Passersby began to stream past the alley, followed by occasional troops of Scepters. The half-drow tried to look nonchalant as they passed, but the traffic was thickening. More and more people streamed past. Cale had never before been so happy to see the city's watchmen.
After a few more moments, the half-drow gestured at his pants, shot a hate-filled stare down the alley, and walked out of view. Cale didn't need to have a voice in his head to read that look.
This isn't over, it had said. Cale agreed.
He slid his sword back into his scabbard and incanted a healing spell. The energy warmed him, but otherwise did little to obviate the dullness he still felt from the wizard's spell. Time would have to heal that. He wondered again why the wizard had not pursued him. Perhaps the spell that had projected the image of the wizard could not move far from the location in which the spell had been cast? Perhaps.
He gave himself a few more moments to recover.
From down the street, he heard the calls and shouts of the men and women who were struggling to contain the fire at the Stag. Wanting to avoid the street traffic, he turned and scaled the rough wall behind him. When he reached the roof, two stories up, he mentally dispelled the globe of darkness in the alley below. No one had seemed to notice it, but if he left it there too long, someone surely would.
Staying low on his belly, he slid forward to the roof's edge and scanned the street below. No sign of the half- drow or wizard. Up the block, smoke choked the air, and a full crowd milled in a semicircle around the Stag. He surveyed the crowd carefully but saw no sign of the half-drow or the wizard there either. They were gone. For now.
The Scepters, holding their glaives crosswise, had formed up a line to keep the crowd at bay. Priests of Milil, dressed in flowing burgundy robes, summoned water into the air above the fire and let it cascade down into the flames, all the while singing a soft dirge. Each such spell resulted in a hissing cloud of steam and smoke. Gondar priests in scale mail, obviously protected by fire wards, actually walked unharmed in the midst of the flames. Mindful of the smoke, which could still kill, they pulled bodies from the cinders and laid them in a neat row in the street. As Cale had feared, there appeared to have been no survivors.
The fire at the Stag had not spread to other buildings and seemed under control. The priests did their work well. Cale couldn't linger overlong. Given the number of deaths, he knew there would be an investigation. He did not want to get caught up in that.
He crouched on the roof and considered the night's events. The wizard was a rogue Zhent, but why target him and Riven? Riven was out of the Zhents and Cale had never been a member. In fact, Cale had not had any interaction with Riven since the events with Gauston. While it could have been vengeance for that, Cale doubted it. Gauston had been mad-even the Cyricists probably were pleased to be rid of him.
Why take the trouble to lure him there?
The answer came immediately and brought him up short-to get him out of Stormweather Towers. They had sent him a letter there to get him to leave. Getting him out of the manse, away from the Uskevren, had been the real goal. Why? Were they acting as agents of a rival family? They had known his name and his affiliation with Riven. That meant that they knew what he was and what he could do. No wonder they wanted him out of Stormweather.
They've got another team infiltrating the manse, he realized. Dark and empty!
He prepared to drop to the street, but before he did, doubt chinked the armor of his certainty.
If who or what they wanted was in Stormweather Towers, why involve Riven at all?
He shook his head. He couldn't see it, but he needed to get back to Stormweather.
With his mind made up, he hung from the roof's edge and dropped to the street. In his immediate vicinity the avenue was deserted. Everyone was up the block watching the fire. Cale turned and headed west at a run.
From behind, he heard a soft pop followed by a low groan. He turned around.
Riven lay sprawled in the street, flat on his back, loosely clutching a saber in each hand. Cale hesitated. He felt no particular sympathy for Riven and he needed to get back to Stormweather Towers, but finally he hurried to Riven's side. The assassin's good eye was open but obviously unseeing. His breath came rapidly, and his skin had gone gray.
'Riven?' Cale nudged him unsympathetically with his foot. 'Riven!'
No response.
Cale kneeled at his side, took out his holy symbol, and whispered the words to a healing spell. The moment the energy flowed into Riven, he gave a sharp gasp and sat up straight. Before Cale could pull away, Riven snarled and grabbed him by the wrist with one hand. His eyes were wild, his face contorted with rage and fear.
'Not anymore! I'll kill you-'
Cale grabbed Riven's forearm to keep him from inadvertently stabbing with his steel.
'Riven!' Cale repeated. 'Riven!'
The assassin's gaze cleared. He stopped struggling and looked around, dazed.
'Cale? Where are they?'
'They're gone. I didn't get either of them.' He looked up the street to the fire. 'We need to move. Scepters are all over.'
Though it took a conscious effort of will, he helped the assassin to his feet. He gazed into Riven's eye, the eye in which he had just seen fear for the first time.
'What in the Hells happened to you?' asked Cale.
The assassin stood on wobbly legs. His eye grew distant.
'I'm not sure,' he said. 'The spell… took me somewhere … else. Somewhere dark. I-'
He seemed suddenly to realize what he was saying, and how he must look. He shook his head, pushed Cale's helping hand roughly away and recovered at least a semblance of his sneer.
'It doesn't matter what happened,' Riven said. 'We didn't get them, but they didn't get us. They're going to wish they had.'
That sounded like Riven. Cale gave him a nod.
'I need to get back to Stormweather Towers. Where are you staying?' said Cale. 'Never mind, I'll find you later. In the meantime, see what you can find out. We know he was a Cyricist.'
'Whoresons are everywhere. When do we meet?'
'I said I'll find you,' Cale replied, and he sped off down the street.
CHAPTER 5
From Sarn Street, nothing appeared amiss at Stormweather Towers but that did not put Cale at ease. He sprinted up the slate-paved walkway to the main gate, breathing heavily and sweating. He held his blade bare. He must have looked a madman attempting to overthrow the House with only a single sword.
Two Uskevren guards, both young and unfamiliar to Cale, stepped briskly from the stone gatehouse, mail chinking, blades drawn, and shields ready. Two older guards followed hard after and took positions out wide, cocked crossbows leveled at Cale's chest. The oldest of the four, a paunchy, middle-aged warrior with a short black beard and mustache, gestured with his crossbow.
'Scabbard that weapon and cease your advance. Now!'
Cale stopped ten paces from the guards but did not sheathe his blade. In the dim light of the gatehouse torches, it took him a moment to place the speaker-Almor, one of the sergeants of the house guard. The old warrior had been with the family since the Year of the Wyvern.
'I said scabbard that weapon,' Almor said again, and Cale could hear the threat in his voice.
Cale had caught his breath. Being near Stormweather, he automatically fell back into his role as House Uskevren's chief steward.
'I trust you do not greet all of our visitors who arrive after sunset with bared steel and challenges, Almor.'
Almor slid sideways and grabbed a torch from the sconce on the gatehouse wall. He stepped forward, holding
