Midnight's Mask

  “Now I feel ready,” he announced.

  Dolgan fumbled into his new clothes—ripping them in the process, of course—and all was prepared.

  Without further ado, Riven and the slaadi activated their rods and teleported back to the city where everything had begun—Selgaunt.

  CHAPTER 3

  RETURNING TO THE SHADOWS

  Cale materialized with his friends in the same cavern in the Plane of Shadow from which they had staged their attack. All three sagged to the ground, breathing heavily. No hisses or whispers issued from the nearby tunnels, and the darkness of the plane filled Cale, comforted him. He removed his mask but kept it in his hand.

  Magadon shrugged off his pack and struck another of his seemingly endless supply of sunrods. The three companions stared at one another in its dim light. Cale saw the pain in the eyes of Jak and Magadon, in their wan complexions. Cale whispered prayers of healing and touched each of his friends in turn, healing fully the black holes in Magadon’s skin and the terrible burns in Jak’s legs. The little man bit back a scream as the dead flesh fell from his leg, replaced by new. Both smiled their gratitude. Cale’s regenerative flesh was already healing his own wounds so he did not expend a spell.

  For a time, the three sat in silence under the roof of stone, an island of dim light in an ocean of pitch. The sunrod’s light flickered over their faces. No one seemed willing to say what Cale was thinking, what all of them must have been thinking.

  Finally, Jak gave it voice. “I’ve never even heard of anyone that powerful. Elminster of Shadowdale, maybe. A user of both the Art and the Invisible Art?” He paused, looked at Magadon, looked at Cale, and said softly, “I don’t know if we can defeat him. Maybe we need to get help. Harpers or … someone.”

  The statement hung in the air between them, heavier than the darkness.

  “No,” Cale said. “This is our affair.” He absently twisted shadows around his fingers. “Maybe we can’t defeat him, but that means nothing. We try. And try again. And again.” He released the shadows from his fingertips and they dissipated into the air. “There’s something large at stake here. I can’t see it but I can feel it. Can’t you, Mags? Jak? You saw him, his power. He would not bother himself with something small.”

  “Agreed,” Jak said, looking at Cale quizzically. “And I’m pleased to hear you thinking that way.”

  Cale nodded. He was mildly pleased to hear himself thinking that way too.

  The little man dug for his pipe, found it, and said, “Things might have gone differently anyway, if not for that thrice-damned Zhent traitor.”

  Cale thought back to Riven’s last words to him. He weighed them, then finally said, “I am not certain that he betrayed us.”

  Jak looked up, holding a burning tindertwig in the air before his pipe.

  “Not again. What do you mean?”

  Magadon leaned forward, pale eyes intense. “Yes, what do you mean, Erevis?”

  Jak’s tindertwig burned down almost to his thumb while Cale tried to frame an answer. The little man cursed softly but managed to light his pipe with the stub before tossing it away. The shadows snuffed the flame as efficiently as a bucket of water.

  Cale said, “You heard what he said to me just as we got out of there?”

  Magadon nodded. “That you’re on opposite sides.”

  “Opposite sides,” Jak said, nodding. “How is that not a betrayal?”

  “He also said something about a Cyricist priest,” Magadon added.

  “Yes,” Cale agreed. “He said that he meant what he once told me back in Selgaunt, after we’d put down a Cyricist priest together.”

  Magadon asked, “What did he say to you, then?”

  Jak blew out a cloud of smoke.

  Cale hesitated, searching his memory for something else Riven might have said. Finding nothing, he answered, “He said, ‘we work well together’.”

  Magadon blew out a breath, leaned back, and looked off into the darkness.

  Jak took his pipe from his mouth and swore.

  Cale understood their mood.

  “What kind of game is he playing?” Magadon asked, as much of himself as Cale and Jak.

  “The same kind he always plays,” Jak said, taking a draw on his pipe. “He is an actor, an assassin. He has been playing us all along. And now he’s playing us again. For his own ends. Don’t believe him, Cale.”

  Cale was not so sure. Riven had always been a difficult read, true, and the assassin’s unhappiness at being Second to Cale made him more difficult still. They shared a faith, a past occupation, but little else. Still, Cale had felt something almost like camaraderie developing between Riven and the rest of them. Was that an act? Cale did not know. The assassin could have been telling Cale that he remained an ally, or he could simply have been hedging his wager by playing both sides.

  “We’ll know when we see him next,” Cale said.

  Jak harrumphed, stood, and tested his leg. It appeared fine, though his breeches were melted.

  “I still don’t trust him,” the little man said.

  Cale said, “Neither do I.”

  Not fully, at least. He could not afford to.

  “So then,” Magadon said, pulling some hardtack from his pack and passing it around. “What now? How do we find him after he leaves the Sojourner’s lair?”

  “I’m working on that,” Cale said. He had been able to scry the slaadi in Skullport, but assumed that the Sojourner would better mask his servants this time, including Riven.

  “We learned a few things from your visual leech,” Cale continued. “The Sojourner said something about a journey to the Eldritch Temple of Mystryl. Perhaps we can use that.”

  Magadon looked at him curiously. “How do you know what he said? We could not hear through the mental contact.”

  “He read his lips,” Jak said.

  Magadon raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively.

  The little man said, “I’ve never heard of Mystryl, nor any Eldritch Temple. On an island somewhere, maybe?”

  Cale shrugged. “I have never heard the name before either. But we’ll find someone who has. Let me think on it.”

  Jak snuffed his pipe, tapped out the ashes, and said, “Meanwhile, let’s get the Nine Hells out of here, eh? Can you … move us back to Faerûn again?”

  Cale assumed so. He had not yet noticed any limits on his ability to transport himself and his comrades through the shadows, though Jak’s comment caused him to wonder. If he had no limits, he thought it must have less to do with his transformation into a shade and more to do with his position as the First of Mask.

  “I can,” he said. “I’ll take you two to Selgaunt. Then I need to return to Skullport.”

  Jak and Magadon shared a look.

  “We’ll accompany you to Skullport,” Magadon said. He stood and shouldered on the straps of his pack.

  Cale shook his head. “No, Mags. Transporting into the Underdark is dangerous. The journey can go wrong. Besides, Skullport may be in ruins. We could materialize in a rock.”

  “We know the risks,” Magadon answered.

  “The Skulls may be looking for us …,” Cale said.

  “We know the risks,” Jak repeated. “And we’re still coming.”

  Cale looked each of them in the eyes, saw the resolve there, and admitted there was no point in arguing further.

  “Well enough. We go, then.”

  His friends readied themselves.

  In his mind Cale pictured the dim streets of Skullport, the catwalks and rope bridges of the Hemp Highway, the palpable despair. He let himself feel the connection between the shadows of the Plane of Shadow and the darkness of the Port of Shadow. The connection came easy. The two locations were linked by more than their lack of illumination.

  The darkness around them intensified, snuffed Magadon’s sunrod.

  With an effort of will, Cale moved them between planes. They materialized in the darkness of a narrow alley, off a quiet street.


  The smells hit Cale first. He had forgotten how foul was the air in Skullport—dank water, dead fish, urine, unwashed bodies, uncollected rot. He gave the smell a name: hopelessness.

  “Still standing,” Jak said in a soft tone, peeking out of the alley and onto the street.

  He did not have to add the “unfortunately.” Cale heard it in his voice.

  “But barely,” Magadon added, for the destruction was evident even from the alley.

  They stepped out onto the street.

  Dust filled the air like fog, so thick Cale had to pull his cloak up over his mouth to act as a filter. Jak and Magadon did the same. Buildings from higher in the cavern had fallen to the floor, crushing people and structures below and leaving huge, shapeless piles of stone and wood sprayed across the cavern’s bottom. Limbs jutted from some of the piles. Many of the buildings still standing at ground level leaned so far to one side that collapse was imminent. Jagged orange lines of arcane energy flashed at random through the air near the cavern’s ceiling, like tiny bolts of lightning.

  Some side effect of the mantle being tapped, Cale assumed. But at least the magic had remained intact enough to hold up the cavern.

  Heaps of debris littered the street: piles of broken wood, shattered pottery, chunks of finished stone, and pieces of stalactites. Tangled piles of the Hemp Highway lay twisted among the wreckage, the whole a mess of rope and ruin.

  “Stay sharp,” Cale said softly, as they started to walk. “And stay close to me. We leave instantly if any Skulls show.”

  His comrades nodded, looking around wide-eyed.

  The destruction was barely an hour old but already skulkers worked to brace the remaining structures with stray timbers. Others picked among the heaps, probably looters looking for valuables or food. Orcs, humans, half-breeds, illithids, and drow moved quietly among the wreckage in the streets, their eyes more furtive than usual, their weapons and wands more in evidence. Stray animals wandered throughout, dogs among them. Cale thought of Riven.

  “Gods,” Magadon oathed as they navigated the destruction.

  Cale could only nod. While the slaadi had been responsible for the destruction, Cale still felt soiled by his participation in the events that had led up to it. Skullport was a pit, true, but nothing and no one deserved what he was seeing.

  They continued on, the tension as thick as the dust. Thankfully, they saw no sign of the Skulls.

  They did see slaves. Plenty of them. Coffles of humans, elves, dwarves, and less common races walked the streets, chained together and clinking. Bugbear overseers with morningstars growled commands. Not even the partial collapse of the city could halt the slave trade.

  Cale tried to find something familiar that would give him his bearings. At last he did—the Rusty Anchor. It still stood, seemingly untouched by the destruction. He thought of checking for Varra there, but decided against it. She would not be at the inn. She would be home or … not. He knew they were not far from her row house. He remembered walking her home from the inn. He ignored the hole in his stomach that formed around his fear that she might be harmed … or worse.

  Cale picked up the pace. The comrades took care to not draw attention to themselves, and Cale kept the shadows knit tightly about them.

  “Someday,” Jak whispered, as they passed a half-orc leading three male human slaves in neck chains.

  “Someday,” Cale echoed, and meant it.

  As they walked, he saw that the destruction was worse in some places, not as bad in others. He estimated that perhaps three-quarters of the buildings at ground level had survived. No doubt the upper levels had suffered more. Still, he could see that many of those had actually survived too.

  And everywhere the life of the city continued, albeit in a more subdued manner. The inns they passed were less raucous, the hawking of the flesh vendors less vigorous, the expressions of the slaves more despondent.

  The city had survived and would rebuild, Cale figured. He was not sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

  “I hate this place,” Jak said softly.

  Cale nodded. He did, too.

  He changed the subject, saying, “No sign of the Skulls, at least.”

  He wondered if Skullport’s rulers had survived the tapping of the mantle. He knew several had been destroyed in the battle the slaadi had engineered between the slavers’ factions. But that left several unaccounted for.

  Sidestepping piles of debris, they picked their way through the city until they reached its northern edge. Cale’s throat tightened as they neared Varra’s row house.

  When he saw that it was still standing, he blew out a relieved breath. For a moment, he debated with himself about whether he should approach her home. It seemed somehow … presumptuous.

  But he made up his mind quickly. He had to confirm that she was all right. And he wanted her to know that he cared whether she was all right.

  “Stay here,” he said to Jak and Magadon.

  “Here?” Jak asked.

  “I won’t be long,” Cale answered. “Keep your eyes open.”

  As he approached Varra’s home his feet felt suddenly heavy. From behind, he caught the whiff of Jak’s tobacco. The little man had lit up.

  He saw no movement behind the papered windows of the row house. The roof sagged and one wall bowed, but he thought the structure might have looked like that even before the cavern had partially collapsed.

  He walked to the door, a weather-beaten cabin door probably taken from a wrecked ship long ago. It occurred to him only then that he had no idea what he would say to her. Too late.

  He stood before the door for a moment, undecided. Finally he rapped on it, gingerly at first, then harder.

  Muffled voices from within, at least two women.

  “Who is there?” asked a female voice from behind the closed door. “There’s no food here. And I am armed.”

  For a moment, he could not find his voice. Finally he managed, “I’m looking for Varra. Is she here?”

  The door flew open so fast that Cale barely avoided it.

  Varra stood in the doorway, dressed in the same homespun dress in which Cale had last seen her. When she saw him, she put her hand to her mouth and her eyes welled. The rusty dagger she held in her other hand fell to the ground.

  “You,” she said at last.

  “I told you I would come back,” he said.

  She nodded, stared at him. Her mouth opened, closed, and finally she said, “Where were you? Were you hurt in all this?” Her gesture took in the destruction.

  “I was … nearby,” he said. “I was not hurt. I was worried that you were.”

  “I kept hoping….” she said. She looked away from him and took a deep breath. “I’m glad you are here.”

  “I am too,” he said.

  She looked into his eyes and smiled.

  He wanted to touch her, to hold her, but did not feel that he was entitled. He wanted her to fly into his arms but she did not. He wanted to smile but it wouldn’t come. They looked past and around each other for a few uncomfortable breaths.

  From within the row house, a woman’s voice called, “Who is it, Varra?”

  “It’s none of your affair,” Varra snapped over her shoulder.

  Grumbles answered her but quickly faded.

  She turned and looked Cale in the face. Before she could speak, Cale plunged into deep water. “I am here for you,” he said.

  At that, her eyes flashed. She leaned toward him, perhaps unconsciously.

  “I am leaving and I want to take you out of here,” he continued. “It’s not safe anymore, if it ever was.”

  She looked alternately surprised, grateful, and afraid. “When?” she said.

  “Right now,” Cale said. “I can take you to Selgaunt. A city on the surface. In a breath you can be gone from here.”

  He reached out and took her hand, held it lightly. Her skin was so soft, so warm.

  “Now …” she said, as though trying out the word.

  “Bu
t….”

  “Now,” he said. “You can start anew there.”

  At his words, she looked at him sharply and he wondered what he had said. He saw the struggle on her face but he did not understand it. After a moment, the struggle ended. She took his hand between hers.

  “Do you feel something between us? Something … special?”

  Cale hesitated. He had known her for only hours. Still, he could not deny the … connection. Her touch set him aflame. He nodded, and Varra exhaled.

  “I do too,” she said. “That’s why I want us to start anew, not just me. Why not, ‘We can start anew there?’”

  Cale understood it then. He struggled for an answer, at last decided that he would not lie to her.

  “I’m involved in something. Something big. Bigger than even this, I think.” He indicated the destruction of Skullport. “I won’t be able to be with you, not for a while … maybe not ever. My life is … moving in unexpected directions.”

  She stared into his eyes, sadness in the set of her mouth. But resolve, too.

  “Then come back when it’s over,” she said. “Come back when fate permits a ‘we.’”

  Cale looked at her sorrowful face and could not stop himself. He pulled her close—she did not resist—and softly kissed her lips.

  “I will,” he said.

  With that, he turned and walked away, not knowing if he would ever see her again.

  He met up with Jak and Magadon. Both looked questions at him but had the sense not to ask anything. In silence, he drew the darkness around them and pictured in his mind’s eye an alley in Selgaunt that he knew well.

  His last sight before the darkness moved them across Faerûn was of Varra standing in the crooked doorway of her dilapidated row house.

  CHAPTER 4

  OLD HAUNTS

  Cale, Magadon, and Jak materialized on a deserted side street in Selgaunt’s Foreign District. The bustle of a thriving city hit their ears. Cale pulled up his hood and the three companions walked out of the alley to find themselves on Rauncel’s Ride, one of the main thoroughfares of Selgaunt.