Finally, Jak gave it voice. "I've never even heard of anyone that powerful. Elminster of Shadowdale, maybe. A user of both the Art and the Invisible Art?" He paused, looked at Magadon, looked at Cale, and said softly, "I don't know if we can defeat him. Maybe we need to get help. Harpers or … someone."
The statement hung in the air between them, heavier than the darkness.
"No," Cale said. "This is our affair." He absently twisted shadows around his fingers. "Maybe we can't defeat him, but that means nothing. We try. And try again. And again." He released the shadows from his fingertips and they dissipated into the air. "There's something large at stake here. I can't see it but I can feel it. Can't you, Mags? Jak? You saw him, his power. He would not bother himself with something small."
"Agreed," Jak said, looking at Cale quizzically. "And I'm pleased to hear you thinking that way."
Cale nodded. He was mildly pleased to hear himself thinking that way too.
The little man dug for his pipe, found it, and said, "Things might have gone differently anyway, if not for that thrice-damned Zhent traitor."
Cale thought back to Riven's last words to him. He weighed them, then finally said, "I am not certain that he betrayed us."
Jak looked up, holding a burning tindertwig in the air before his pipe.
"Not again. What do you mean?"
Magadon leaned forward, pale eyes intense. "Yes, what do you mean, Erevis?"
Jak's tindertwig burned down almost to his thumb while Cale tried to frame an answer. The little man cursed softly but managed to light his pipe with the stub before tossing it away. The shadows snuffed the flame as efficiently as a bucket of water.
Cale said, "You heard what he said to me just as we got out of there?"
Magadon nodded. "That you're on opposite sides."
"Opposite sides," Jak said, nodding. "How is that not a betrayal?"
"He also said something about a Cyricist priest," Magadon added.
"Yes," Cale agreed. "He said that he meant what he once told me back in Selgaunt, after we'd put down a Cyricist priest together."
Magadon asked, "What did he say to you, then?"
Jak blew out a cloud of smoke.
Cale hesitated, searching his memory for something else Riven might have said. Finding nothing, he answered, "He said, 'we work well together'."
Magadon blew out a breath, leaned back, and looked off into the darkness.
Jak took his pipe from his mouth and swore.
Cale understood their mood.
"What kind of game is he playing?" Magadon asked, as much of himself as Cale and Jak.
"The same kind he always plays," Jak said, taking a draw on his pipe. "He is an actor, an assassin. He has been playing us all along. And now he's playing us again. For his own ends. Don't believe him, Cale."
Cale was not so sure. Riven had always been a difficult read, true, and the assassin's unhappiness at being Second to Cale made him more difficult still. They shared a faith, a past occupation, but little else. Still, Cale had felt something almost like camaraderie developing between Riven and the rest of them. Was that an act? Cale did not know. The assassin could have been telling Cale that he remained an ally, or he could simply have been hedging his wager by playing both sides.
"We'll know when we see him next," Cale said.
Jak harrumphed, stood, and tested his leg. It appeared fine, though his breeches were melted.
"I still don't trust him," the little man said.
Cale said, "Neither do I."
Not fully, at least. He could not afford to.
"So then," Magadon said, pulling some hardtack from his pack and passing it around. "What now? How do we find him after he leaves the Sojourner's lair?"
"I'm working on that," Cale said. He had been able to scry the slaadi in Skullport, but assumed that the Sojourner would better mask his servants this time, including Riven.
"We learned a few things from your visual leech," Cale continued. "The Sojourner said something about a journey to the Eldritch Temple of Mystryl. Perhaps we can use that."
Magadon looked at him curiously. "How do you know what he said? We could not hear through the mental contact."
"He read his lips," Jak said.
Magadon raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively.
The little man said, "I've never heard of Mystryl, nor any Eldritch Temple. On an island somewhere, maybe?"
Cale shrugged. "I have never heard the name before either. But we'll find someone who has. Let me think on it."
Jak snuffed his pipe, tapped out the ashes, and said, "Meanwhile, let's get the Nine Hells out of here, eh? Can you … move us back to Faerun again?"
Cale assumed so. He had not yet noticed any limits on his ability to transport himself and his comrades through the shadows, though Jak's comment caused him to wonder. If he had no limits, he thought it must have less to do with his transformation into a shade and more to do with his position as the First of Mask.
"I can," he said. "I'll take you two to Selgaunt. Then I need to return to Skullport."
Jak and Magadon shared a look.
"We'll accompany you to Skullport," Magadon said. He stood and shouldered on the straps of his pack.
Cale shook his head. "No, Mags. Transporting into the Underdark is dangerous. The journey can go wrong. Besides, Skullport may be in ruins. We could materialize in a rock."
"We know the risks," Magadon answered.
"The Skulls may be looking for us …" Cale said.
"We know the risks," Jak repeated. "And we're still coming."
Cale looked each of them in the eyes, saw the resolve there, and admitted there was no point in arguing further.
"Well enough. We go, then."
His friends readied themselves.
In his mind Cale pictured the dim streets of Skullport, the catwalks and rope bridges of the Hemp Highway, the palpable despair. He let himself feel the connection between the shadows of the Plane of Shadow and the darkness of the Port of Shadow. The connection came easy. The two locations were linked by more than their lack of illumination.
The darkness around them intensified, snuffed Magadon's sunrod.
With an effort of will, Cale moved them between planes. They materialized in the darkness of a narrow alley, off a quiet street.
The smells hit Cale first. He had forgotten how foul was the air in Skullport-dank water, dead fish, urine, unwashed bodies, uncollected rot. He gave the smell a name: hopelessness.
"Still standing," Jak said in a soft tone, peeking out of the alley and onto the street.
He did not have to add the "unfortunately." Cale heard it in his voice.
"But barely," Magadon added, for the destruction was evident even from the alley.
They stepped out onto the street.
Dust filled the air like fog, so thick Cale had to pull his cloak up over his mouth to act as a filter. Jak and Magadon did the same. Buildings from higher in the cavern had fallen to the floor, crushing people and structures below and leaving huge, shapeless piles of stone and wood sprayed across the cavern's bottom. Limbs jutted from some of the piles. Many of the buildings still standing at ground level leaned so far to one side that collapse was imminent. Jagged orange lines of arcane energy flashed at random through the air near the cavern's ceiling, like tiny bolts of lightning.
Some side effect of the mantle being tapped, Cale assumed. But at least the magic had remained intact enough to hold up the cavern.
Heaps of debris littered the street: piles of broken wood, shattered pottery, chunks of finished stone, and pieces of stalactites. Tangled piles of the Hemp Highway lay twisted among the wreckage, the whole a mess of rope and ruin.
"Stay sharp," Cale said softly, as they started to walk. "And stay close to me. We leave instantly if any Skulls show."