"I will," he said.
Without another word, she turned and ran from the room.
He stood there a long time. Perhaps she did love him after all, at least in a way. Perhaps things would have been different if she had known of the note before so much time had passed.
Perhaps.
He remembered the many good moments they had shared: the first time they had touched; the night she drank too much brandy and he'd carried her to her bed; the first time he'd made her laugh. He would savor those memories.
As he stood there, an elven proverb came to him: "Part well, regret nothing." He and Thazienne had parted well. He was content.
CHAPTER 7
UNEASY ALLIANCES
This time, when Cale left Stormweather in the cold, dark hours before dawn, he did not slink out the back. Instead, he walked out the front door, the same front door where, hours before, five house guards had been murdered. Already the blood had been cleaned and new guards posted. They nodded respectfully to him as he passed. Cale returned the nod. The respect was mutual. Uskevren house guards had once again fought and died in service to the Uskevren. They, along with Cale, had once again driven an invader from the house. Cale had already discussed with Tamlin the necessity of providing for the families of the slain guards and the lord of Stormweather had readily agreed.
Cale inhaled deeply as he walked across the night-shrouded grounds. The air was cool. The verdant gardens from the manse to the main gate smelled of lilac and lavender. He caught the aroma of chrysanthemum and it reminded him of that last embrace he had shared with Thazienne. Crickets chirped in the grass.
Despite the dark events in the house, Cale felt a peculiar lightness. He and Tazi had parted as they should, and in leaving the manse he was not abandoning his family but serving them—the same thing he had been doing for years. His personal Vaendaan-naes had begun, perhaps.
Only his concern for Ren and his simmering anger over the slain Uskevren house guards kept his mood somber.
When he reached the main gate, he bade farewell to the six guards on duty there. Seeing them reminded him of Almor. The grizzled old warrior would be buried the next day, at Uskevren expense. Cale wished his soul a speedy journey.
He exhorted the guards to stay alert and walked down the stone-lined walkway for what he knew with certainty to be the last time. The guards closed the gate behind him with a clang, the sound as final as a funeral gong. At the end of the walkway, he turned around to view the manse from the street one last time. The squat turrets barely topped the walls, and Cale thought for the first time that the architecture of the home properly reflected the family within—strong, low to the ground, and as immovable as a mountain. The Uskevren would abide. Shamur and Tamlin would see to it.
Smiling, he headed down the street.
Selune had already set, but her glittering tears cast in silver the path she had taken through the heavens. The blocks of coal in the street torches had nearly burned through, leaving only glowing embers. Darkness covered Sarn Street. Due to the hour, the broad avenue stood empty, the shops closed and shuttered.
Wrapped in burlap in his pack, the half-sphere felt as heavy as a lodestone. He had cast non-detection wards on his person and the half-sphere but knew that the spells would grant him only a few hours reprieve from magical scrying.
And that only maybe, he reminded himself. He suspected that a caster more powerful than him might be able to pierce the wards. And he had no doubt that the shadowy mage who had accompanied the half-drow was a more powerful caster. Still, Cale had deemed it worth the effort. If the spells worked even for a short while, those hours would provide him time to prepare. Hie would contact Jak, locate a scribe or academic who could tell them about the sphere, and figure out the play to retrieve Ren.
It pleased him that Ren's well being came first to his mind, rather than vengeance for the attack. Thazienne's rebuke in his quarters had caused him to doubt his motivations. He might be a killer at his core, but he still sometimes acted good, and that pleased him.
He had considered attempting to magically track the other half of the sphere in the possession of the half-drow and his crew but had decided against it. Likely the wizard would have it warded with more powerful spells than Cale could hope to pierce. He also feared that they might be able to use his own spell against him and somehow track it backward to find him. Besides, even had he located it, he would not have moved to retrieve it until after he made contact with Jak.
He headed west, for the Foreign District, to find his friend.
With each step farther from the manse, his mood darkened. The lightness of spirit that had possessed him in Stormweather's gardens disappeared, replaced by the weighty realization that he was alone. At that moment, he was at his most vulnerable—on empty streets, with no allies at his side.
He moved rapidly but stayed alert to his surroundings.
To Cale, the chill air seemed unnaturally still, the silence of the street ominous. He knew that the attackers must have watched Stormweather Towers for days before they attacked, possibly with magic, possibly with spies on roofs. Conceivably, operatives might still be lurking nearby in the darkness, waiting for someone to leave the manse. Though his spells protected him from magical scrying, he had only his wits and skills to guard against ordinary spies. They could have been watching him even then.
Nothing for it, he thought, gazing up at the dark rooftops. In for a dram, in for a drink. If they were out there, he would face them—alone. He loosened his blade in its scabbard.
Out of professional habit, he avoided the dim light cast by the nearly exhausted street torches. A man backlit by torchlight at night presented a perfect target for crossbowmen. Instead, Cale darted through the darkness on one side of the street. Run, stop in shadow, listen, and watch. Even while sprinting his footfalls only whispered over the flagstones. And when he wished, shadows cloaked him like a shroud. Not even the stray dogs sleeping in the shop doorways and alleys stirred at his passing.
As he moved, his gaze went from likely ambush point to likely ambush point—the shadows of doorways, the darkness of alleys, rooftops. He struggled to find the calmness that usually came over him when he was working, but it remained elusive. Despite his precautions and his better sense, he perceived potential ambushers in every shadow. He realized the feeling was likely the result of too little sleep and too much stress. Nevertheless, the feeling remained. Knowing it to be irrational did nothing to obviate its hold on him. It had been a night of irrational experiences, after all—a man with a shattered face and a gut wound had grinned, had thought it "wundafa," and illusionary disguises had perfectly imitated house guards down to their voices. A half-drow with mismatched eyes had invaded his mind and become irate over ruined trousers, and an incorporeal Cyricist mage surrounded by shadows had actually managed to frighten Riven.
Cale could only imagine Ren's state of mind. The boy was not yet twenty and was caught up in something that he likely couldn't understand. When Cale was twenty, he'd been embezzling from the Night Masks and killing men for coin. Ren had made the right decisions, taken legitimate work, and still Beshaba, the goddess of ill-luck, had cursed him.
Fate is a fickle bitch, Cale thought, and he grinned without mirth.
As he moved, he considered his opponents. He knew that he had not yet taken the measure of the mage, the half-drow, and the rest. They were an unknown, and that worried him. He didn't like fighting unknowns. As an assassin, Cale had always preferred to study his targets for days before making his move. He didn't have that luxury though, not if he wanted to get Ren back alive. He wondered again about the half-sphere wrapped in burlap in his pack. It had to be more than it seemed. It—
A high-pitched wail from up ahead, inordinately loud in the night's heavy silence, brought Cale up short and set the dogs in the street to barking. In two hammering heartbeats, Cale had his long sword and holy symbol in hand. The weapon felt lighter than usual in his grip. Darkness seemed to flow along the blade—a trick of the flickering street torches, he supposed. He sunk deeper into the shadows.
Nothing for a moment, then the wail repeated. He tensed.
A dagger toss ahead of him, a gray alley cat sprinted across Sarn Street, screeching. Another darted after it.
Cats. Only cats.
He realized that he was holding his breath. He blew it out in a sigh.
I'm too on edge, he thought. I need to get off the street.
He decided to take to the rooftops. It would be harder work, especially for a tired man, but safer. He would take the heights for as far as Selgaunt's architecture allowed—a long way usually. In all but the Temple and Noble Districts, the city was amazingly uniform. Two story brick and wood buildings with gently pitched, tiled roofs predominated. A skilled man could cover a lot of ground in Selgaunt without ever putting his feet on the street.
Cale turned off the main avenue and jogged down an alley, startling a handful of cats. The damned things seemed everywhere. There, he melded into the darkness, blade ready. He waited a few moments to ensure that he was not being trailed. Nothing. He whispered a prayer to Mask and a globe of the darkness through which only he could see formed around him. A spy, even one with magically augmented vision, would not be able to penetrate it.
Casting the spell brought him the calm that working had not. He held the mask in his hand and remembered that he was not truly alone, even if his god generally was a bastard.
He ran his hands over the brick and wood walls behind him, found his grip, and climbed to the roof of the nearest building. The exertion further cleared his mind.
As he crested the top of the wall and slid onto the roof, he disrupted a roost of eave-doves. They cooed in aggravation, flapped angrily, and paced about, but did not fly away. He avoided stepping on any of them, crossed the roof and surveyed the street below. Still nothing and no one.
Feeling more comfortable, Cale headed uptown at speed. Sometimes he leaped across alleys, sometimes he was forced to descend to street level for a time before re-ascending another building. The process brought him back to himself. Anyone attempting to follow him would have had to have been very good or very airborne.
In less than half an hour, he reached the border of the Foreign District. Below him, an ancient stone wall, only thigh-high, separated the district from the rest of the city. From the rooftops it looked exactly like what it was: a granite line that symbolically divided the "inferior" foreigners from the native Selgauntans. Despite their thirst for commerce, most Sembians still regarded foreigners as backward and uncultured. Cale thought the Sembians had it exactly wrong. While Sembians, especially "noble" Sembians, worked hard to maintain a veneer of cultural sophistication, at their core they were little better than orcs. Cale had experienced firsthand the cutthroat politics of the "civilized" Selgauntan elite. At least orcs were forthright enough to put an axe in an enemy's chest. The Sembians smiled and stuck a punch dagger in a kidney.
Uskevren excepted, of course, he thought with a hard grin.
The streets in the Foreign District were wide enough to accommodate the larger ox wagons necessary to move shipboard goods from the wharves into the city. The alleys too were wider. Though even there Cale could have stuck to the rooftops, the longer jumps across the alleys would have been riskier. Instead, he descended from the roofs, hopped over the short, symbolic dividing wall, and took to the stone paved streets.
Unattended carts dotted the roads. Painted signs, designed to attract the attention of newcomers to the city, hung from shop fronts, the words barely distinguishable in the light of guttering street torches. Periodic reminders of the recently deceased Hulorn's strange artistic tastes loomed out of the darkness like malformed ghosts—here a bronze statue of a rampant chimera on a raised pedestal, there a stone fountain of a hydra spitting dyed water from the mouths of its many heads.
As Cale walked onward, the sky began to gray. Dawn. The dung sweepers would be about their business soon, collecting dried dung from the street and reselling it in the outlying villages for fuel and fertilizer. Lights started to peek through the slats of shop shutters. Sunrise was only a couple of hours away and the city's merchants were preparing for a new day.
Within a quarter hour, the smell of baking bread started to fill the still air—a wholesome smell. Cale savored it. In a few hours, the stink of horses, crowds, and fresh fish would overwhelm the tantalizing aroma of the city's bakeries.
Cale had always enjoyed the pre-dawn hours, both back in Westgate and in Selgaunt. Cities felt different at that hour. With night still hiding the filth, the quiet streets seemed almost pristine. For the few hours before dawn, the whole of the city belonged to the bakers, the fishermen, and the dung sweepers.