response. Painted gold coins hung around their necks. A few folk lingered under awnings or folded-over refuse to lend them an ear.
“The man saw his enemy, all clad in steel,” the woman sang, in something like verse but not quite. “A chief of Many-Arrows, crushing men under heel.”
“How could he fight such a dangerous foe?” The man’s words carried a hint of meter, but nothing remotely musical. “Without his fine sword, with mere shards of a bow?”
“To luck he prayed and by luck was he spared,” sang the woman, whose voice was better. “Orc steel broke ’gainst sword, and he tackled his foe.”
“Then kicked the fell orc in back o’ th’ head,” said the man, “then stomped twice and thrice, ’til the orc he was dead.”
Kalen waited until they were gone. Their shared ballad-a paean to Tymora-faded. The Coin-Spinners were by all appearances true believers, though they really couldn’t sing. They were bold to venture through Dustclaw territory, where every other building bore the gang’s symbol: a dripping claw inside a rough circle. Was it faith or power?
He looked in the direction they had gone and saw Clearlight, the old temple to Lady Luck, standing on the hill. Beacon fires burned inside a high wall bare of adornment. Perhaps the Tymoran gang had removed the statuary that once studded its balconies.
“Plagues and priests,” Kalen murmured. “Strange things are happening in Luskan.”
He lingered at the threshold of an alley that stank of piss and watched the Dustclaw tavern. Meant to cow rivals and dissuade attacks, the Dustclaws’ repurposed tavern was a solid, heavily reinforced structure, its door strewn with claws torn from dozens of fearsome beasts.
Breaking into the place, he thought, would make navigating the seedy streets of Dock Ward back in Waterdeep seem like a casual stroll through a meadow full of flowers. Attempting to steal from a gang promised a gruesome death by torture. Invading their home invited worse reprisals. But for Kalen-who had spent the last year living in the dangerous tunnels of Downshadow-the Dustclaw tavern held no fear. It was a building like any other, so he bided his time and observed its weaknesses.
Reprisals didn’t matter. If the gods were kind, he’d find Myrin and be out of this accursed city by the following dawn. That is, if she even still lived. He had to believe she did. If not …
He waited an hour for the guard to change before he concluded that the warchief of the Dustclaws liked to wrench as much watch duty as possible out of his men. Damn.
He heard shuffling footsteps down the road and pulled back tighter into his hiding place. A man walked with an uneven gait-one leg moving normally, the other dragging as though he barely remembered its purpose. Blood streamed down his face, and he seemed to be talking to himself-addressing voices Kalen could not hear in a language that made no sense.
“Feh,” the man said. “Feh, feh.”
Kalen recognized the shambler as one of the thugs from Flick’s-the ugly pierced man whose ruined face he’d caved in with a kick. Why had he taken so long to get back and what had happened in the interim?
The man’s head snapped side to side, his eyes constantly rolling toward things not there. “Feh-feh,” he muttered, his words caught in a never-ending stutter. “Feh!”
Threefold God, Kalen thought. How hard had he
“Oi!” cried one of the Dustclaws from across the street.
The man bared a mouth full of broken teeth. “Feh?” he asked.
“Oi!” A hand clapped the man’s shoulder and he fell to the ground as though struck. There he lay, panting and moaning, his hands twitching like dying spiders.
Two Dustclaws stood over the ailing man, staring down with wary gazes. “What’s the matter with him?” asked one.
“Gods only know,” said the other. “Bring him inside. Master will want to see.”
The first of the guards stooped to take the crazed man by the arms, but the man thrashed violently, clawing the hands away. When the guard reached for him again, the madman caught his arm and closed his teeth on his wrist. “Shazsah!” the guard cried. “Dhao-spawn
“Zah!” The other guard stomped on the madman’s stomach, curling him in a pained ball. “Blood-burner. He’s on mist, perhaps?”
“He should hope that’s so,” said the wounded man, poking at his wrist. “Else, he will feel every inch of my blade through his guts.”
“Burning sand,” said his comrade with a nod.
Kalen had no more idea what had happened to the madman than the Calishite guards did, but he knew to take an opportunity when it appeared.
With their attention on the ailing man, the guards did not notice as Kalen moved around a stack of refuse and shot across the street. One of them looked over his shoulder, but Kalen stepped inside before the black eyes could focus.
In the main audience chamber of the Dustclaw tavern, listening to one of his thieves try to justify a botched take, Warchief Duulgrin blew out a rumbling, bored sigh.
The half-orc chieftain had never liked this rotting pustule of a city, with its dull monotony of daily muggings, alley beatings, and hiring out bodyguards for con men and playpretties-and occasionally having one of those clients beaten for skimping on payment. He longed for the days of glorious battle, leading hundreds of screaming orcs to crush opposing armies who dared enter the lands of Many-Arrows.
Duulgrin had chosen exile rather than death as punishment for his failures. But now he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Aside from the rare grand-scale gang war to punctuate the monotony, Duulgrin felt utterly wasted in Luskan. Which was why, when the two Calishites dragged the madman-thrashing and moaning incoherently-into his throne chamber, the half-orc chieftain of Dustclaws was in the foulest of foul moods. Ah, this was a welcome distraction.
He dismissed the fast-talking thief at his feet, who scurried away, and then he turned to the newcomers. “What is this goblin filth? Bring him!”
His voice lacked the deep resonance of his orc forefathers, pitched instead rather high, like that of an oversized weasel. Duulgrin’s tone had led many to underestimate him over the years, which he’d always used to his advantage.
The Calishites-Duulgrin hadn’t bothered to learn their names-cast the bloody man down before the warchief’s throne. The half-orc flexed his fingers, feeling his iron knuckle duster rub coarsely across his skin. This small pain comforted him-he liked the agony of battle.
“Feh-feh!” the madman was saying. Something awful had happened to his face-some sort of impact that had pushed all his piercings into his flesh.
“What, by Gruumsh’s lost eye?” Duulgrin asked.
“Feh-feh.” The madman pulled a shard of silver, stretching his cheek until blood welled and the piercing came loose. This, he tossed aside. “Feh!”
Duulgrin scowled. “Take this broke-wit from my sight,” he said, waving.
The chieftain turned, but a hand fell on his ankle. He looked down and there was the madman staring up at him through blood red eyes. “Feh,” the man said.
“Feh?” Duulgrin bent lower toward him.
“Feed,” said the madman, showing a dozen bloody teeth. “
And he closed his teeth on the half-orc’s bare foot.
It hurt, aye, but it was not the pain that angered Duulgrin-the pain woke his warrior’s instincts. It was the disrespect the half-orc could not tolerate-not in front of his men, not even were he alone. He had not commanded the blood and blades of three score cutthroats for a dozen years by showing a weakness like mercy.
He kicked the madman away, shattering his jaw with a wet crack.
“Feed, eh?” Duulgrin stepped down, crushing one of the madman’s hands under his boot. He bent down and pulled the ailing man up by the collar. “You want to feed, do you?”
The man moaned in pain and confusion. “Feed!”
Duulgrin roared and slammed his forehead into the madman’s face with an audible crunch. The man yelped
