Downshadow (19 page)

Cellica’s eyes widened. “Now that… that’s impressive.” She looked for Ninea, who had disappeared out of the store, then leaned toward Myrin to whisper. “Can you do aught for me? I’d love … I’d love a good crimson, if you wouldn’t—”

“I don’t even know how I did it for me.” Myrin blushed. “I could

try-“

“No, no!” Cellica said, turning white. “It looks too glim for such a risk. Keep it that way.”

Myrin frowned. Then she realized something. “You wanted crimson? Like Fayne’s hair?”

“Ha! Hark—-how the day wanes!” Cellica picked nervously at the gold dress. The color flattered her well and the gown was cut with gods’ eyes to show flashes of sunbrowned flesh on her slim belly. “This one, then.”

She whistled, and their attendant glided over. The halfling didn’t seem surprised to see Myrin’s silver hair.

“I think we’ve decided,” Cellica said, and Myrin realized she wanted to be away from the salon as soon as possible. Was it something she had said?

“Please, my lady, to have these as well,” said the halfling girl, presenting two parcels bound in waxed string. “Less elegant—more practical, but fine. A gift, for gracing the Menagerie.”

Cellica blushed furiously. “We can’t accept these,” she said.

But the attendant shook her head. “Lady Ilira mentioned aught of a debt,” she said. “She spoke of a ‘shadow that wards’ ?” She shrugged. “She said you would understand.”

Cellica and Myrin shared a long, curious glance. Then the halfling smiled. “Very well, but we pay for these in full.” She gesrured to her gold gown and Myrin’s scarlet.

The attendant shrugged. She looked at Kalen’s borrowed tunic and breeches and tried to hide her disdain behind her kerchief.

Cellica murmured a laugh. “Better just toss those out, I think.”

The attendant nodded and took up the old clothes, averting her nose. Myrin watched the clothes in her arms and felt Cellica’s eyes. The halfling smiled at her mysteriously.

“Cheers, peach,” Cellica said, squeezing her hand. “No reason to fret—he did promise to take you to the revel, not that other stripling.”

“But—”

“Kalen, for all his faults, is a man of his word.” Cellica winked. “Don’t you forget that!”

When Cellica turned away, Myrin wiped at her cheek and noted in the mirror a tiny blue rune on her wrist, glowing softly. It hadn’t been there when she’d entered the salon, but it was there now—a bright little spot that filled her with nervous dread. It felt warm ro the touch and didn’t fade no matter how long she looked at it.

Myrin looked where Lady Ilira had stood, at the back of the Menagerie, but no one was there. She saw only a shadow on the wall, which flickered away as though someone—unseen—had moved.

“Come, lass!” Cellica called. “Delay too long, and I’ll just have to buy another!”

Fayne rose late the following morn, in her rooms above the rowdy Skewered Dragon in Dock Ward. She was alone, and every bit of her ached.

Awakening from reverie alone in her own bed was in itself cause for concern. She hadn’t spent more than a dozen nights alone in all the years since her mother’s death. She normally required only a few hours of the trancelike rest—only half what she had just spent. She must have felt truly awful, to fall into bed by herself and rest the night through.

Perhaps she had even spent some of the time in real sleep—ye gods. Maybe she was wearing a half-elPs face too much.

She recalled that the owner of the Dragon had quesrioned her gruffly when the carriage had dropped her off, but she’d waved him aside, along with the catcalls of patrons. She’d ignored the sneers of the serving girls—saucy wenches who sold their charms as openly as drinks—and managed to climb up to her chamber before collapsing into bed.

She examined the damage in the mirror. That blue-headed snip had muddled her mind, adding worry lines around her eyes and lips. She’d often wondered what it would feel like, being struck by dark magic—gods knew she’d done it often enough herself.

“Hit me with my own power, eh?” she murmured. “Children.”

All in all, totally unacceptable, she thought. She set to work. She would just touch up a few details of her appearance.

She caressed the invisible pendant that hung at her throat. It faded into sight and gleamed as she harnessed the magic—complex, powerful things for which her wand was not quite suited. It wasn’t that she couldn’t cast the shaping rirual with the wand—it just didn’t feel right to her. It was better for quick castings, particularly illusions and

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dark, fey-touched art. It had come from her mother, who had been a talented witch of the fey path. The amulet, on the other hand—her patron had built it precisely for this sort of ritual, which was more wizardly than warlock.

She thought she should see Kalen today. Fayne hoped the man was suitably in agony over the wounds she had sustained in his tallhouse. She might suggest that he could make it up by taking her to the revel instead of Myrin, thus furthering her plan.

She left shadows under her eyes, so as to make herself appear a little more vulnerable. She knew Kalen liked rhe gray eyes, so she made them shine. She slimmed her image slightly, and made her face jusr a bit more darling—her nose, in particular, seemed a bit too long, so she made it small and delicate.

More like Myrin’s nose, she realized, and she stuck out her tongue in disgust.

Her amulet had been a gift from her patron on her fortieth name day (gods, how long ago that seemed!), and coincided with her learning how to change her face. First, she had used the wand’s illusory powers, but her patron had taught her how to perform a ritual that would make the changes deeper, harder to dispel.

Finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. This was the face she would wear this day—Greengrass, the festival of spring. It wasn’t what she’d call beautiful, exactly, but a proper seduction was accomplished according to the desires of the man or woman seduced. She winked at the mirror, glad of her false face. A blessing no one could see the real one—she didn’t spend so much effort hiding it in vain.

Her face and body made up, Fayne selected suitable attire for the Watch barracks: mid-calf gray dress with open front, laced black bustier cut with slits on the flanks to reveal slashes of lacy red underslip, matching scarlet scarf for the cold, wide leather hat for any rain, and her favorite knee-high boots with dagger-length heels.

None of them cheap, but none of them rich—quite what she thought Kalen liked.

As she dressed, she smiled at the revel-ready garments hanging in the wardrobe, carefully selected for the occasion. She would have

quite the laugh at that private jest—most of her best pranks were personal.

She threw on a weathercloak to hide her outfit, whisked her way out the Dragon around a few highsun brawlers and patrons waving for her charms, and hailed a carriage.

Vainly, Kalen had hoped that by the next day, Araezra would have calmed herself about the Room of Records and they could talk. But he hadn’t seen her all morn, and when he’d asked, a gruff Commander Jarthay had told him she was out on duty. Kalen didn’t need the subtle, tight pitch of the commander’s words to know things would be tense with Araezra.

He hadn’t wanted to go home, so he’d spent the night at the barracks and eaten among the Guard. Thankfully, no one bothered him. His notorious indifference was good for that, at least. That morn, he had tried to work in the Room of Records, but every time he looked up from the ledgers, he would see Rath holding Araezra helpless or hear her choked whispers. Eventually, he moved outside to work in the warm, sun-filled courtyard.

Greengrass was the first day of spring, and the weather treated Waterdeep to warm days, cold nights, and frequent rain. Kalen disliked autumn and spring, with their long shadows and false warmth: he preferred the commitment of summer hear or winrer chill.

In the yard, he left the ledger untouched and began a letter to Araezra, trying to explain what he had done. He paused now and then, to listen to the sounds of training in the court.

A cluster of Watchmen had gathered to watch a practice match between two of the youngest and most handsome members of rhe Guard: Aumun Bront and Rhagaster Stareyes. The latter was the more handsome thanks to his elf heritage (the legacy of a scandalous, hypocritical indiscretion on the part of his elf supremacist father, Onstal Stareyes, with a serving lass in Dock Ward). The men circled each other, stripped to the waist and sweaty, padded swords swishing.

They sparred under the unimpressed eye of Vigilant Bleys Treth, whom Kalen had done his best to avoid these last days. He didn’t much

like the man (the feeling was mutual), and Treth had seen Shadowbane on the night Talanna had been hurt. He mighr recognize Kalen.

The other guard who might have known him—Gordil Turnstone—was there, too, sitting on a bench. Though he was ostensibly watching the sparring, Turnstone was dozing.

Bront cut over and high and Stareyes replied with a plunging block. It could have become a counter to the belly, but the half-elf held the parry too long. Finally, Stareyes broke the parry and cut in from the opposite line, then reversed again, striking from both directions in sequence. He feinted right and attacked left. In rhythm, Bront tried ro parry right, and the half-elf dealt him a sharp rap on the left side with his blunted blade.

The watchers clapped and Stareyes flashed his winning smile. Bront cradled his bruised side and gave Stareyes a rueful grin.

Kalen watched them surreptitiously over his spectacles. A part of him wished he could lord his prowess before an audience, but the needs of his disguise prevented it. He’d learned that lesson in a harsh manner during his time as an armar, before Araezra.

He thought about the flaws in Bront’s style, and it must have shown on his face. Treth was watching him with a sneer. Kalen averted his eyes.

“Dren,” Treth called. “Care to teach us aught?”

The congratulatory chatter in the courtyard fell silent, replaced by whispers.

Kalen said nothing, only looked at his parchment and quill. He had paused before telling Araezra the truth. He could see the unwritten sentence: “I lied to you, Rayse.”

Did he dare? Would she understand? Or would she continue to hate him, not only for humiliating her but for lying to her as well? Not to mention that Araezra would be honor-bound to arrest him as a dangerous vigilante—or would she keep his secret?

He shook his head. He hadn’t given her any reason to trust him.

A gloved hand seized his book of notes—with it the letter—and tore it from his hands. He looked up, calmly, to see Bleys Treth gazing down at him with that same cocky smile.

“Come, Dren,” he said. “You’ve not graced the yard in some time.

Spar with Stareyes, and show us your style.” He winked lewdly. “Now that Rayse’s attentions are elsewhere, you’ve the chance, aye?”

Though Treth was older, almost twenty winters over Kalen, they were the same rank in the Guard: vigilant. But Treth had been a master swordsman for hire, a sellsword for nobles, and he bore an aura around him that had made him quite popular. “The Dashing Jack,” the older Watchmen called him—a name he hated. His looks had faded little with the years, but his smile still melted hearts.

He took pride in his charms, and in his skill. And like many warriors past their prime, Treth saw the need to assert his dominance among the “young pups,” as it were.

Kalen saw no reason to stand in his way.

“I’ve work to attend.” He refused to meet Treth’s eye. “Perhaps when I am at leisure—”

“I’m sure”—Treth dropped the ledger in the dirt—”this can wait.”

Kalen looked up at him and around at the silent training yard. The folk—Guard and Watch alike—watched the confrontation intently.

“Vigilant Treth,” Kalen said. He coughed. “You know I can’t—”

“Fleeing behind your weakness of the flesh, eh?” Kalen looked around once more, seeing uncertain, expectant faces.

The Watch and Guard knew of his illness only in part. Certainly none knew he pretended it had grown worse than it truly had. Ir had been months since he had wielded a sword while wearing a uniform. But when he had … Those who had served with him knew of his ferocity, and he saw in the eyes of those gathered that tales had spread.

“I must decline,” Kalen said.

“Then Rayse told true,” Treth whispered in his ear. “And you are a coward.”

That stabbed into Kalen’s chest like a searing knife. It struck not because of his own ego—though he confessed there was some—but because of the truth in Treth’s words.

He shouldn’t do anything to risk revealing himself, but everything was going so very wrong. And Kalen was angry.

“Very well, Dashing Jack,” said Kalen, invoking the man’s hated moniker.

Treth sneered.

Kalen rose, stiffly, and stepped to the center of the yard. He heard gasps at first, then applause. Rhagaster Stareyes saluted and took a high guard with his padded blade.

Kalen took the weapon handed him by Bront, who smiled. Kalen shrugged.

“Tymora’s luck on you,” said Treth—mostly to Kalen. “Begin!”

They circled each other slowly, the ring of Watchmen backing away to give them room. The half-elf skipped from foot to foot, keeping himself loose. Kalen flexed his legs. The front of his thighs felt as if they bore heavy pads, but the sensation was merely his numb flesh.

Stareyes came at him with a plunging cut that Kalen knocked aside easily. He coughed and sidestepped, not holding the parry or countering.

Stareyes turned back toward him. “To you, sir,” he said. Kalen shrugged—and attacked high. He didn’t move fast—he didn’t have to.

From his hanging guard, Stareyes parried high. He could have countered, but as Kalen had expected, he didn’t. Rather than pull back, Kalen ran a hand along the length of his own sword, caught the end of his blade, and twisted to set the edge near the hilt at the half-elps throat.

A gasp passed through the yard.

“You hesitated to reply,” Kalen said. “You don’t need speed—just readiness.” He pulled back a step and set his sword against Stareyes’s raised blade. “You just parried. Now stab.”