Downshadow (5 page)

Fayne could have cheered to see her attacker thus beaten, but she saw the sentry nock an arrow and draw the fletching to his cheek. ” ‘Ware!” she cried.

The knight turned toward her, taking the arrow in the shoulder instead of the throat. He staggered back a step, and Fayne’s heart sank. The archer laughed—then cursed as the knight, undeterred by the wound, bounded forward. The archer fumbled with a second arrow.

As he charged, the knight shifted his grip to the sword hilt. He closed and whirled, blade coming free of the black lacquer scabbard in

a silver blur. The sword slashed the bow in two, and the scabbard took the hapless archer in the jaw. He dropped like a stack of kindling.

The pale-faced man fell on the knight, lunging with his sharp nails stretched forth like knives. He’d been waiting arrogantly for his moment, and now it had come. Blue lightning arced around the man’s claws, and Fayne realized—horribly—that they were one with his fingers, and not part of his gauntlets at all. A spellscar, she realized—the spellplague had bound razor steel into the man’s hands and enhanced it with magic.

As Fayne watched, the malformed hands closed on her rescuer’s steel helm, seeking to wrest ir off. The knight wrenched free, but the man caught his left arm. The claws tore into the black leather, and Fayne saw smoke rising from the rent and smelled burned flesh. The pale man’s face was rapt in frenzied glee. It was over, Fayne realized— such a wound would stun the knight, and then the spellscarred man would gouge out his throat.

She knew the knight would be in hideous pain, but he did not show it. Instead, he glared into the spellscarred man’s face and the ugly smile faded. Then the helm slammed forward, crushing the scarred man’s nose and sending him moaning to the ground.

The knight whirled back to Fayne. In one hand, he held the gleaming sword, which flared like a wand of silver flame. His left hand thrust the empty scabbard through his belt, then reached up to snap off the arrow in his shoulder. He winced only a little and made no sound. Through it all, Fayne never saw his eyes waver. They stayed cold and solid as ice.

She stood slowly—no sudden dramatics, and certainly not reaching for the knife she kept in her boot. When the knight didn’t react, she realized he wasn’t looking at her.

“Draw your steel,” he said,

Across the chamber, Rath shrugged. He stepped forward from where he had been leaning on the wall—as he had throughout the duel. His smile was easy as he idly touched the hilt of his sword in its red lacquer scabbard. “Another time, if you prove worthy.”

Rath moved to the center of the chamber. His posture did not threaten, but neither did he seem cowed.

“Stop,” said the knight.

“I have done nothing,” said Rath. He pointed to Kolatch, crawling toward the tunnel. “I think you have more pressing matters.”

With that, the dwarf turned and—bending low in perfect balance—leaped into the air. He grasped the edge of a hole in the ceiling at least a daggercast above the chamber floor. Fayne blinked as he swung up into a tunnel shaft she had not seen before.

How could a mortal creature move like that—jump so high without a running start?

“Ye gracious gods,” she said.

The knight looked after him a moment, then turned to the exit corridor.

“Kolatch,” he said. His voice did not rise.

The merchant squealed, grasped his chest, and fainted dead away at the word.

Then Fayne watched, eyes widening, as the knight in the gray cloak bent low, tensing his legs, as though to follow Rath upward. Magic, surely—she thought. But…

She gave a wheezing sort of sigh and stumbled against the chamber wall, sliding down into the ever-present dungeon refuse. “Ooh, my head.”

The knight appeared over her and his hand caught her under her arm. He cradled her like the helpless victim she only half-pretended to be. She felt such strength in his hands.

“Are you well enough to stand?” The cold voice broke her thoughts. “Are you bleeding?”

“My pride, perhaps,” Fayne said, “and I shall need a new coat.” She plucked at the garment, which was more muck than cloth, grimacing.

“Well,” the knight bid her, and he rurned.

“Wait!” Fayne caught the edge of his cloak and knelt at his side. “It could have gone worse for me. How can I thank you, my hero?”

As she spoke, her fingers brushed her necklace gently and let her illusory face shift ever so slightly. The bruises remained—his eye would stay on those—but her cheekbones rose higher, her eyes

became a little larger and softer, and her lips swelled just a bit. She spoke more softly, her words weak and afraid.

In all, she became a bit more enticing—more the grateful damsel. She played upon his need—the need in all men—to prorect. To feel strong and in control.

“Not necessary,” he said, but she could feel his body relaxing as he considered her.

“How,” Fayne pressed, “can I thank you?” She stepped closer—into his arms, should he raise them to embrace her. Most men wanted to, when she plied her charm—and most men did.

Her savior, to her brief disappointment, was not most men. He stepped back, out of her reach, and his sword hand moved toward her, interposing sharp steel. Its fierce glow had dimmed, but the blade still glimmered faintly.

“Does your blade caH me dangerous, saer?” she asked, using the form of address for a noble knight of unknown rank. She looked him down and up. “Perhaps you should listen to it.” She could see nothing of his face, but she was sure his cheeks would be reddening. Unless he had no shame—which she wouldn’t mind either.

“These men.” The cold voice startled her—the voice of a killer. “Do you know them?”

Before she could begin the explanation that came naturally, he held up a hand. “You are far too capable a woman,” he said, “for this to be random.”

Fayne grinned. “You noticed.”

The knight’s mask was impassive.

“Yes,” she said. “I had arranged to meet their ignoble master— the dwarf, Arrath Vir, known to his friends and foes as Rath. Or so I’m told, at least.” She kicked the nearest thug—the half-ore—who groaned. “These tripelings I do wrknow.”

The knight nodded, once. “And that one?” He pointed at the slain man.

Fayne shook her head. The truth was easy. “Our friend Rath dealt that death with his empty hand. However”—she smiled and stepped closer—”your hands need not be empty this night. My talents are other in nature—but no less moving.”

The knight sheathed his sword. “You are rather forward,” he remarked.

“Better than backward,” she said, and she reached for his helmet.

The knight caught her arm and held it with a grip like steel.

“No.”

Fayne bristled at being thwarted but only smiled. “How am I to kiss my champion?”

“That would be difficult.” He shoved her away, though not hard enough to hurt her. He turned and tensed his legs to leap.

“Wait!” she said. “At least a name!”

He looked over his shoulder.

Fayne shifted her weight and wrung her hands in a way that was very like a demure maiden. “Your name, saer, to remember for my prayers—and to ward off other knaves. A name to call in the night”—she laughed—”when I’m attacked, of course—so that you might save me.”

He hesitated. “Shadowbane,” the knight said.

She shivered in all the right ways. “Well met,” she said. “I am Charl.”

Shadowbane paused, and she got the distinct sense he was smiling. “No, you aren’t.”

Fayne put her hands on her hips. “And why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, Charlatan,” Shadowbane said. “Why would you?”

Fayne licked her lips. True, that had been an easy riddle. “Care to find out?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then jumped, blue-white flames trailing from his feet.

There was magic in his leap—of that Fayne had no doubt. It propelled him up like a loosed arrow. She knew that blue light—had seen it just a moment before: spellplague magic.

Spellscarred, was he? This Shadowbane? How intriguing.

Fayne couldn’t help but marvel as he reached the ceiling and pulled himself over the ledge where Rath had disappeared. His movement was athletic—whereas Rath moved with unnatural grace,

like nothing human or dwarf or anything like—Shadowbane moved very much like a man. Near the peak of human achievement, yes, but a man nonetheless.

Watching him, Fayne found breath difficult. She hated men who resisted her charms, and yet this Shadowbane lingered in her thoughts. She wanted another chance at him, when she could better prepare. He was a man who presented a great challenge.

Gods, how she loved challenges.

She looked to Kolatch, barely awake, who lay moaningand terror-dumb, and smiled.

She loved tricks as well.

Corrupt merchant attacked and magically disfigured!” shouted the boy who carried broadsheets at the corner of Waterdeep Way and the Street of Silver. He held up his wares: copies of the Vigilant Citizen. “Vigilante menace spreads in Downshadow—Watch denies all!”

Cellica, who could pass easily for a human girl in her bulky weatherdoak, chuckled ruefully and shook her head. The halfling paid a copper nib for one of the long, broad scrolls—printed on both sides with ink that would smudge in the rain—and glanced at it. Apparently, some fool named Kolatch had come away with purple hair and beard yestereve. She giggled.

“Brainless Roaringhorn heiress caught in bawdy boudoir!” cried a broadcrier for the acerbic Mocking Minstrel. “Scandal rocks house; says Lord Bladderblat—’typical’!”

“Undead stalk the nobility!” shouted a third, this one a girl for the infamous Blue Unicorn. “You can’t see, you can’t tell—they survive by bedding the living! Interviews and tales!”

Cellica skipped through Castle Ward, giggling at the worst news that was apparently fit to print. Most Waterdhavians called the drivel in the broadsheets ridiculous, but that hardly stopped them reading it. The printers would never go out of business as long as there was drink and stupidity and nobles to indulge in both.

She strolled west, then north along Waterdeep Way, breathing deeply the refreshing air of the bustling city. Waterdeep grew busy just after the gates opened at dawn, the streets choked with laborers and merchants, commoners and nobles alike. She bought a jellied roll and hopped up on a bench in Fetlock Court—in the shadow of the palace and Blackstaff Tower.

This was one of Cellica’s favorite pastimes: watching folk. She

watched nobles in particular, because they amused her. She found the way they walked comical: shoulders back, chest forward, staring down their noses at commoners, laborers, merchants, and any they saw as inferior. She giggled at the sharp tongues of lords and ladies in the street, took note of arguments, and laughed aloud when a seemingly delicate old lady seized a younger male relation by the ear and hauled him, flailing and protesting, to a waiting carriage. The gaggle of lordlasses he’d been striving to impress giggled until they saw Cellica also laughing. Then their laughter died and they stared coldly at her.

“Go on, off with you,” Cellica said. Her lip crooked. She repeated, more forcefully: “Go.”

The young noblewomen stiffened, peering anxiously at one another. Then they shuffled away as though compelled, looking flabbergasted.

Cellica giggled. Folk tended to do what she said, if she said it forcefully enough.

The city raced by day in the warm light, and wouldn’t sleep until long after the sun had gone down. Trade was the blood and bile of Waterdeep, as it had been for centuries. And everyone, regardless of country or creed, was welcome in these streers—so long as they brought good coin and a fair hand.

A fair hand was the less consistent of the two, and something Cellica read about every day. Setting aside the remains of her morningfeast, she unrolled the broadsheet—the Citizen was the most reputable—and read every tale of news, politics, and commerce in detail. Who was offering fair deals? Who stood accused of dirty trade or slavery? Who might be a spy for the Shades or Westgate or even the defunct Zhents?

This research was largely on behalf of her partner—gods knew he wouldn’t do it himself Looking for a target wasn’t his firewine of choice; once he fixed on one, though, no man or creature could stand in his way.

So long as he had the right woman directing him, of course.

He would probably be getting back from his nightly ordeal now— collapsing into his bed at their tallhouse, not to wake until evening.

She worried that he rested enough, but she also knew that worry was futile. Damned if he would take her advice anyway.

Cellica finished with the Citizen and bought a few more broadsheets, including the Daily Luck, Halivar’s, and even the Minstrel. This last (a bitter cesspool about corrupt Waterdhavian politics, lascivious noble houses, and shadowy merchant deals) hardly ever yielded anything of use. That day, its reporting of the Talantress Roaringhorn scandal—as told by the oh-so-noxious Satin Rutshear—curdled Cellica’s stomach, so she crumpled the sheet and tossed it aside.

She much preferred the North Wind, which featured her beloved illustrations of fashionable garments and easy-on-the-eyes models, in addition to plenty of gossip about circles far above hers. As the Wind reported, the annual costume ball was upcoming at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass, five nights hence.

“Oh, to be noble!” Cellica sighed, clasping the broadsheet to her breast. “Or at least rich.”

After fantasizing a few moments, she polished off the last of the watered wine in her beltskin and hopped down from the bench.

With the business of “keeping atop Mount Waterdeep” done, she cut east down alleys and turned north up the Street of Silks, deeper into Castle Ward. These were narrow, less crowded streets—filled with fewer folk and more broken crates, rotting sacks, and other refuse. The people who lived here were poorer, many of them huddled in doorways and beneath raised walks. They looked at her with hungry eyes, and she fingered the crossbdw-shaped amulet that hung at her throat. Others waved to her from festhalls just opening for the day.

Cellica pulled her hood lower to attract less attention. Few small folk appeared in this part of the city—gnomes and halflings usually kept their distance. Cellica happened to know, however, that her people were less a minority than the eye suggested. She slipped among the taller people, trying not to touch anyone. No one batted an eye or stayed her.