Midnights Mask (13 page)

“Cap’n’s holdin’ a cabin for you,” said the thin one. “Leavin’ with the moonrise, he said. Where’ll we be headin’?”

Captain Azriim must not have told the crew the destination. Riven could not have told them if he’d wanted.

“I will leave it to the captain to tell,” Riven said, and boarded.

“Must be something special, to divert our course as we are though, eh?” the thin sailor said. He worked with the other crewman to carry the chest.

The bigger took a half-hearted swing with his free hand at the smaller’s head. “Shut yer hole, Nom. We’ll know when the Captain wants us to know. He’s never sailed us wrong, has he?”

Nom grumbled agreement and the two led Riven to his cabin—little more than a closet with a flea-ridden bed and small dressing table-and left him alone with his chest. Riven wandered onto deck later, where he found Azriim and Dolgan walking the ship, supervising the preparations to set sail. Riven grudgingly conceded that the slaadi were at least as good as he at playing their roles. He noticed that Azriim surreptitiously held one wand or another against his forearm as he moved over the deck.

“Welcome aboard, Mendeth,” Azriim said. The slaad looked exactly like the captain except that he had retained his mismatched eyes. Riven was not surprised that none of the crew had noticed, but a professional would. Cale would.

Dolgan, in his guise as the first mate, grunted a greeting.

Riven pretended to make insignificant conversation, but caught Azriim’s gaze and indicated the wands the slaad rotated in and out of his hands.

Warding the ship, Azriim explained.

Above them, the crew was at work in the rigging, unfurling sails.

“We sail at moonrise,” Azriim said, confirming what the crewman had said to Riven. He continued to walk the deck, with Dolgan at his side.

Riven tired of the slaadi’s company in short order. With nothing to do but wait for the ship to set sail, Riven returned to his quarters and brooded. The thump of activity went on for several hours, then shouts were heard, and the ship began to move away from the pier.

As Demon Binder sailed out of the harbor and out into the open sea, Riven emerged onto the deck, up the sterncastle to the aft railing. He felt the eyes of the crew on him, saw the questions in their expressions, but ignored them and offered no information. He leaned on the rail and watched Selgaunt and its torches and lamps vanish into the distance. For a moment, he wondered what his girls were doing, if they would miss him. He wondered, too, if Cale was in the city, looking for him.

He suspected so.

For the hundredth time, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

*****

From their room in the Murky Depths, Cale tried to scry Riven or the slaadi but met with no success. He was not surprised. No doubt the Sojourner had bolstered the ability of the slaadi to avoid detection. He tried, too, to scry Sakkors, focusing the spell’s magic using only the city’s name. That failed as well. He and Jak would need to use more mundane methods.

For a night and two days Jak and Cale frequented the taverns and eateries of the Dock District, carousing among the watermen. It felt good to Cale. The atmosphere reminded him of his early professional life in Westgate, when things had seemed less complicated and earning coin had been his only concern.

He and Jak sprinkled fivestars and drink among sailors, courtesans, merchants, ferrymen, serving girls, bartenders, dockworkers, and anyone else who might have had an ear to recent events. Cale used his ability to stand invisibly in the shadows to move unseen among the crowds.

As always, the dockside establishments were awash in rumors and schemes-dragon attacks in the north seemed a popular bit of nonsense-but none of them fit what Cale knew of Riven and the slaadi. Cale watched dozens of ships come and go from the harbor, wondering with each if he was watching the slaadi escape. After a time he began to suspect that Riven and the slaadi had not returned to Selgaunt after all, or that they had secured passage on a smuggler’s ship outside the harbor.

The second night, after another fruitless day, he and Jak walked back toward the Murky Depths.

“You ever think about doing something like that?” Jak said, and nodded at a group of glory-seekers walking along the docks: two warriors in mail hauberks, both armed with swords and bows, what looked like a paunchy wizard, to judge from his robes and the esoterica hanging from his belt, and an armored priest of Lathander, with a yellow sun enameled on his breastplate and a mace at his waist. The four adventurers joked among themselves as they walked the waterfront, laughing about some jest made at the wizard’s expense.

“An itchie?” Cale asked, incredulous. “Are you jesting?”

Jak shook his head. “I don’t mean an adventurer, Cale, at least not exactly. I mean… you know, someone who does big things.” He cleared his throat. “A hero, is what I’m saying.”

Cale would have chuckled if not for the earnestness in Jak’s voice. He said, “Adventurers are coin grubbers and tomb robbers, Jak. They’re not heroes, if there even are

you mean, ‘if there are such people?’ You do not think there are any? What about Tchazzar? The Seven Sisters?

Khelben Arunsun? Even King Azoun of Cormyr, before he fell.”

Cale shook his head and said, “Those people have done big things, great things maybe, but to call them heroes? I don’t know, Jak. The word… reduces a man, makes him more myth than real.”

“What does that mean?” Jak asked.

“It means….” Cale fumbled for words. “Do you think that what we know about the men and women you named amounts to even a fraction of who they were or what they did? They slew a dragon, defeated an army, faced a demon. All well and good. But how did they treat their friends? Their family? I’ll wager they experienced more failures than successes. Should that not factor into the evaluation? We take one aspect of who they were or what they did, grab onto it because we like it or think it admirable, and call them heroes. Hells, Jak, you and I have faced demons, even a dragon. No one knows, no one will remember but us, and I would wager a fortune that no one will call us heroes. Will they?”

Jak surprised him by saying softly, “l don’t know. Maybe they will.”

Cale laughed to hide his shock. “You waxing philosophical as you age?”

“No,” the little man said, and they started walking again. “I just think that doing something good and being remembered for it-even if for nothing else-is worthwhile. And whether the histories call you a hero or not doesn’t change the fact of the heroism.”

Cale thought about that, then said, “Maybe you have some truth there. But aren’t we already doing good things, little man? Big things?”

Jak looked past the ships, out to the bay. “Most of the time I think so. Still, if we get a chance….”

“What?”

Still looking out to sea, Jak said, “lf we get the chance, let’s be heroes.” He looked back at Cale. All right?”

Cale could think of nothing to say. He was not sure that he was made of the stuff of heroes, the stuff of Storm Silverhand and Khelben; he was not sure that a priest of Mask could be a hero. But to satisfy Jak he managed, “All right, Jak. If we get a chance.”

“Is that an oath?” Jak asked.

“That’s an oath,” Cale answered. “What’s animating this, little man?”

“Nothing,” Jak answered. “Just thinking aloud.”

Cale let it rest there, and with that, the two friends walked back to the inn.

The next day they caught a lead. The docks buzzed with news of two bodies found floating in the bay. Most of the stories suggested that both corpses had been mutilated. Most also suggested that the bodies were those of two sailors, both from the same ship. Cale and Jak took hold of the tale, its various incarnations, and followed it to its end to find the truth of it. Sprinkling coin among the laborers on the docks and finally bribing one of the harbormaster’s undermasters, they learned that only one of the bodies had been mutilated—his skull had been opened and emptied-and the sailors had been the captain and first mate of a Thayan ship, Demon Binder, that had set to two nights earlier. Cale learned too that Demon. Binder transported slaves. The rumors spoke of a mutiny. Cale knew better.

“That’s our ship,” Cale said as the three of them sat around a table in the Depth’s taproom. Cale figured that the slaadi had taken the form of the slain captain and mate and brought Riven aboard, probably in disguise.

Jak frowned. “They put to sea two days ago. We don’t know where they’re headed. Even if we can find a faster ship, how can we catch them?”

Cale already had an idea. “The Sojourner may have warded the slaadi and Riven against scrying, but he did not ward the ship. We know its name and there’s power in that. A divination can find it. And if I can see it, I can move us there during the night.”

Jak and Magadon looked at him, and both grinned.

The three finished their meal then retired to their opulent room. Sitting on the end of one of the three down-stuffed beds, Magadon checked and rechecked his arrows, oiled his bow, meditated in silence. Jak inventoried his pouches, his tobacco, sharpened his blades. The schk schk of steel on whetstone kept the time.

Cale sat at an oak desk, on which rested a basin of clear water. He held Weaveshear across his knees and waited, silently imploring Mask to ensure the success of the scrying. Streaks of shadow moved from his hands into the blade, from the blade back into his hands. Sunlight spilled through the western window and painted the floor. The light crept across the slats as sunset approached. The shadows in the room grew longer, darker.

Even without looking out the window, Cale knew the very moment the sun sank below the horizon. He thought of casting then, but decided against it.

“What are we waiting for?” Magadon asked.

“Midnight,” Cale answered. Midnight was the hour sacred to Mask. Cale would wait for it. “Have some food brought up,” he said to Magadon. “Eat. Keep up your strength.”

Magadon and Jak did just that. Cale did not eat. He focused. He knew intuitively when midnight arrived. Moonbeams strained through the shutters. The shadows were at their deepest; Cale’s connection to his god was at its most profound.

“Now,” Cale said, and his comrades rose to stand beside him.

Cale leaned forward over the basin, studied its still water. Running his thumb along Weaveshear’s edge, he slit his skin and drew blood. His flesh regenerated the wound almost immediately but he had what he needed. He let a few drops of blood fall into the basin. He swirled shadows around his fingertips until they grew tangible and he let them, too, fall into the water. He breathed on the basin and stirred the mixture with his fingertips.

Calling upon Mask to show him Demon Binder, he cast the divination. With nothing more than the ship’s name to drive the spell, the casting faltered. Cale compensated with his will, forcing the magic to reveal what he needed to know.

Within moments, the water in the basin solidified into a surface as smooth, black, and shining as polished basalt. A wavering image took shape in the blackness-a two-masted cog with great, square sails full of wind, sailing on the smooth sea. The perspective showed the vessel from a distance, as though Cale were seeing through a bird’s eye above it.

“There it is,” breathed Jak, standing on his tiptoes to see into the basin.

The ship had two crow’s nests, one on the mainmast, one on the mizzenmast. A two-story forecastle squatted on the decks to fore, and a sterncastle to the rear. Lanterns hung from the stern, the gunnels, the post over the helmsman. Cale saw no sailors moving on deck, though one of the crow’s nests contained a watchman. The crew slept on deck or in quarters. The ship was on nightwatch but had not set its anchor or furled its sails. It was sailing through the night, by the light of a waxing Selune and her tears. Cale knew that to be unusual. Azriim must have been in a hurry.

“The crew will fight,” Magadon said, “unless they can be shown the slaadi’s true form.”

Cale nodded. He figured the cog’s crew numbered perhaps a score.

“We’ll go in fast and quiet,” he said. “We find the slaadi, put them down, and get out. But if the crew gets in the way… ” He looked his friends in the eyes. “They are Thayans and slavers. Remember that.

Neither Magadon nor Jak protested.

“Riven?” Jak asked.

Cale shook his head. He did not know what to expect from Drasek Riven. “If necessary, we put him down too.”

The little man pulled out his holy symbol and prayed to Brandobaris. When he completed the casting, a soft glow covered him, Cale, and Magadon. The glow faded but left a warm feeling in its wake.

Jak explained, “A prayer to Brandobaris. We may need the help.”

“A good thought,” Cale said.

He felt a tickling under his scalp.

We are linked, Magadon said.

Cale nodded. They were as prepared as they could be.

He pulled the shadows around them, found the link in the darkness between their room in the Murky Depths and the aft deck of Demon Binder.

In a moment, they were on the open sea, aboard a Thayan slave ship.

*****

Riven awoke, certain that he had heard Cale whispering something to him. He sat up with a start, hand on one of his sabers, and looked about his quarters. He saw no one.

He had been dreaming, and the dream had been a vision sent to him by the Shadowlord. He had seen a tower in ruins but rebuilt before his eyes, a priestess of Cyric screaming in rage. The shadows had laughed at the priestess’s ire. He had seen himself and the slaadi together in the tower as darkness fell.

His skin went gooseflesh at the memory. His heart was racing. He could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, that someone was watching him. Long ago he had learned not to ignore those feelings.

He rose, donned his weapons and an overcloak, and padded out of his room.

*****

A gentle chiming in Azriim’s head awoke him from sleep. One of his alarm spells had been triggered. Erevis Cale was aboard. He climbed out of bed and as he donned his clothing and weapon belt, reached his mental fingers out for Dolgan, who slept in the mate’s quarters nearby.