skin. He felt the stirrings of arousal again but sublimated them-he had too much on his mind to spend all night with a whore.
The Night Knife guildhouse had burned to the ground two nights ago. There had been rumors about peculiar remains found in the charred ruins, but he didn't know whether Yrsillar and the shadow demons had been caught within the flames or had used the arson as cover to hide themselves. As usual, Malix, who finally had returned from Zhentil Keep yesterday, could offer no insight. Riven had come within a bladewidth of splitting that self-satisfied dolt on the spot. Malix had foreseen nothing, and his plan to let Yrsillar slay the Zhentarim's enemies-while it had wiped out the Night Knives-had gone very bad very fast.
In typical fashion, it would fall to Riven to pick up the pieces. The aftermath of this misadventure would cause unrest in -the underworld. The various gangs would be scrambling for position. The Zhentarim had lost so many men-including Verdrinal, Riven thought with a satisfied sneer. It was far from certain that the Zhentarim would come out of this better off than they had come in.
This might be the time to get out, he thought. With the Zhentarim as weak as they now were in Selgaunt, old grudges would resurface. Carrying the black and gold badge of the Network might be the quickest way to a bloody endIris interrupted his thinking with a giggle.
'What's funny?'
'Nothing,' she playfully replied in her lilting, singsong voice. 'The smoke from the candle made a mask around your face. You looked like a bandit just now.'
Riven waved the black smoke from his eyes and grunted at her foolishness.
'Come back to bed,' she pleaded. He found the offer tempting, but resisted.
'No, I've got things to do yet.'
She writhed around on the bed with an exaggerated sigh.
He ignored her, grunted a goodbye, pulled on his scarlet cloak, and strode from her flat.
Due to the late hour and bitter cold, Ironmongers
Lane stood empty and dark. All but one of the street torches had been extinguished by the wind and the city's linkboys didn't concern themselves with relighting the lamps on back streets.
Thoughtful, Riven crunched through the ankle deep snow.
For the next month or so, he would have to keep an eye on Malix. With Verdrinal dead, Malix likely would try to pass responsibility for this operation to Riven. He might even try to kill him and attribute blame posthumously. He thought again about getting out.
Movement a block ahead drew his attention. Out of habit, he backed into the shadows of a nearby building and peered up the street.
A short, cloaked form was staggering down the street. A drunk halfling, he recognized. Not especially unusual at this hour. A feathered capRecognition dawned and he exhaled a cloud of frozen mist sharply. Fleet. Riven could count the number of halflings in Selgaunt on both hands, and only one of them dressed like a peacock even in the depth of winter. Jak Fleet.
He snarled silently and his hand drifted to his back. He still bore a scar from the backstab that little whoreson had dealt him a month ago. Malix had forbidden him to hunt Fleet down for fear of Harper retaliation, if Riven even had been able to find the little puke. Fleet went underground as well as anyone.
But now here he was-drunk and alone. If Riven had worshiped a god, he would have thanked him for this.
Time for payback, he thought as he stepped from the shadows and silently trailed after the halfling. He drew both his enchanted sabers.
Fleet turned right on Larawkan Lane and headed east, toward the Warehouse District. Still staggering, the little bastard hummed as he walked.
You're sloppy, little whelp, he thought. And it's going to cost you.
Gradually, he closed in, careful to maintain silence. Fleet had no permanent residence in the city. That's what made him so hard to locate. Riven assumed he was making for a Harper safehouse. The Zhentarim knew the Harpers kept at least one safehouse in the Warehouse District, but they didn't know where. At the moment, Riven wasn't concerned with finding that out. He wanted Fleet's blood, not his hideout.
The wind picked up, whipping Riven's cloak behind him. Fleet lost his hat and turned to retrieve it.
Riven ducked into the darkness, held his breath, and didn't move.
Fleet skipped clumsily after his hat, at last caught it, tucked it under his armpit, and headed back off toward the brick towers of the Warehouse District. He showed no sign of noticing Riven.
Riven emerged from hiding and followed.
Fleet moved deeper into the district. Silently, Riven closed to within twenty paces. He felt the thrill the hunter feels as he closes on his prey.
Near Drover's Square, Fleet looked both ways and ducked down an alley.
Drover's Square was the place Fleet had given Riven his scar. Appropriate that he die here, Riven thought.
He followed the halfling down the dark alley, using carts and refuse heaps as cover. Ahead, Fleet continued to weave uncertainly. He stopped periodically, confused, and muttered to himself. With the acoustics better in the alley than in the windswept street, Riven could make out his words.
'… thish hash a back door?' He giggled in that annoyingly high-pitched halfling way. 'No? Darksh.'
The halfling trekked on. Ahead, Riven saw the alley hit a dead end. Too drunk to realize it, the halfling walked forward. The prey was trapped. Sneering, Riven let his foot scrape the street. Fleet froze, but didn't turn.
Riven stepped from the darkness and walked forward. 'Jak Fleet, I've been looking for you.'
The halfling whirled in alarm. Riven put on his most contemptuous sneer, expecting to see Fleet wide-eyed with fear. Instead, the halfling wore a sneer of his own and spoke without slurring.
'And we've been looking for you, Drasek Riven.'
We?
Too late he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. Ambush! Riven whirled to see a tall, bald specter slide from the shadows and cut off his retreat. Gale! The towering bastard held a long sword in one hand and a piece of black cloth in the other.
'Gale!'
Fleet giggled.
Riven's lips peeled back in a hateful snarl. Quickly, he got his back against the alley wall and lowered into a fighting crouch. He could take both of them in a straight fight.
'Come on, then,' he challenged. He whirled his enchanted sabers before him with easy grace. He'd give these whelps more than they could handle.
'You're an idiot, Riven,' Fleet said.
Riven glared at him, but watched Gale-the more dangerous opponent-out of the corner of his eye.
Gale kept his distance. He regarded Riven with an expression as cold as the air. Riven had never seen such an expression on Gale's face before. He looked not merely angry, but… hateful. The expression made him nervous.
'Come on, Gale,' he said again, to hide his discomfiture. 'This has been a long time coming.'
'Long time coming is right,' Gale hissed. He lowered his blade, rubbed the piece of black cloth between his fingers like a talisman, and stared into Riven's face. 'You were responsible for freeing the demon.'
He stated it as a fact, not a question. Riven saw no point in denying it. 'Correct. So?' He sneered. 'Part of the game, Cale. Business. That upset you? You miss the guild? Nine Hells, I did you a favor.'
Gale's eyes narrowed. 'Business, is it?' he whispered, soft and angry. 'Part of the game? So is this, then.'
With that, he closed his eyes and began softly to incant-incant!-as though he could cast spells.
Dumbstruck with disbelief, it took Riven a moment to realize what Cale was doing. Casting a spell? Cale? When he finally recovered himself enough, he lunged forward with both blades and tried to disrupt the spell.
He was too late. Before he had taken two strides, Cale had already finished. A spark shower erupted in Riven's brain. On the instant, his body froze, immobile.
He couldn't move his head, couldn't even blink, but he could see into Gale's narrowed eyes.
How in all the levels of the Abyss can Cale cast spells?
