Fayne shook her head. The truth was easy. 'Our friend Rath dealt that death with his empty hand. However'-she smiled and stepped closer-'your hands need not be empty this night. My talents are other in nature- but no less moving.'
The knight sheathed his sword. 'You are rather forward,' he remarked.
'Better than backward,' she said, and she reached for his helmet.
The knight caught her arm and held it with a grip like steel.
'No.'
Fayne bristled at being thwarted but only smiled. 'How am I to kiss my champion?'
'That would be difficult.' He shoved her away, though not hard enough to hurt her. He turned and tensed his legs to leap.
'Wait!' she said. 'At least a name!'
He looked over his shoulder.
Fayne shifted her weight and wrung her hands in a way that was very like a demure maiden. 'Your name, saer, to remember for my prayers-and to ward off other knaves. A name to call in the night'-she laughed-'when I'm attacked, of course-so that you might save me.'
He hesitated. 'Shadowbane,' the knight said.
She shivered in all the right ways. 'Well met,' she said. 'I am Charl.'
Shadowbane paused, and she got the distinct sense he was smiling. 'No, you aren't.'
Fayne put her hands on her hips. 'And why would I lie?'
'I don't know, Charlatan,' Shadowbane said. 'Why would you?'
Fayne licked her lips. True, that had been an easy riddle. 'Care to find out?'
He held her gaze for a moment, then jumped, blue-white flames trailing from his feet.
There was magic in his leap-of that Fayne had no doubt. It propelled him up like a loosed arrow. She knew that blue light-had seen it just a moment before: spellplague magic.
Spellscarred, was he? This Shadowbane? How intriguing.
Fayne couldn't help but marvel as he reached the ceiling and pulled himself over the ledge where Rath had disappeared. His movement was athletic-whereas Rath moved with unnatural grace, like nothing human or dwarf or anything like-Shadowbane moved very much like a man. Near the peak of human achievement, yes, but a man nonetheless.
Watching him, Fayne found breath difficult. She hated men who resisted her charms, and yet this Shadowbane lingered in her thoughts. She wanted another chance at him, when she could better prepare. He was a man who presented a great challenge.
Gods, how she loved challenges.
She looked to Kolatch, barely awake, who lay moaningand terror-dumb, and smiled.
She loved tricks as well.
FODR
Corrupt merchant attacked and magically disfigured!' shouted the boy who carried broadsheets at the corner of Waterdeep Way and the Street of Silver. He held up his wares: copies of the Vigilant Citizen. 'Vigilante menace spreads in Downshadow-Watch denies all!'
Cellica, who could pass easily for a human girl in her bulky weatherdoak, chuckled ruefully and shook her head. The halfling paid a copper nib for one of the long, broad scrolls-printed on both sides with ink that would smudge in the rain-and glanced at it. Apparently, some fool named Kolatch had come away with purple hair and beard yestereve. She giggled.
'Brainless Roaringhorn heiress caught in bawdy boudoir!' cried a broadcrier for the acerbic Mocking Minstrel. 'Scandal rocks house; says Lord Bladderblat-'typical'!'
'Undead stalk the nobility!' shouted a third, this one a girl for the infamous Blue Unicorn. 'You can't see, you can't tell-they survive by bedding the living! Interviews and tales!'
Cellica skipped through Castle Ward, giggling at the worst news that was apparently fit to print. Most Waterdhavians called the drivel in the broadsheets ridiculous, but that hardly stopped them reading it. The printers would never go out of business as long as there was drink and stupidity and nobles to indulge in both.
She strolled west, then north along Waterdeep Way, breathing deeply the refreshing air of the bustling city. Waterdeep grew busy just after the gates opened at dawn, the streets choked with laborers and merchants, commoners and nobles alike. She bought a jellied roll and hopped up on a bench in Fetlock Court-in the shadow of the palace and Blackstaff Tower.
This was one of Cellica's favorite pastimes: watching folk. She watched nobles in particular, because they amused her. She found the way they walked comical: shoulders back, chest forward, staring down their noses at commoners, laborers, merchants, and any they saw as inferior. She giggled at the sharp tongues of lords and ladies in the street, took note of arguments, and laughed aloud when a seemingly delicate old lady seized a younger male relation by the ear and hauled him, flailing and protesting, to a waiting carriage. The gaggle of lordlasses he'd been striving to impress giggled until they saw Cellica also laughing. Then their laughter died and they stared coldly at her.
'Go on, off with you,' Cellica said. Her lip crooked. She repeated, more forcefully: 'Go.'
The young noblewomen stiffened, peering anxiously at one another. Then they shuffled away as though compelled, looking flabbergasted.
Cellica giggled. Folk tended to do what she said, if she said it forcefully enough.
The city raced by day in the warm light, and wouldn't sleep until long after the sun had gone down. Trade was the blood and bile of Waterdeep, as it had been for centuries. And everyone, regardless of country or creed, was welcome in these streers-so long as they brought good coin and a fair hand.
A fair hand was the less consistent of the two, and something Cellica read about every day. Setting aside the remains of her morn-ingfeast, she unrolled the broadsheet-the Citizen was the most reputable-and read every tale of news, politics, and commerce in detail. Who was offering fair deals? Who stood accused of dirty trade or slavery? Who might be a spy for the Shades or Westgate or even the defunct Zhents?
This research was largely on behalf of her partner-gods knew he wouldn't do it himself Looking for a target wasn't his firewine of choice; once he fixed on one, though, no man or creature could stand in his way.
So long as he had the right woman directing him, of course.
He would probably be getting back from his nightly ordeal nowcollapsing into his bed at their tallhouse, not to wake until evening.
She worried that he rested enough, but she also knew that worry was futile. Damned if he would take her advice anyway.
Cellica finished with the Citizen and bought a few more broadsheets, including the Daily Luck, Halivar's, and even the Minstrel. This last (a bitter cesspool about corrupt Waterdhavian politics, lascivious noble houses, and shadowy merchant deals) hardly ever yielded anything of use. That day, its reporting of the Talantress Roaringhorn scandal-as told by the oh-so-noxious Satin Rutshear-curdled Cellica's stomach, so she crumpled the sheet and tossed it aside.
She much preferred the North Wind, which featured her beloved illustrations of fashionable garments and easy-on-the-eyes models, in addition to plenty of gossip about circles far above hers. As the Wind reported, the annual costume ball was upcoming at the Temple of Beauty on Greengrass, five nights hence.
'Oh, to be noble!' Cellica sighed, clasping the broadsheet to her breast. 'Or at least rich.'
After fantasizing a few moments, she polished off the last of the watered wine in her beltskin and hopped down from the bench.
With the business of 'keeping atop Mount Waterdeep' done, she cut east down alleys and turned north up the Street of Silks, deeper into Castle Ward. These were narrow, less crowded streets-filled with fewer folk and more broken crates, rotting sacks, and other refuse. The people who lived here were poorer, many of them huddled in doorways and beneath raised walks. They looked at her with hungry eyes, and she fingered the crossbdw-shaped amulet that hung at her throat. Others waved to her from festhalls just opening for the day.
