Dolgan seemed at least to have gathered his wits.
How can he be here? asked the big slaad. How could he have known?
To that, Azriim had no certain answer though he suspected scrying.
Impossible to say, Dolgan, he replied, though he remembered that Dolgan had named Cale as relentless. Azriim realized that his broodmate could not have been more correct. As a precaution, immediately take a new form and from this point onward, maintain a ward against scrying on your person.
They projected acquiescence.
What will you do? Serrin asked.
Follow him, Azriim replied. In the meantime, proceed with the preparations.
He cut off the link with his broodmates and grudgingly reached out across Faerun for the Sojourner. When he located him, he indicated his mental presence and waited for his father to allow him contact.
Azriim? the Sojourner asked. You are agitated.
Azriim did not waste words: The priest of Mask followed us here.
For a moment, the Sojourner did not respond, then: His companions?
Unknown.
If I attempt to scry him to determine whether his comrades live, he may sense it. Has he seen you?
Of course not, Azriim snapped. We have taken precautions.
He will attempt to scry you, said the Sojourner. He has no other course. Keep defensive wards in place henceforth, and avoid contact.
Azriim ground his teeth, finding the activity unsatisfying without fangs, and asked, Avoid contact? We should be allowed to kill him.
Azriim felt the Sojourner's mental presence lightly scouring his brain, causing him an itch behind his eyes.
You wish to kill him because his presence offends your pride, the Sojourner said. You consider him a challenge worthy enough that you will take satisfaction in his death.
Azriim didn't bother to deny it, though the Sojourner's pedantic tone irked him.
The Sojourner continued, You would do this despite my admonition to you that pridefulness in excess is self-destructive?
Azriim did not bother to deny that either.
His father said nothing for a time, then, Very well. Kill him. Perhaps the lesson may be learned another way.
With that, the Sojourner cut the mental connection.
Azriim fumed over his father's condescension but kept his attention on Cale.
The human left off the female and walked past the invisible slaad. Azriim fell into step behind him. He toyed with the idea of attacking Cale, taking him by surprise, killing him on the street, and taking his form, but dismissed the idea. The Sojourner's disappointed tone had rankled him. He would swallow his pride and observe. For a time.
CHAPTER 15
OLD DOGS
After only three days-after only six cycles, Jak corrected himself-the halfling could mostly tolerate the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. He still felt weak-kneed when he saw the hapless and hopeless slaves being whipped, zombie laborers carting goods, or illithids feeding on brains, but he managed at least to keep down his meals and banish the nightmares.
Throughout the cycles, Cale periodically had tried to scry Azriim, but to no avail. Jak wasn't sure whether he should take the failure as Beshaba's own luck or something more foreboding. Cale offered no opinion on the matter, though he seemed thoughtful. Jak put it out of his mind. If the slaadi had known Jak and his friends were in Skullport, they would have already attacked.
While Cale tried to magically locate the slaadi, Riven had taken the mundane approach. He put out inquiries but learned only that Skullport's underworld was tittering with the expectation of a gang war between two rival slaving organizations, one run by a beholder crime lord and the other by a yuan-ti slaver. After two cycles of questioning, bribing, and threatening, Riven had been able to learn nothing about the slaadi.
"It's too tight here," the assassin told them across the table of an inn. Jak had forgotten the name of the place already. Frustration tinged the assassin's voice. "No one is talking."
Cale considered that.
"Then we need get obvious," he said.
Jak knew what that meant. They would make themselves apparent-and make themselves targets-hoping to draw the slaadi out.
Riven looked across the table and asked, "You're certain?"
"We've got nothing else," Cale replied, nodding.
Thereafter, as they moved to a different inn every two cycles, they all four traveled together rather than moving in more circumspect pairs. Accustomed to "quiet work," Jak felt they might as well have had a royal herald announcing their presence in Skullport. Each time they moved, the halfling eyed with suspicion everyone they passed on the street, certain that each skulker was a slaad in disguise.
Cycles passed, and they moved from inn to inn. Skullport seemed to have as many inns as a stray dog had fleas, and all of them were the same: rundown drug-dens filled with whores, bad food, and swill that passed for ale. Jak began to lose hope. Perhaps the slaadi had already left the city?
Then Riven got a lead.
"This man named Thyld purports to have information on a duergar with unusual eyes," Riven said.
They sat around a small table in their filthy, windowless room.
"You looked into him?" Cale asked.
Riven nodded and said, "Of course. He's a well known information broker in the city, associated with a group called the Kraken Society. He looks legitimate."
"When?" Cale asked.
"Later this cycle," said Riven. "I go alone. At a place called the Crate and Dock."
Cale rubbed his chin, thinking.
After a time, he said, "This is all we have, so we go. But it smells wrong. Treat it that way."
"I always do," replied Riven.
Cale stood and said, "Let's get a room in another inn closer to the Crate and Dock. Mags and I will back you up. You read the broker, and let us know through Mags. We'll improvise after that."
"Improvise?" Riven asked with a smile.
Cale shrugged and said only, "Let's go."
Walking through the darkness, Jak held his holy symbol in one hand and kept his other on the hilt of his short sword, his wont when traversing Skullport's streets. He stayed near Cale, who he knew could see better in the dark than anyone else they might meet, a fact from which he refused to draw any conclusions. Cale was still a man, he reminded himself, and still his friend.
They stalked the narrow, dimly-lit avenues past ogres, lizard-pulled carts, stray rothe, gangs of kobolds, and other beasts for which Jak didn't even have a name. Slaves, rolling cages lit with torches, bugbear overseers holding like clubs shanks of an unknown meat, nervous goblins, and dead-eyed zombies all shared the road. The stink and sounds wafted out of the darkness like nightmares. Jak kept his eyes alert and his blade at the ready.
From ahead, the pained yelp of a wounded animal sounded above the general murmur of the city street. About fifteen paces in front of them, a grizzled female hound dragging a visibly broken hind leg pelted as best it could out of the doorway of a tavern and into the street. It stumbled as it ran, yelping with pain each time its broken leg touched the packed-earth road. A faded wooden sign hung outside the tavern. On it was the name of the place, written in phosphorescent lichen that the innkeeper must have tended to daily. The Pour House, it read.
A giant of a pirate, covered in a coarse beard, a chain shirt, and sharp steel, burst through the shell curtain doorway of the Pour House and stormed after the dog, stomping and cursing it in a gruff voice. Two other similarly armed men stumbled out of the tavern behind the pirate, smiling and watching with eager eyes. A one-armed elderly man raced through the door after them, gesticulating wildly with his one arm. Jak deemed him the innkeeper, to judge from his apron. The two sailors grabbed him by his shirt and prevented him from getting past.