Downshadow (6 page)

“Doppelgangers infiltrate houses of ill repute!” cried a small figure who appeared to be a human boy. “Welcomed by festhall madams for their general skills and adaptability!”

Cellica made her way toward the crier, who was not a boy but a

round-faced halfling. Anyone who knew Waterdeep might see through his disguise, based on his wares. He was selling Pleased Toes, a set of tales written, printed, and sold exclusively by his kind.

“Good to see you, Harravin,” she murmured to him. “Mum well?”

“Aye, Cele,” he said. “When you coming back to do some more o’ that cooking?”

“Soon.” Cellica leaned against the wall next to him and took a broadsheet from his stack. She unfolded and began to read. While she did, coin changed hands.

“You can pay me back this month, aye,” said Cellica.

“Cheers.” Harravin grinned, then called, “Doppelganger whores! Some reported missing—test your husband to make sure he’s your own!

Cellica hurried down the alley. As she went, she heard a sound and looked up at the edges of the roofs above her. Water dripped off split, moss-covered roofs—old rainwater fell on her forehead and she wiped it off. She thought she’d heard… but no, of course not.

She gave a little smile and turned to look down the alley. A trapdoor, covered by a heap of dirty cloths and broken crockery, was set into the cobbles. She bent down. A soft thumping sounded from below, like a machine working in the distance.

She pulled open the trapdoor and a dozen bright eyes blinked up at her from smoky candlelight. Farther in, she saw a frame press working, turning out Pleased Toes and lurid chapbooks. A halfling turned roward the sudden light and wiped his forehead, removing a thick coating of black soot.

“Philbin,” she said, nodding to him.

“Well,” he said. “S’bout time th’tyrant of a paladin lets you out. Ready for second print!”

“Celly!” came a cry. The small ones within started cheering and hopping up and down.

“Well met,” Cellica said. She climbed down a stout ladder, closed the trapdoor behind her, and joined her adoptive family.

The little halflings crowded around her, cooing and yipping like puppies. She saw their mother, Philbin’s wife Lin, cooking a meal

over the steaming frame press engine: eggs and sausage and toasted thin loaves. Her stomach growled.

“You’ve come for more coin, I take it,” Philbin said. “And our free food too, eh?”

Though the gruff halfling patriarch didn’t look it, he was one of the wealthiest merchants in Waterdeep—partly because he was such a skinflint.

Cellica drew a bottle from her satchel. “I brought wine.”

Philbin rolled his eyes.

“Just in time for morningfeast!” said one of the little brothers, Dem.

“Silly!” said a halfling girl—Mira. “Secondmorningfeast!”

Cellica found peace among the halflings of the Warrens, one of the cities beneath Waterdeep. It wasn’t home—that was the ruined city of Luskan, far to the north—but for a time, she could pretend.

At least until her tasks called her back.

Perched on the corner of the desk, Araezra said, very clearly, “Ellis Kolatch.”

“Ellis Kolatch.” Kalen’s monotone gave no indication of recognition.

Araezra sighed. Of course Kalen would be indifferent. The damned man was a stone.

They’d been taking their evening leisure hour—waiting for the Gateclose bells to sound, signaling the shutting of the gates for the night—before going out on another inspection. They were alone in the room, pointedly not speaking.

Though Kalen seemed calm, Araezra had been boiling with anxiety, wanting to talk but not to be the first to speak. Her nerves manifested in anger that went undirected at either Kalen or herself. Instead, she turned it against their commander.

Damned Commander Jarthay, who’d declined her request for day work. Twice-damned Jarthay, who’d argued so logically that more villainy would be afoot by night than day!

What she wouldn’t give for a good invasion or riot to thwart— preferably incited by Shadovar spies or Sharran cultists or any of a thousand enemies of goodness in Faerűn. But no, it was a time of relative peace, and peace meant schemers and conspirators.

She’d take Kalen, of course—and Talanna, if she was at liberty— but she couldn’t speak freely with Kalen then. She could now, though, if only he would pay attention to her.

Araezra set aside the locket with the half-done miniature she’d been painting in it: a gilded chamber, with light filtering through a flower-laced window. It was an amusing hobby—one perfectly suited for boring hours at the barracks between patrols.

She fixed her eyes on Kalen—on his hard, grizzled face with the

uiun uuui i iiu uiu

constant layer of stubble, framed in the brown-black hair that fell in spikes. His oddly colorless eyes, like slits of glass, avoided hers, but she was not about to let go now that she’d got a reply out of him.

“Ellis Kolatch,” she said again. “The crooked merchant we met yestereve.”

“Ah.” Kalen pushed the spectacles up his nose.

He’d been looking through “Watch ledgers all day, much to Araezra’s chagrin. He hadn’t told Araezra why, and she hadn’t asked.

“I’m told …” Araezra shifted her position so Kalen had to look at her. “Kolatch presented himself at the palace today in a frightful state—clothes a mess, eyes puffy—and demanded we lock him up for trade violations and dirty dealing.”

Araezra’s mouth turned up at the corners in a way she knew her admirers adored.

“You wouldn’t happen to know aught of this?”

Kalen shrugged. He moved the ledger away from her and kept working.

Araezra frowned, then draped herself across his ledger, setting her face level with his. “Seems his hair and beard had turned the most frightful shade of purple as well. No?”

Kalen’s eyes met hers, and she saw a little flicker in his face—a tiny tic in his lips. Was that anger, or a smile?

“Araezra,” he said chidingly, “I’m working.”

No one called her by her full name—no one but him, always so damned polite and cold.

She hated his formality when they were supposed to be at leisure. To set an example, she wore her uniform breeches and boots but not her breastplate or weapons. With her hair unbound and cascading in liquid black tresses around her linen chemise, she knew damn well how good she looked, and yet—confound the man—Kalen hadn’t even noticed.

She’d never had this sort of trouble with a man. Usually, it was the opposite, and required a stout stick to fend away unwanted hands.

“Who are you looking for so intently?” she asked.

He looked at her over the rim of his spectacles. “Arrath Vir—a dwarf. No beard—turned his back on his blood, I suppose.

Suspected of crimes against the city and citizens.” “Why the interest?” she asked.

Kalen kept reading. Perhaps she was irritating him, or perhaps he was simply ignoring her—she had no way of knowing. Kalen kept his own counsel.

She tried again. “That scar, on your arm.” She pointed to a long red-and-white mark, as though from a burn, visible out his left sleeve. “How did you come by that?”

He shrugged. “Clumsy with the simmer stew,” he said. “At times it burns me and I don’t realize, because…” He trailed off.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Araezra said. “I didn’t mean to mention it.”

“It’s naught.” He adjusted his sleeve over the burn.

Araezra sighed and looked at the ceiling. She wished she could talk to him without putting her boot between her teeth. And his illness … she wondered if he would feel it if she hit him in frustration. Likely not.

She tried a third time. “Kalen, there’s a costume revel at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass,” she said. “I was hoping—er, I think a guard presence might—”

“If that is your order, Araezra.”

Trying to hold in a scream, Araezra tapped her painted nails on the darkwood desk. Kalen turned back to his ledger, adjusted his spectacles, and scritch-scratched another note. She marked the ring on the third finger of his left hand—with a sigil of a gauntlet—but he turned another page and obscured her view before she could observe it more closely.

Frustrated, she picked up her locket and the delicate little brush and set back to work on painting the light through the window. Kalen’s pen scratched. Araezra’s teeth clicked.

Finally, she could take it no longer.

She rolled her eyes, threw the locket down on the table, and raised her hands. “Gods, Kalen! It’s Rayse. How long have we worked together? You can’t call me that?”

“If that’s an order, Araez—”

“Rayse.” She grasped him by the shoulder and he winced. “Bane’s black eyes, Kalen—after what we’ve been through? After we…”

She cut herself off. Oh gods, had she almost just said that? Talanna was going to kill her.

But gods-burn-her, she couldn’t help it. She—a woman infamous for her calm, unreadable face—just went to pieces around him.

“Araezra.” Eyes calm, Kalen gave her a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Must we?”

Her heart started beating faster. “Kalen, we should talk about this,” she whispered.

“And say what?” He looked back at the ledger. “You were the one who ended it, not I.”

“Only because—” Araezra scowled. “Kalen, only because you wouldn’t… stlaern.”

She expected him to correct her language, but he only shook his head. “Rayse, I told you about my illness,” he said. “You know I don’t… I can’t. You knew that.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.” Araezra put a hand against his cheek. “I wouldn’t let you.”

He gave her a half smile. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want—”

The door opened, and his hand darted away from hers. Araezra almost fell from her seat but caught herself and stood, straightening her linen chemise and cursing herself for taking off her armor. The silvered breastplate lay on a nearby chair, next to her helm, the five tiny gauntlets denoting her valabrar rank staring at her like five sly, winking eyes.

She composed herself in a flash, exercising her iron self-discipline to the fullest.

Into the room came Talanna Taenfeather, still sporting the wild rack of horns woven out of her vivid hair. On her breastplate, she wore three gauntlets, identifying a shieldlar.

Talanna would have been fine company, but behind her strode an older man—thirty or so winters, brown hair, bright eyes, bemused smile—whom Araezra recognized only too well. Bors Jarthay’s badge depicted a single gauntlet clutching a drawn sword—the sigil of a commander.

Talanna froze and looked first to Araezra, then to Kalen. Her smile curled in the way it did when she was about to say something

particularly cutting. “Ooh,” she crooned. “We’re not interrupting aught, are we, Rayse?”

Araezra opened her mouth, but Kalen grunted no without looking up from his work.

“And what a shame that is,” Bors added. He nodded to Araezra’s breastplate and helm. “Taking our ease, lass?”

“My steel is always near to hand.” Araezra smiled tightly. “Do I need to don it?”

“Your breastplate against me, Rayse? Nay!” Bors grinned. “I would hardly want to discomfort two of my best lady Watchmen.” He nodded to Kalen. “Good day, Vigilant Dren.”

Kalen looked up. He started to rise, stiffly, as though to salute, but Bors waved him down. The commander grinned at Araezra, but she refused to look at him.

“Need you aught, sir?” she started to ask, but Talanna rushed to Kalen’s side.

“See this, Kalen?” On the forefinger of her left hand she wore a ring of interlocking golden feathers. “A gift of Lord Neverember.” She smiled wryly. “The Open Lord’s passionately in love with me, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be a dolt,” Araezra said. “He knows your inclinations.” Talanna whirled, heat in her cheeks. “But a little banter hurts no one, aye?”

Araezra winced. Jealousy had prompted her tongue, she knew—she longed secretly to marry someone with power like that of Neverember, but greater. She wanted to wed one of the Masked Lords; the greatest, if possible. And then, with her husband’s power, she could make right all the ills of the city. Rewrite laws to trap the guilty. Put together a secret wing of the Guard, who would reshape Waterdeep into a cleaner, safer, ordered place. Expunge the traitors, slavers, and other evils of which she knew very well. Little things.

She realized she’d lost herself in thought for a breath, and Talanna and Bors were staring at her. Kalen had gone back to work.

“Aye,” said Araezra, “what prompted the gift of this ring, Talanna?” The use of her full name—rather than her pet name, Tal—was meant as a warning.

The red-haired woman grinned. “Well, I’m told the spell within is a safeguard if I fall from a great height—some call it ‘feather light,’ or ‘feather float,’ or something of the sort—that of course being a jest about—”

“—your last name, aye,” said Bors. “But what occasion? Have I missed my sweetling’s nameday?” He ruffled Talanna’s hair, making the wires in the spikes click. “These are so glim.”

“Damn them, then!” Talanna ducked out of his reach and began ripping the wires out. Araezra tried not to wince; Talanna was always so rough with her appearance.

“There,” Talanna said when her wavy red tresses fell freely around her face. “As I said, ‘tis a gift from Lord Neverember after my accident tenday before last.”

Bors and Araezra winced.

Kalen, who looked up when the talking ceased, blinked at Talanna. “What happened?”

“She was chasing a thief from Angette’s in Dock Ward,” Bors said, “when she fell—”

“Jumped!” Talanna corrected. She indicated the ring on her right hand that gave her the power to jump great distances.

“—jumped fiom a building and broke her ankle,” Bors said. “The Torm priests healed her, but not before the story got out. It was the talk of the city—our favorite little flame-haired Warch-lass, having taken a frightful spill.”

Kalen nodded slowly. He looked to Talanna. “You caught the thief?”

“Faith!” she cried. “Why do you think I jumped:’The fall broke more in him than in me.”

Kalen nodded casually. “What of the thief at Kolatch’s from yesterday?”

“Never caught that one,” Talanna admitted. “Damned guttersnipe outdistanced me.”