-descript gray cloak over leathers, the human wore his sabers—magical sabers, Azriim saw—with practiced ease. The assassin’s one eye quickly swept the candlelit, hazy common room, and the dozen or so laborers sitting at the worn tables—the Crate and Dock was a favored eatery of dock laborers. When he spotted Azriim, in the form of Thyld, the human’s eye narrowed.
Rather than sit at the table in the center of the common room that Azriim had chosen, the human nodded Azriim over and sat at another table in a dark corner, one with a view of the rest of the space. Azriim smiled as he rose. The human was choosing the battlefield, in case Azriim had set him up, and forcing Azriim to put his back to the door.
Limping along as Thyld, Azriim crossed the common room and slid into the chair opposite the assassin. For the meeting, Azriim grudgingly had changed his eye color to match Thyld’s dull brown.
“Speak,” the assassin said. “You know what I want to hear.”
Azriim placed his hands on the table and interlaced his fingers.
“First, my price,” he said, playing his part.
“If what you offer is of value to me, you’ll be treated well,” the assassin said with a sneer. “If what you offer is lies, you’ll be treated quite differently.”
Azriim rubbed the back of his neck, making a show of worried consideration, then said, “Very well. You wanted to know about a duergar with eyes of two different colors. Here is what I know. Without embellishment, of course.”
Azriim began to tell the assassin a fiction about the duergar slaver and his two human companions who had hired a troop of armed guards to escort a caravan into the northern tunnels of the Underdark. Apparently, they were transporting valuable cargo.
As he spoke his lies, Azriim thought all the while of how the appearance of Cale and his comrades in the midst of a slaver gang war would only increase the likelihood of a rapid and overwhelming response by the Skulls. It was beautiful really. The timing could not have been better.