Cale folded the piece of cloth-a mask, Riven saw, and thought of Iris's words-then placed it in his pocket. He looked to Fleet and said, 'Nice work, little man,' then turned back to Riven. The look in his eyes would have made Riven turn and run, if he could have moved.
Cale walked up and stood nose to nose, stared into Riven's eye. 'Do you have any idea of the damage you've caused?' he hissed.
Riven could do nothing but breathe. Of course he knew the damage he had caused; causing damage had been the point. 'Of course you don't,' Cale went on. 'You're nothing more than a Zhentarim lackey.'
Riven bristled inwardly. Lackey!
Quick as a striking snake, Cale gripped him by the throat, turned his head, and put the long sword beside his throat. Gale's voice rose as his anger escaped his control. 'A lackey and nothing more. And no one cares whether a lackey lives or dies.'
Here it comes, Riven thought, the sharp flash of pain as iron ran across his throat.
But it didn't. Cale got himself back under control. A fact that alarmed Riven all the more.
'I'm making you the first, Riven. The first of the Zhentarim to die. The first of many.' Cale gripped him by the cheeks so hard that Riven's teeth cut into the inside of his mouth. He could make no sound. He could only endure the pain in silence.
'You're all going to pay for this. You understand? By Mask, every godsdamned Zhent in Selgaunt is going to answer to me for this. Starting with you.'
Starting with you. Cale was going to kill him, then, and he could do nothing but stand here and take it. Inexplicably, his mind turned to Verdrinal-to the nobleman's panicked expression as he bled to death.
At least I won't go like that, he thought. Even if he had been afraid-and he wasn't-his frozen expression could not have shown it.
Cale tensed as though to draw the long sword across his throat. Jak Fleet's words halted him.
'Let him live, Cale. He'll know he's alive only because we let him walk away. He'll let the rest of them know we're coming. We want that.'
Riven could see Gale's inner battle written in his expression.
Listen to the halfling, Cale, he thought. Listen to him. It would gall Riven to know that Fleet, of all people, had saved him, but at least he'd be alive. He'd have his revenge on Cale, sooner or later.
Cale hesitated, stared into Riven's face, and finally lowered his blade. He leaned in close.
'You tell them I'm coming for them,' he hissed. 'Every Zhent in the city. I'm bringing them all down.'
Riven would have laughed if he could. The whole Selgaunt organization. How absurd! The Zhentarim had infiltrated every high office in the city, and most of the noble houses. No one man could bring it down.
'After you tell them, get out.' He rummaged through Riven's pockets until he located his small Zhentarim badge in the inner lining, the badge that had replaced the one Riven had tossed at the Righteous Man's feet when this operation had begun.
'If we meet again and you've got another one of these, then I swear by Mask-you're a dead man, and I'll kill you ugly.'
He pocketed Riven's badge and punched him in the face with all of his strength.
Riven heard his nose break, the same sound his boots made when they crunched the snow. Light and pain exploded in his head but he could not cry out. He collapsed to the ground and blacked out for a heartbeat. The next thing he knew he was staring up at the rooftops and night sky. Still unable to move, blood and snot streamed unabated down his face.
Cale's head appeared above him, blotted out the sky. 'Part of the game, you bastard.' He moved out of Riven's field of vision. Riven heard them walking away.
Cale's voice carried from somewhere down the alley. 'I meant what I said, Riven. I'll kill you if I see you again. By Mask, I'll kill you.'
Riven would have laughed if he could have moved his jaw. By Mask? Who did Cale think he was? The Righteous Man?
