Shadowbane

the Coin-Spinner’s mark. “Do the Spinners serve Tymora or Beshaba?”

“What do I know about gods?” Ebbius countered.

“True.” An uneasy certainty came over Kalen as to the identity of the fifth gang in power. “What about the Rats?”

“The Dead Rats, aye,” Ebbius said. “They’re the fifth, as always.”

The Dead Rats had a reputation even in Luskan for treachery and ruthless dealing, and they were notorious throughout the North. Their legendary blessing-some of the gang became more like rodents than men when the moon grew full-was the stuff of legend in the streets. He wasn’t sure if it was true.

“You used to run with them, didn’t you?” Kalen asked.

“No, no,” Ebbius said. “You’re thinking of some other tiefling. No blood oaths for Ebbius the Rake, nay. You know what they do when you try to leave the gang? Give you a curse, then chew you up so bad-”

“I’ve seen their leavings,” Kalen said. “So did they do it?”

“The Dead Rats,” Ebbius mused. “Can’t say as they took this girl of yours, but they certainly could’ve done. Top enforcer’s a black-hide, name a’ Sithe.”

“Sithe.” Kalen shivered. “Black skin-is she a drow?”

“Nuh-uh. Can’t say for certain, but she’s sumfin’ dark, she and that axe of hers. You steer clear of her, lest you’re none too fond of your head these days.”

Kalen nodded. “Dustclaws, Dragonbloods, the Dead Rats, the Coin-Spinners, and the necromancer and his pets.” At least he had some names to start his search. “And you squeeze for the Tymorans.”

“Now where’d you get an idea like that?”

“Flick might have mentioned it.”

“Bitch.” Ebbius managed a little smile-his confidence was coming back. “Work for meself, Kalen-you know that.”

Kalen shrugged. “Well, whoever’s filling your pocket, you’ll trouble Flick no more. If I hear about retribution, I will find you.”

“Oh, I’d not worry about that.” Ebbius bared all his teeth. “You’d best watch your own back. You leave me sore like this, there’ll be mirth for all, I promise you that.”

“Best not leave you sore then.”

Kalen seized the tail anew. Ebbius wailed, but Kalen clapped a hand over his mouth. He focused his will, forcing power to gather. His hand glowed with the healing touch given to a paladin and the bones knit back together. The blessing even soothed the breaks in his hand.

“Damn,” the tiefling said. “Say, you all right?”

It was getting harder, healing at a touch. This time, it was a miracle he managed it without a blinding headache. Not that he could show Ebbius any weakness.

“Did any of this really happen?” Kalen leaned close and sniffed. “Or did you take a bath in rum and piss yourself as you imagined it?”

The tiefling glared. “They’ve truth-speakers, you son of an orc’s whore!”

“And you’ll be quick to tell them all about the information you divulged.”

The tiefling’s glare was positively murderous. “What happened to you, Kalen?” Ebbius asked. “Thirteen years back, we’d have shared this rum and bickered over that bitch’s coin. Found a god or two?” He sneered. “Or perhaps it be this blue-haired girl, aye?”

Kalen punched Ebbius across the face. The tiefling’s horns cracked against the alley wall and he fell, senseless.

Flexing his fist, Kalen considered. Ebbius had given him only a little to go on, but Kalen suspected one of those names he’d dropped was dead on for who had Myrin. He had to assume the Master of the Throat didn’t have her, or she was dead already. That left the Dustclaws, the Dragon and his Shou, the Spinners, the Dead Rats with their dark enforcer, Sithe. The name resonated in his mind for some reason.

“Time to light some fires,” he said.

He left the alley.

The red one wakes slowly, clenching his head. His skin is tough and the color of burned meat. He props himself up on the alley wall, inspecting the blood on his hand.

Red blood.

Hot blood.

It smells like the sweetest of sweetmeats.

“Son of a-” He flicks his fingers, sending blood speckling across the stone. “Sodding Little Dren. Soon as I tell …”

He looks this way. We hide in the shadows.

We wait.

We hunger.

The door opens and two other ones appear. A big one with big teeth. Another one. They are weak. They shed blood. We chitter. We hiss with hunger.

The tusked one speaks. “Ebbs. You up?”

“Dammit, Little Dren.” The red one shakes his head. “We’ll get that tluiner!”

The words mean nothing. A name. Names have no taste.

We hunger. We cannot wait.

We surge forth.

The puny metal-studded one cries out as we take him.

The other ones cry out. They call for help. Help will not come.

The red one escapes, many of us clinging and biting. He will be ours.

We have the big one. He struggles. We feast. His screamsbecome gurgles formed deep in his throat.

We leave his bones.

The red one backs against the wall. He searches for a way out.

There is none.

We swallow him.

CHAPTER FOUR

22 KYTHORN (JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT)

Midnight in Luskan was the best and worst time of night-best for the thieves and murderers, worst for their victims. Kalen stalked down the street, his cloak obscuring his face. He’d taken off his helm and stowed it in his pack, but wore the rest of his armor. Hood low, shoulders slightly hunched, he could be any other resident of the city.

Dawn lay hours off and only a few lamps lasted this long into the night. The gangs always treated the lamps as more of a game than a civic service. As the night wore on and Selune saw more dastardly deeds done in the street, the lamplights would die slowly of attrition, extinguished by muggers, thieves, and murderers in preparation for their crimes. It was a marvel the lamps were lit at all, a phenomenon due largely to their fading hold on the old Arcane Brotherhood’s power, which drove them to, light on their own. Otherwise, no one would have bothered to light them in the first place.

Kalen tried hard not to let the night take him back fifteen years, to a time when he had been just another merciless wretch on these miserable streets. A beggar boy-a street thief, mugger, occasionally a murderer. He wore the mantle of paladin now, but even that seemed far away. Where was his god-blessed sword, if he was still a paladin?

And why did the healing touch come so hard to him these days? He would gladly heal more of his injuries, but he’d used it all up on Ebbius. What a waste that had been.

A pair of figures in rough-spun robes-a man and a woman-strode down the street, crying out a call and