hundredweight. He bitterly recalled a concept from dwarven philosophy and mouthed it like a curse. 'Korvikoum,' he hissed. Linguists often translated the term as 'fate' or 'destiny,' but Cale knew its meaning to be subtly different- something more like 'the necessary consequence of previous choices.'
In that instant, he hated dwarven philosophy. 'Fate' put responsibility on a cosmic force with designs of its own. Korvikoum put responsibility squarely on his own shoulders.
'I will not betray the Uskevren,' he vowed to the night. 'I will not. I'll die before I see Talbot hurt.' He found the explicitness of the resolution unexpectedly liberating. 'I will die first,' he vowed to himself again, this time with a grim smile.
He took a great breath of cool winter air, tasted the salt tang of the wind blowing off Selgaunt Bay, and began to walk. And think. He had to find another way out.
The well-tended streets he trod fairly reeked of wealth. Shop after shop lined the broad avenues, and even the most common sported at least a colorful awning and fresh paint on the shutters. Many had custom stonework on the rainspouts or carved windowsills made from exotic wood. Sculptures of the oddest creatures-centaurs, chimeras, and even satyrs-stood in nearly every public square, the artisans no doubt commissioned by the city's ridiculous ruler, the Hulorn. Cale found Selgaunt laughable. The city tried hard to look the center of sophistication and gentility but only managed to look like a street whore in full makeup. The veneer of wealth obscured a city full of decadent, back-stabbing nobles little better than well-educated guttersnipes. Except for his own lord, of course.
Since taking his position at Stormweather Towers, Cale had come to respect Thamalon Uskevren as fair, honest, and self-made-a rare man indeed among the jaded nobility that made up Selgaunt's Old Chauncel. Cale admired the Old Owl's mettle. Over the years he and Thamalon had become friends of sorts, colleagues even, and if Cale wanted to maintain that relationship he had to thwart Talbot's kidnapping without revealing that he was a spy for the Night Knives-Selgaunt's guild of assassins and thieves. Only one option seemed open to him, and it was desperate. And dangerous.
He had nothing else.
He thought through the rudiments of a plan as he walked, then turned east and headed for the gambling dens along the wharf. If his plan were to succeed, he would need help. He could trust only one, very short person.
He sought Jak in three gaming houses before he finally spotted the halfling seated at a card table in the Scarlet Knave. A disreputable establishment with a mediocre bar and eatery attached, the Knave had of late become popular among Selgaunt's lesser nobles. The place drew bored second sons eager to gamble away their families' fivestars like a sugar-ice street vendor drew children. Nobles, however, made up only a fraction of the thick crowd. Everyone from itinerant adventurers and legitimate merchants to rogues and pimps thronged the gaming tables and pleasure rooms. In places like the Knave, Cale observed, Selgaunt's true nature bobbed to the surface- the otherwise clear lines of social hierarchy gave way to the universal brotherhood of vice.
Before approaching Jak's table, Cale wove through the crowd and flashed enough fivestars at the barkeep to secure one of the many private meeting rooms upstairs. Typically, the rooms were used for exclusive games, secret business deals, or illicit liaisons. Cale wanted one for a more mundane purpose-what he had to tell Jak was for their ears alone.
After watching the door for a time to be sure Riven had not followed him, he casually worked his way across the carpeted floor until he stood opposite Jak's table, perhaps seven paces away. Through the shifting crowd, he glimpsed a sea of coins glittering on the table before the trim, three-and-a-half foot-tall halfling. The little man's mop of red hair bobbed up and down as he chattered good-naturedly with the six disgruntled nobles who shared his table but not his good fortune. They were playing Blades and Scales, a card game that required skill and luck in equal parts. Cale knew Jak Fleet to have plenty of both, despite the fact that he looked as much like an adolescent human boy as a professional gambler. The fops hadn't a chance.
With his suede cap, embroidered blue doublet, and Sembian high boots, Jak looked every bit a miniature fop himself. Only his long, pointed sideburns and shrewd green eyes indicated his maturity. In truth, the little man was both a priest of Brandobaris, the halfling god of thieves, and a rogue of no small skill. He was also Cale's only friend in Selgaunt.
After a few minutes, Cale caught Jak's eye. The little man's expression of happy surprise vanished in an instant when Cale surreptitiously shook his head to indicate caution. Instantly, Jak returned his attention to the game and only occasionally cast a guarded glance toward Cale.
Though Jak operated as an independent in Selgaunt's gang-dominated underworld-a situation Cale thought of as akin to swimming the shark-infested Inner Sea with only a table knife for protection-the little man still knew guild hand-cant. So while Jak seemingly paid full attention to the card game, Cale used a series of subtle hand gestures to communicate a message: 'Upstairs. Number seven. Urgent.'
Jak gave a slight nod while laughing at a noble's joke, and Cale made his way upstairs. The halfling would come as soon as he could.
Cale did not have to wait long. Within a quarter-hour, the meeting room door opened and Jak strolled in, teeth shining and purse chinking.
'This must be important for you to interrupt that run of Tymora's favor,' he observed, invoking the name of the goddess of fortune. 'What's going on, Cale? Have I stepped on the Righteous Man's toes again?' Jak often inadvertently interfered with the Night Knives' operations. The fact that he was still alive showed he did indeed have the favor of Tymora.
'No, no, it's nothing like that.' Cale blew out a sigh and ran a hand over his head. 'I have a problem, Jak. I need help.'
Jak's face grew serious. He slid into the chair across from Cale and rested his small hands on the table. 'Go on.'
'The Knives want me to arrange the kidnapping of Talbot Uskevren.' He did not need to explain the dilemma further. Jak knew all about Cale's position with the Knives and that for the past several years he had been secretly shielding the Uskevren from the Righteous Man, rather than exposing the family's vulnerabilities.
The little man eased back in his chair and blew out a soft whistle. 'That does bring the boil to a head now doesn't it? Dark, Cale! I told you to get out of the Night Knives years ago.'
Cale smiled tiredly. 'Easier said than done, my friend. The Righteous Man isn't going to let me walk away. I'm too valuable to him. If I tried, he'd either kill me or tip my past to Thamalon, and…' He shook his head, unwilling to voice the thought aloud.
'And that would be that,' Jak finished. His green eyes flashed angrily. 'The Righteous Man indeed! He's a murderous priest of Mask, by the Trickster's hairy toes.' He drummed his hairy-knuckled fingers on the tabletop and stared earnestly at Cale. 'What are you going to do?'
Cale steepled his fingers before his face and looked Jak in the eye. He had already decided not to mince words. 'I'm going to ambush the hit team and kill every one of them. Afterward, I'll tell the Righteous Man that a rival gang ambushed us and only I escaped.'
Cale had expected Jak to tell him he was mad, but to the halfling's credit, he merely nodded. 'That could work, assuming no one escapes. Who's leading the team?'
'Drasek Riven.'
'Riven,' Jak softly hissed. 'That figures.' He sat back in his chair and stroked his chin, considering. Cale waited silently, unwilling to press. He was asking a lot of the little man.
To his surprise, Jak took only a few moments before flashing a grim smile. 'We've been friends a long time, Erevis,' the halfling said. 'If you need me, I'm in.'
Cale stared solemnly at his friend. Though grateful for Jak's offer, he could not yet accept it. Not before he told the little man everything. Cale could not ask Jak to risk his life without knowing the kind of man he had agreed to help.
'Jak, I need…' He stopped, cleared his throat, and started over. 'You don't know much about me, about my past I mean, before I came to Selgaunt.'
Jak held up a small palm and shook his head. 'That's true enough, but that's your business, Cale. You don't owe me any explanations.'
'I know that, but under the circumstances… I think you should know who you're helping.'
Jak studied him carefully, trying to read his face. At last, the halfling blew out a sigh and sank into his chair.
