Dawn of Night (29 page)

Unlike his comrades, he felt little personal animosity toward the slaadi. In truth, he probably felt more antipathy toward Cale-the First of Five—than he did the slaadi. Riven wanted to put down the slaadi only because letting them live offended his professional pride.

And because the Shadowlord seemed to want it.

The slaad was just finishing describing to Riven the route the caravan would take through the northern tunnels of the Underdark.

“When?” Riven asked.

“The third hour of the cycle after next,” responded the slaad.

Riven nodded, giving the appearance of being satisfied.

duergar has earned your ire?” asked the slaad.

Riven stared into the slaad’s eyes, wondering if there was not an offer there. The slaad’s gaze revealed nothing. Riven shook his head.

“No,” he said. “This is a business matter. And like all matters of business, I care only for coming out of it better than how I came in.” He paused while the slaad nodded sagely, then added, “For that, I always make sure that I end up on the winning side.”

The slaad stopped nodding and gazed at him curiously. “I see….”

“I’m pleased you do,” Riven said, and offered no further explanation. He leaned back in his chair, reached into one of his belt pouches, and withdrew one of the small diamonds he had brought with him from Selgaunt.

“This is equitable, I assume?” he said.

The slaad mumbled agreement, scooped the gem into his palm, and pocketed it in his worn robe without even an appraising glance. If Riven hadn’t already been certain, the slaad’s nonchalance regarding payment would have solidified Riven’s opinion that he was not dealing with an ordinary human information broker.

“This business is complete, then,” said the slaad, rising to his feet.

He smiled down at Riven, a disingenuous gesture, and the assassin noted his perfect teeth.

Not hardly, thought Riven, but he only offered a nod. “Luck to you with this duergar,” the slaad said. “I’ve heard he’s quite the killer.”

Riven waved a hand dismissively and took a drink from his ale.

The slaad’s ears flushed red with anger but to his credit, he managed to keep an agreeable smile pasted on his face.

“I’ll take my leave, then,” said the slaad, his voice tight.

Riven let him walk a few paces away before he stood.

“I believe I’ll be leaving too,” he said. “Hold a moment.”

The slaad, looking uncomfortable at the prospect of the assassin’s company, waited for Riven to catch up. As they walked for the door, Riven casually kept a hand on one of his sabers. He eyed the slaad’s back sidelong, located the kidneys, and wondered whether the creature would sense Magadon’s psionic attack.

We’re coming out, he projected to Cale and Magadon.

Be ready, Cale answered back. If he responds to the attack, he’s your responsibility.

Riven didn’t bother with an answer. He didn’t require instruction from Cale. He understood his responsibilities-all of his responsibilities-full well.

Riven and the slaad exited the inn and the assassin quickly surveyed the nearby street traffic, rooftops, and catwalks above. Nothing unusual. In the darkness, he didn’t see Cale and Magadon, and he didn’t see the drunk. A rothe -pulled wagon piled high with dried mushrooms was stopped in the street near them, its gray-skinned gnome owner pulling at the rothe’s bridle. The creature lowed in agitation, shook its shaggy mane, but did not budge. A group of drunk half-orcs peppered the gnome with laughter and curses. From down the street, a crowd in one of Skullport’s many fighting dens let loose an approving shout.

Now, Magadon projected.

Riven knew that somewhere nearby, Magadon was insinuating himself into the slaad’s mind.

I’m in, Magadon said.

The slaad spun around to face Riven.

Reflexively, Riven’s grip on his saber hilt tightened, though he kept his face expressionless

“Louts,” the slaad said, indicating the half-orcs. “Listen to them curse. They have the intelligence of rocks.” Riven let his grip on his saber relax.

He sneered at the slaad, hoping it was Azriim, nodded agreement, and said, ‘It’s in the breeding. Half-bloods are often a stupid lot.”

*****

Cale and Magadon took a different route back to the Pour House than the assassin, in case the slaadi decided to follow Riven. After the assassin arrived, all three of them met Jak. Sitting in the quiet darkness of their room, Riven explained to them what the slaad had told him. Cale took it all in, thinking.

“They want us to attack them?” Jak asked.

The halfling took a draw on his pipe and blew it out. “Or the whole caravan,” Magadon said. “Or at least to follow it out of the city.”

“The latter seems the most likely to me,” Cale said. “But there’s no way to be certain.”

“What’s the play, Cale?” Riven asked, taking a draw on his own pipe.

Cale, pacing the floor with his hands clasped behind his back, spoke his thoughts aloud: “Whatever they’re planning,” he said, “they plan to do it around the third hour of next cycle. Agreed?”

Heads nodded agreement and Cale continued, “So, we’re either part of their plan somehow or they want us well out of the way. It doesn’t matter which. With Magadon’s connection to the slaadi, we can figure out where they are at any time. So we observe and improvise. If they’re with the caravan, fine. If they’re somewhere else, that’s fine too. Wherever they are, we follow them and put a stop to whatever they’re planning. Then we put a stop to them.”

Riven blew out a smoke ring, smiled, and said, “You seem to have grown fond of improvisation, Cale. Leads to surprises.”

Cale said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Improvisation was all they had.

Twice during the cycle, Cale asked Magadon to open the link between the guide and the slaad. Each time, Magadon’s peculiar gaze went vacant as the psionic contact allowed him to see through the eyes of the targeted creature. Based on Magadon’s description of the surroundings, the slaad appeared to be in some kind of storehouse or office with his two brethren, one in the form of a huge Amnian, the other in the form of a Sword Coast pirate. They were talking, but Magadon couldn’t hear their words.

“Our slaad does all the talking,” Magadon reported. “The others listen. I see the gray-eyed slaad-he’s the corsair with the falchion… goatee. Looks a bit like Riven. The Amnian’s face is slack. He looks like a dullard.”

Cale looked to Riven and said, “Gray-eyes is our friend from the barn outside of Selgaunt.”

“I remember him,” Riven said.

Jak, seated in the room’s sole chair with his feet up on the small table and his hands interlaced behind his head, said, “We owe that one.”

One of his hands went to his chest where the gray-eyed slaad had torn it open.

“We owe them all, little man,” Cale agreed, nodding. “The Amnian I make as Dolgan. He’s big and stupid no matter his form.”

Twice Cale had almost killed Dolgan. He would be sure to finish the work next time they met.

Jak said, “That leaves only Azriim. We’re seeing through his eyes.”

Cale nodded, imagining the slaad’s brown and blue orbs. He was pleased they had tagged Azriim with Magadon’s power. From what he’d seen, Cale deemed Azriim the leader, the most cunning, and hence the most valuable. Whatever happened, Azriim would be at the heart of it.

Magadon sat up straight and said, “Gray-eyes is leaving.”

“Without Azriim?” Cale asked.

Magadon nodded and said, “He’s getting instructions.” Cale wished again that Magadon’s ability allowed him to hear what the slaadi were saying.

He thought for a time, then said, “End it, Mags. We’ve got a connection with Azriim. We’ll call on it as needed. This is too risky.”

Though Azriim had shown no sign up till then of having detected Magadon’s presence, Cale didn’t want to press his good fortune by prolonging the connection. He would keep all the contacts short, just long enough to get a feel for the slaadi’s location and activities. Tymora sometimes smiled on the foolish, he knew, but she more often favored the circumspect.

More importantly, Cale could see that maintaining the mental link for even a short time was draining to the guide. Magadon’s skin was pale, his knucklebone

eyes sunken, and from the way he rubbed his brow, Cale thought he probably had a severe ache in his temples. But not once did the guide complain. Cale’s respect for him grew all the more.

Magadon held the connection for a moment longer, then cut off contact with an audible sigh. He blinked rapidly and his eyes came back to life.

“Check him every half hour,” Cale said to the guide, patting him on the back. “The time is getting close. We don’t want them to have too much of a head start.”

The guide exhaled, massaging his brow, and nodded.

Geared up and ready, they continued to wait in their room, increasingly restive. Time passed, and Magadon’s periodic checks revealed the two remaining slaadi doing little. Riven paced their small room like a caged animal.

“We could move on them right now,” the assassin said to Cale. “You could shadow-step us to that storehouse.”

Cale shook his head, not bothering to explain his reasoning.

“Delay is foolish,” Riven snapped. “By the time we move, we may find them in the midst of thirty hired swords. Then what? Your decision to wait will have put us all at risk, Cale.”

Cale understood that, but simply killing the slaadi was not enough. He wanted vengeance, justice, chororin. For that, he would need to find the Sojourner, who had put all of it into motion, and stop him, kill him.

Instead of arguing with the assassin, he said, “You’re welcome to stay behind.”

Riven stopped pacing and his eye flashed. He stared at Cale for a moment before nodding at the pocket in which Cale kept his mask, his holy symbol.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, First of Five?” the assassin asked. “No one to vie for his favor, eh?”

Cale answered Riven’s stare with one of his own.

“His favor has nothing to do with it,” he replied. “His favor got me this.” He held up his regenerated hand, swathed in shadows. “This is about you doing it my way

or not at all. Your choice to stay, Zhent. Nobody is holding you here. You can walk away anytime.”

Riven held Cale’s gaze for a moment before giving a mirthless smile through his goatee.

“I think I’ll stay around,” said the assassin, “for now.” He started pacing anew.

Jak and Cale shared a look. Jak’s green eyes said, I don’t trust him. For his part, Cale attributed Riven’s mood to the irritability that had plagued the assassin since arriving in Skullport, and his impatience for action. Cale too was irritable, which explained his own overly harsh response to Riven’s challenge.

“They’re moving,” Magadon said.

Cale and Jak jumped to their feet. Riven whirled on the guide and took three steps toward him.

“Where?” all three asked in unison.

Magadon held up a hand to forestall further questions. His eyes showed only whites.

“Exiting the storehouse. I cannot tell where they are. Heading along the street… carts… slaves…”

“No landmarks?” Cale asked.

Magadon shook his head and replied, “Still haven’t seen the harbor. I think they’re in the Lower Trade Lanes, heading north or east. Lots of street traffic… brothels, taverns, shacks, a glassblower’s workshop…” He was quiet for a time then said, “The buildings are getting more and more decrepit, even for Skullport.”

Magadon continued to describe the surroundings, hoping that one of them would note something with which they were familiar.

“Do you see any brewer’s shops?” Riven asked. “Lots of goblins? Kobolds?”

Magadon shook his head and said, “No

wait, yes! A lot of untapped ale casks stacked outside of several buildings. And there are more goblins than usual.”

Riven said, “They’re in the northern Trade Lanes, in the slum warrens near Cart City. They’re heading toward the Underdark tunnels that lead north out of the city.”

“You’re sure?” Cale asked.

Riven nodded and replied, “That’s consistent with what the slaad described to me back at the Crate and Dock.”

… lizard pens…” the guide continued.

“Hold him for a while longer,” Cale said to the guide. “We need to be sure.”

Magadon nodded, his eyes still showing only whites. They waited.

“They’re reaching the end of the cavern,” Magadon said. “Tunnels ahead. Lots of torches and lanterns… goblin runners. It’s a caravan assembly point but I only see one closed wagon. There are many heavily armed duergar, and four in no armor. I don’t see the gray-eyed slaad.”

“Cut if off, Mags,” Cale said.

“Wait…” Magadon said. “The unarmored duergar are gathered around Azriim. To judge from his hands and perspective, it looks as though Azriim is in the form of a duergar himself, or something similarly short. He’s handing them wands. He’s looking toward a tunnel, gesturing. I think they’re preparing to move out.”

“Cut it now, Magadon,” Cale ordered. ‘We know enough.”

The guide nodded distantly and shook his head as though to clear it. Exhaling heavily, his eyes returned to normal. He looked exhausted.

Cale patted Magadon on the shoulder while he said to Riven, “That must be the caravan they described to you.”

“Agreed,” Riven replied. “Two of the three slaadi are there, along with the squad of duergar.”

“Where then is the gray-eyed slaad?” Cale asked of no one in particular.

Magadon shook his head. Riven shrugged.

Jak already had pocketed his pipe and pulled on his pack.

“I still don’t get it,” said the halfling. “The slaadi are with the caravan, but they want us to attack it?”

“An ambush?” Magadon offered.

“Possibly,” Cale replied, “but I’d wager it’s more complicated than that. Remember that they can teleport away

anytime, if they’re willing to risk it. They might just be with the wagon to make it look believable, planning to get out of there when we appear.”

Magadon tilted his head, conceding the point.

“Either way,” Cale continued, “baiting us to attack the caravan is only a ploy, not the real play. So we follow it and them, hidden, but hold our steel until I say otherwise. There’s something else going on here.”