Authors: Paul S. Kemp
He will attempt to scry you, said the Sojourner. He has no other course. Keep defensive wards in place henceforth, and avoid contact.
Azriim ground his teeth, finding the activity unsatisfying without fangs, and asked, Avoid contact? We should be allowed to kill him.
Azriim felt the Sojourner’s mental presence lightly scouring his brain, causing him an itch behind his eyes.
You wish to kill him because his presence offends your pride, the Sojourner said. You consider him a challenge worthy enough that you will take satisfaction in his death.
Azriim didn’t bother to deny it, though the Sojourner’s pedantic tone irked him.
The Sojourner continued, You would do this despite my admonition to you that pridefulness in excess is self-destructive?
Azriim did not bother to deny that either.
His father said nothing for a time, then, Very well. Kill him. Perhaps the lesson may be learned another way. With that, the Sojourner cut the mental connection. Azriim fumed over his father’s condescension but kept his attention on Cale.
The human left off the female and walked past the invisible slaad. Azriim fell into step behind him. He toyed with the idea of attacking Cale, taking him by surprise, killing him on the street, and taking his form, but dismissed the idea. The Sojourner’s disappointed tone had rankled him. He would swallow his pride and observe.
For a time.
Alter only three daysafter only six cycles, Jak corrected himself-the halfling could mostly tolerate the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. He still felt weak-kneed when he saw the hapless and hopeless slaves being whipped, zombie laborers carting goods, or illithids feeding on brains, but he managed at least to keep down his meals and banish the nightmares.
Throughout the cycles, Cale periodically had tried to scry Azriim, but to no avail. Jak wasn’t sure whether he should take the failure as Beshaba’s own luck or something more foreboding. Cale offered no opinion on the matter, though he seemed thoughtful. Jak put it out of his mind. If the slaadi had known Jak and his friends were in Skullport, they would have already attacked.
While Cale tried to magically locate the slaadi,
Riven had taken the mundane approach. He put out inquiries but learned only that Skullport’s underworld was tittering with the expectation of a gang war between two rival slaving organizations, one run by a beholder crime lord and the other by a yuan-ti slaver. After two cycles of questioning, bribing, and threatening, Riven had been able to learn nothing about the slaadi.
“It’s too tight here,” the assassin told them across the table of an inn. Jak had forgotten the name of the place already. Frustration tinged the assassin’s voice. “No one is talking.”
Cale considered that.
“Then we need get obvious,” he said.
Jak knew what that meant. They would make themselves apparent-and make themselves targetshoping to draw the slaadi out.
Riven looked across the table and asked, “You’re certain?”
“We’ve got nothing else,” Cale replied, nodding.
Thereafter, as they moved to a different inn every two cycles, they all four traveled together rather than moving in more circumspect pairs. Accustomed to “quiet work,” Jak felt they might as well have had a royal herald announcing their presence in Skullport. Each time they moved, the halfling eyed with suspicion everyone they passed on the street, certain that each skulker was a slaad in disguise.
Cycles passed, and they moved from inn to inn. Skullport seemed to have as many inns as a stray dog had fleas, arid all of them were the same: rundown drug-dens filled with whores, bad food, and swill that passed for ale. Jak began to lose hope. Perhaps the slaadi had already left the city?
Then Riven got a lead.
“This man named Thyld purports to have information on a duergar with unusual eyes,” Riven said.
They sat around a small table in their filthy, windowless room.
“You looked into him?” Cale asked.
Riven nodded and said, “Of course. He’s a well known information broker in the city, associated with a group called the Kraken Society. He looks legitimate.”
“When?” Cale asked.
“Later this cycle,” said Riven. “I go alone. At a place called the Crate and Dock.”
Cale rubbed his chin, thinking.
After a time, he said, “This is all we have, so we go. But it smells wrong. Treat it that way.”
“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 h ad 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 41 it 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 draggir tg 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 tavern-keeper 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 piratea 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 tavern-keeper. The old man quailed. To judge from Ergis’s musculature, the coarse hair that covered his arms, and the feral eyes, Jak suspected the pirate to be orc-spawn, 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 passersbya 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 tavern-keeper 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 mood on his mine.
“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 tavern-keeper 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 tavern-keeper, 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.
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.