Downshadow (20 page)

Stareyes, blinking, pushed forward, and the padded blade punched into Kalen’s belly.

“A counter in every parry,” he said. “Do not hesitate, but commit yourself.”

The half-elf shook his head. “But my parry needs to be—”

“Firm, I know,” Kalen said. “Trusr yourself to set a strong position, and rhere is no way the other blade can hit you.”

He demonstrated, slapping his blade against Stareyes’s parry. With the guard wide enough, his blade could nor reach Stareyes’s arm.

The gathered watchers—who had grown in number, Kalen saw— murmured agreement.

Treth laughed. “Try a master, Sir Dren.” He tossed his hat and black watchcoat to a junior Watchman, then unbuttoned his uniform and unlaced his white undertunic to the belly.

“The winner goes with Rayse to the ball tonight at the Temple of Beauty,” said Treth.

Coughing, Kalen nodded grimly. He’d known it would come to this.

Treth sneered. Gray-black hairs bristled along his chin and neck. Kalen shrugged. He handed the sword ro Stareyes with a nod, then brought his fingers up to the buttons of his uniform.

Apparently, an attractive form—such as the one she had donned in the Skewered Dragon—was more a hindrance than a help in a barracks filled with wandering eyes.

Fayne had arrived at the barracks earlier, and now wore the illusory form of a junior Watchman whose name she hadn’t asked. She could have done so, but why bother? The boy, who had been only too eager ro follow her into the stuffy Room of Records, now slumped senselessly under a desk, trapped by magic that bound his mind into a relentless nightmare. Fayne had invoked the power in her wand, taken his face, and gone out into the warm sunshine. She found Kalen in the courtyard, just in time to see him handily defeat a rather handsome half-elf with dark hair and the most beautiful eyes.

Fayne made a mental note to visit the barracks more often.

Then a good-looking man of middling years—Vigilant Treth, she heard a Watchman whisper—challenged Kalen, and they proceeded to disrobe in the middle of the yard.

Fayne had to restrain herself not to squeal. She wasn’t a gambler, but she
of^cockfighrs.p>

She shared in the collective intake of breath when Kalen stripped offhis shirt. His body was covered in scars—knife cuts, arrow holes, burns. Some of them, Fayne recognized: the finger-shaped lines on his forearm were the spellscar burns he had suffered in Downshadow the night they had met. His tightly woven muscles carried not a drop of fat.

Treth was a whip-wire of a man, like a curled snake, ready to lunge. Kalen, on the other hand, was a wolf. Fayne saw it in his movements and the way he stood—and the way he glared.

Her cheeks grew warm, and she cursed herself for a brainless child.

The men faced each other across the courtyard. Sneering, Treth held his steel low. Kalen held his high, and coughed. Part of his disguise, Fayne realized.

Then Treth lunged toward Kalen, fast as a striking viper, and Kalen caught his spinning, shifting cut with a solid, low-hanging parry. The padded swords thumped.

Treth pulled back and struck again, reversing, and Kalen parried easily. Where Treth attacked wildly, with great sweeping slashes and flurries, Kalen’s movements were quick and precise—conservative. It was obvious to Fayne—who knew as little about swordplay as a stray kitten—that Kalen was better. But could he win, and still maintain his mask?

That held Fayne’s interesr—that, and Kalen’s glimmering skin. Mmm.

They came together again, and again. Every time, Treth attacked, lunging fast, and every time, Kalen warded him off. He didn’t press— he was holding back.

They broke apart for the eighth time, and Treth, hopping from foot to foot, grinned madly. “Don’t say you grow weary yet, youngling,” he said. “I’m enjoying this.”

Kalen dropped a hand to his heaving chest. It curled into a fist.

Treth came again, his lightning strike harder—more brutal. He hammered into Kalen’s high guard, both hands on his sword, and Kalen compressed toward the ground.

Then the older man dropped a hand unexpectedly from his sword

and punched at Kalen’s face. Fayne bristled at the injustice, but Kalen seemed to have expected it. He grappled his left arm around Treth’s and threw their flailing swords wide. They wrestled, each trying to push the other away, and finally half a dozen Watchmen rushed forward to pull them apart.

Fayne saw that the watching horde had grown—sixty or more folk were in the yard. Some commotion arose at the gates, but she couldn’t see what it was.

Treth thrust, but Kalen moved so suddenly and quickly that the crowd gasped. He attacked high into Treth’s attack, locking blades. The clash of steel rang blasphemously loud.

Kalen punched forward to shift his blade under Treth’s and inside his guard. Treth’s arm was hopelessly twisted and wide. Kalen grasped the older man’s throat.

“Low guard,” Kalen said. “Surely you know better than that.”

A cry came from the gates and both of them looked, startled.

Fayne saw a girl—she realized, after a hearrbeat, that it was Myrin—with a shimmering red gown and a wild, perfect sweep of silver hair that fell to her waisr. She was as a magical apparition—so unexpected that the courtyard gaped at her.

Kalen hissed as Treth broke the hold and wrenched away. Kalen rried to follow, but Treth lashed out hard across his unprotected face with his padded blade, making a sound like a hammer on wet wood. Kalen’s head snapped back and he fell, like a cut puppet, to the dirt.

“Kalen!” Myrin shrieked. She shoved past black-coated forms as she ran to him.

Treth stood over Kalen. He blew his nose on his hand then spat in the dust. “Well struck, Dren.” He jerked his head at Myrin. “Now I see your weakness, Rayse’s hound.”

Kalen only glared at him, blood running from his nose. As he sat on the ground, coughing and retching, Fayne reflected that he must be as fine a mummer as she.

“What the Hells is this?” shouted a voice. Fayne recognized it from a past misunderstanding as that of Commander Kleeandur. Kleeandur was much like Bors Jarthay—whose tastes in women Fayne knew

quite well—but older, harder, and less amusing. She’d crossed him

before and come out the worse for it. She retreated behind a pillar as

the commander strode into the yard.

Kleeandur grasped Treth by the arm. “What the Hells are you

about, Vigilant?”

“Commander,” Treth winced. “I can explain—”

“Caravan patrol for rwo tendays!” Jarthay shouted. “At half

pay.”

Fayne stuck out her tongue. What kind of vengeance was that? She would get Treth much worse than that for daring to hurt Kalen.

Since when do you care? she asked herself. You’re just using him, anyway. Aye?

Kleeandur turned on Kalen, who lay coughing in the dirt. “And you, Dren,” he said. “Brawling in the yard—goading him like that. Suspension without pay for a tenday.”

Fayne almost screamed at the injustice of it, but Kalen only coughed and nodded. Kleeandur strode away, beckoning Treth to follow him. The man sneered at Kalen and went.

Myrin arrived at Kalen’s side and fell to her knees beside his sweaty, dirty form. “I’m sorry!” she cried, patting dust away from Kalen’s head and shoulders. “I didn’t mean—”

“Not your fault,” Kalen murmured. He smiled at her, and his eyes sparkled.

Fayne shivered. Those… that… gods!

She realized then that her illusion had slipped away. No one had yet noticed, all eyes intent on the duel. Fayne didn’t even care, until a small voice beside her asked, “Fayne?”She looked, and there was Cellica, peering up at her curiously. The halfling had entered with Myrin and picked her way through the crowd to Fayne’s side. “What are you about?” Cellica’s frown was suspicious.

Mind racing, Fayne grinned broadly. “I … ah …” Then her plans shifted in a heartbeat. “Cellica! Just the lass I was searching for. I have a small proposal for you—a favor that you might pay me, if you’re interested.”

Cellica’s eyes widened. “Aye?”

As they climbed down from the carriage before the Temple of Beauty and joined the fancifully dressed revelers waiting outside, Kalen admitted to himself that he was not pleased.

But when he looked at it honestly, he had no one to blame but himself. He’d known this was a mistake. How had he let Cellica talk him into this?

“Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t go as Shadowbane,” she said.

When Kalen had given her seven, Cellica frowned. “Well … give me one more.”

In rhe end, Kalen privately suspected she’d used the voice on him.

“Kalen?” Myrin asked at his side, calling him from his thoughts. “Is aught wrong?”

“No,” he said, taking the opportunity once again to admire how the red gown and silver hair suited her. She looked uncomfortably womanly, rather rhan girlish. He hadn’t said anything, of course, but that didn’t stop him thinking it.

Mayhap that was why he hadn’t argued against Cellica more effectively.

Don’t let yourself be distracted, he thought. You can survive the night. It’s just a ball.

He hoped there wouldn’t be dancing. Graceful as he might be, he was a soldier. He knew nothing of the world of courtly balls or dancing.

They entered rhrough the foyer, decorated with images of the Lady Firehair and her worshipers—beautiful and graceful creatures, all. Fountains shaped like embracing lovers trickled wine. Windows of stained glass depicting scenes from Sunite history let in the radiance

of the rising moon. Guests were gathered, laughing and flirting with rose-robed priests and priestesses. This, Kalen could handle. Only a ball, he thought.

“Sorry again,” Myrin said. “About yestereve—I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Kalen shrugged.

“I thought for sure you’d bring Fayne,” said Myrin. “She’s your … ah?”

“No.” Kalen looked at her blankly. “I know her about as well as I know you.”

“Oh.” Myrin held his arm a little tighter. He could have sworn she added, “Good.”

“Saer and Lady—if you’ll enter the grand courtyard?” A pretty acolyte gestured to a set of open golden doors carved with the visage of the goddess.

“Courtyard?” Kalen murmured, but he couldn’t argue with Myrin’s brilliant smile. She took his arm and pulled him along. At least Myrin was happy.

Fayne was fuming. Kalen had taken that little chiding—not a real woman like herself.

The carriage started to turn onto the most direct thoroughfare, Aureenar Street, but Fayne wasn’t about to lose a single moment of style. Ostentation made her feel better.

“Keep around!” Fayne snapped to the driver. “Up to the Street of Lances!”

The man in his pressed overcoat tipped his feathered hat. “Your coin, milady.”

Since she had the carriage already, she might as well prolong her rich procession.

The carriage broke away from the loose train of vehicles and swerved northeast. Fayne smirked out the window, surveying rhe streets, the jovial taverns, and the folk walking.

Cellica, sitting across from Fayne, fidgeted her thumbs and chewed her lip. Their ride had included a visit to Nurneene’s for masks, and

the halfling wore a plain white eye mask with her gold gown. She’d added a lute to represent a bard Fayne had never heard of, but apparently halflings knew their own history quire well.

“How long will this be?” She looked at Fayne anxiously.

Fayne laughed. “Enjoy it, little one! Not every day working lasses like us ride in style.”

“I appreciate you inviting me along, Fayne.” The halfling smiled halfway. “I’m just worried about—” She peered out the window.

“Oh, don’t fret!” Fayne insisted with a girlish smile. “I’m sure your jack can handle himself. Thar little wild-haired girl didn’t look so vile.” A touch dangerous, mayhap—but that was intriguing, rather than off-setting. If only the little scamp weren’t interfering!

“No.” Cellica smiled, apparently at the thought of Myrin. “No, she isn’t.”

Beshaba, Fayne thought, what is it that makes everyone cling to such pathetic waifs?

They continued north on the Singing Dolphin thoroughfare and turned east on the Streer of Lances. Fayne grinned at onlookers, whose responding srares she chose to interpret as jealous. They turned south again on Stormstar’s Ride. At the end of the street, they saw the Temple of Beauty.

“Ye gracious gods,” Cellica murmured, eyes wide. She reached across for Fayne’s hand.

“Shiny, eh?” Fayne took Cellica’s hand automatically, and the halfling clutched her tightly.

Sune’s Waterdeep temple was best approached from Stormstar, Fayne thought, and particularly at this time of evening, when the last rays of the setting sun fell upon its ruby towers and gold-inlaid windows. And from the look on Cellica’s face, she was right.

The great cathedral, palace, and pleasure dome towered over the noble villas alongside, shining like a beautiful star of architectural brilliance. Soaring towers and seemingly impossible buttresses made for a facade of true grandeur, which masked an open-air ballroom from which rhe sounds of revelry could be heard even from far away.

The halfling smiled wanly all the way until the carriage let them off.

“Aye?” Fayne grinned. “Pleased?”

But Cellica said nothing—she looked at her feet nervously.

The iron-faced dwarf attendant at the door looked at their invitation—which Fayne had forged—without any suspicion, then eyed them appraisingly. It was uncommon that two women came to a revel rogether, but hardly rare. “Who’re you lasses supposed to be?”

“Olive Ruskettle!” Cellica peeped, then she went back to staring at the temple.

The guard nodded—he seemed at least to have heard of the “first halfling bard”—then looked at Fayne. He handed back the scroll. “And you, lass?”

“Aye?” Fayne gestured down—black leggings tucked into swashbuckler boots, billowy white shirt and black vest, scarlet half-cape and matching dueling glove—and flipped her magic-blacked hair. She grinned through her scarlet fox mask. “I’m not…famous?”

The guard shook his head.

“Good,” Fayne said, and she kissed the dwarf on the lips. “Tymora’s kiss upon you!”