they opened the shutters on at least two windows. Both were to pass by the flat at least once every two or three days. If the shutters were open, the other wanted to meet at the designated time in one of the three designated locations. The time was always sunset. The locations, in order of preference, were a quiet alehall and inn in the Foreign District called the Gilt Lizard; the Scarlet Knave, a gambling den on the wharves; or a dry well a bowshot outside the north gate of the city.
Currently, the shutters were closed, just as they had been two days before when Cale had walked past. He had not seen Jak in over two tendays.
From the street, the boarding house stood dark. Cale wasn't sure if the other six rooms were even rented. Even if they were, the type of tenants who took rooms there were not likely to rise with the dawn.
He crossed the street and trekked silently up the rickety exterior stair that led to their rented room. He stopped at the door, kneeled, and listened. Nothing. He examined the lock to see if it showed signs of tampering. It didn't. He took out his key, drew his blade-it still carried that odd, dark cast in the steel-and he opened the door.
The room was empty, just as he and Jak had left it. It smelled musty from the recent rains, like an old root cellar. Cale struck a tindertwig on the wood-planked wall and the room took shape in the light. It was a small square without furnishings or even a hearth. Had he actually stayed in the room, a hotpot would have been necessary to heat it in the winter.
Cale moved to the windows, opened the shutters, and secured them against the outer wall. When Jak saw them open, he would come in, close them, and head for the Gilt Lizard.
Being there reminded Cale of the room he'd kept as a young letters man and assassin back in Westgate. He'd had a different name then, been a different man. That room had been in a converted storehouse behind the Black Boot Inn, he remembered, near the stables and the inn's kitchen. The place had always smelled of stew or manure, he thought with a smile, depending on the time of day. He had kept his stash of skimmed coin beneath the floorboards. No one had ever found it, though the Night Masks had eventually deduced that he was embezzling guild proceeds and forced him to flee the city.
The thought of hiding the half-sphere there, beneath the floorboards maybe, tempted him. He really felt the thing to be an invitation to an attack. But he resisted. The half-sphere would be safest on his person. Besides, once he met up with Jak, he wanted it to attract the half-drow and his crew. That was the only way Cale could negotiate for Ren's return. He didn't know how to find the half-drow, so he needed the half-drow and wizard to find him. He just wanted it to occur on a timetable that allowed him to learn first what in the Nine Hells the sphere was.
Thinking of the half-sphere reminded him again of his sword-the sword that had sheared the sphere neatly in two, the sword that had shadows dancing along its length. Had its contact with the sphere changed the blade? More importantly, had contact with the sphere changed him? He didn't feel different … did he?
Cale shook his head. He didn't have time to worry about it. He snuffed the tindertwig and headed out.
He would take a room at the Gilt Lizard and await word from Jak. There was nothing else for it. He hoped the halfling checked the flat later that day and saw the open shutters.
Cale headed down the stairs, hit the street, and headed east for the Lizard, which sat deep in the Foreign District.
On the way, his growling stomach reminded him that he needed to eat. Within three blocks, he found a small bakery with an open door and a staff busy at work. It took only the flash of two silver ravens to get Cale a loaf of day-old meatbread-mincemeat and various slaughterhouse leftovers pre-boiled, salted, and baked into wheat bread, a cheap Foreign District staple that he hadn't eaten in years. Afterward, he took a seat in a public plaza, in the shadow of one of the late Hulorn's gorgon-statue fountains. He needed to pass an hour or so. The innkeeper at the Lizard didn't answer knocks until the sixth hour.
The sixth hour… the time was ominous. Soon after that, Cale figured his ward on the sphere would expire.
At that point, he would be carrying a magical beacon in his pack. He had no illusions about what would happen then.
Unfortunately, he could not cast the ward again until he refreshed his spells with meditation, and that he could not do for over eighteen hours. Mask answered Cale's prayers for spells only at midnight. He hoped he could pair up with Jak before the ward expired. If the half-drow and wizard showed, he would like to have the halfling at his side.
Of course, they might not show. Divination spells were not exact, and had limits, even when cast by a wizard of power. In truth, Cale didn't even know if the sphere could be magically scried. Tamlin's divinations had revealed no magic of substance and that was obviously wrong. Perhaps-
Cale shook his head, put all of that out of his mind, and focused on the meatbread. First things first.
With dawn approaching, the birds began to sing. A few starlings alit near the fountain, chirping and fluttering in the water. Cale watched them while he chewed. The meatbread tasted as poorly as he remembered-he had grown spoiled by Brilla's cooking, he thought with a smile-but it did fill his stomach.
After he finished Cale wished he'd bought two loaves. He stretched out his legs and allowed himself to relax for a moment. Resting on a full stomach reminded him of how exhausted he felt. The drone of the fountain's magically driven flow relaxed him, the birds' songs lulled him. He had not slept in well over a day. His eyes felt heavy. He blew out a sigh, crossed his hands behind his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes for just an instant-
— and he awoke with a jolt. Instinctively, his hand went for his sword hilt. His heart thumped. He looked around and …
Nothing. Just the birds and the fountain. He cursed under his breath and let his heartbeat slow.
How long had he been asleep?
Not long, he figured. Probably less than a quarter hour. Dawn still had not broken. He shook his head and rebuked himself for his carelessness. He had been lucky, nothing more. Falling asleep on the street! Dark and empty! A child could have put him down while he dreamed away.
He bent over the fountain, scattering the birds, and splashed water on his face. The cool water shocked him awake. He shook his arms, stretched the stiffness from his legs, and headed out. He would take his chances that the Lizard's innkeeper was up a bit early. He needed a defensible place to rest, at least for a few hours.
The sky lightened further as he walked, but his spirit did not. He knew he could be attacked at any moment. He also knew that he could not stay sharp every hour of every day. Sooner or later he would make a mistake.
Like falling asleep on the street, he thought angrily.
He needed help and he knew it. For an instant, he wondered if he had done the right thing by leaving Stormweather. Perhaps he should have accepted Tamlin's offer of aid.
He shook his head. No. He'd had to leave. The presence of the sphere put the Uskevren at risk. Besides, he could no longer stay in the same home as Thazienne. Also, he saw Mask's hand behind recent events. He didn't think it a coincidence that the wizard who had accompanied the half-drow had worn a holy symbol of Cyric-a rival deity hated by Mask. The Lord of Shadows had used Cale before to thwart the Cyricists. Cale accepted that as one of the duties of his Calling. While he didn't always do exactly what his god dictated, in general their interests were aligned. After all, Cale had no love for the followers of the Dark Sun. But to return to Stormweather might involve the Uskevren in one of the many battles in the divine war between Mask and Cyric. Cale alone had chosen to heed Mask's Calling. He could be a soldier in that war, but he would not conscript the Uskevren.
He reached into his pocket and ran his fingers over the velvet mask that served as his holy symbol.
This fight is ours alone, he thought to Mask.
As though in response, a low whistle sounded from a side street to his right. Cale lowered into a fighting crouch and sought the source.
Riven stepped from the shadows of a covered porch. He had eschewed his scarlet cloak for a more practical gray. That gave Cale pause. Riven rarely discarded his cloak. Was this another illusionary imposter? Cale hesitated.
Riven's mouth twisted in impatience. He waved Cale toward him.
Cale kept his hand near his blade hilt as he walked toward the assassin. He called to mind the prayer that allowed him to see magical dweomers and whispered it under his breath. If the spell showed a dweomer on Riven, Cale would cut him down and determine its accuracy after the fact.
Riven's sabers glowed blue with magic, as did his armor, a ring on his left hand, and something in one of his
