"You heard him," Jak echoed, nodding.
"What did they just say?" Sephris shouted from above. "What did they just say? I know their sums. Let them come, now! It is important."
The priests trying to manhandle Sephris up the stairs had not managed to get the loremaster very far along. Both of their masks sat askew on their faces. Both were huffing.
A crowd started to gather at the base of the stairway, looking on. Cale could feel dozens of eyes on his back.
The priests looked twitchy but did not stand aside.
"I will summon the Scepters," the priest said.
"He wants to see us," Cale answered, and nodded up at Sephris.
"That is not his decision," the priest said, his mouth a hard line. The other three priests shifted their stances nervously.
"Not his decision?" Jak exclaimed. "We are his friends. He's not your slave."
Before the priest could reply, another priest appeared at the top of the stairs, above Sephris and the priests wrestling with him. He wore an elaborate black vest embroidered with gold thread. A neatly trimmed dark beard housed a severe mouth. He called to the priests below.
"Enough! Veen, let them come up! Now. Enough, loremaster," he said to Sephris. "They are allowed to pass."
Veen, the priest in front of Cale, looked relieved. He and his fellows stepped out of the way and the three companions hurried up the steps, two at a time. Behind them, Veen ordered the crowd to move along and the four Oghmanytes fell in behind Cale and his comrades.
The two priests who had tried to restrain Sephris released him. The loremaster stood between the sweating priests, gasping and still calculating as he waited for Cale, Jak, and Magadon to approach. He appeared to be counting their steps as they climbed. When they stood before him, he said, "Three of you, on the ninth day of the ninth month during the fifth hour after noon." His gaze looked not at Cale but through him. To Cale's surprise, Sephris's voice lacked its typical mania-fed intensity. "The variables are . .. complex."
"Loremaster," Cale said. "We are surprised to see you."
"I am not surprised to see you," Sephris said, and gave a mirthless smile. Cale saw an unexpected hardness in the loremaster's expression. He remembered Sephris's words to them when they had called to his spirit after his death-Release me, Erevis Cale. My time on Toril is complete. It has not summed to zero. The loremaster had seemed at peace then, for the first and only time since Cale had made his acquaintance.
"What have they done to you?" Jak softly asked, and stared accusingly at the two priests to either side of Sephris. They did not meet the little man's gaze.
Sephris ignored the question, looked Cale up and down, and said, "The darkness has found you, First of Five. Soaked you. And you think it is done. But it has only begun. There is more, much more, yet to come. To all of us. Did you know that? Did you know what you were doing? What you were causing?"
Cale felt Jak's and Magadon's eyes on him. The priests, too, stared holes into him.
He swallowed and managed to say, "I've done what I've had to. I can't always see the consequences."
"Come inside, Sephris," called the bearded priest at the top of the stairs. "You can speak with them inside. Come."
"You do not see them because you do not want to see them, First of Five," Sephris said. He spun and stalked up the stairs.
The six Ogmanytes fell in behind him, along with Jak, Cale, and Magadon. Cale's legs felt heavier with each step.
* * * * *
Riven sat for more than an hour in the late afternoon shadows across the street from the scribe's shop. His old garret, adjacent to the shop, stood dark and closed.
At last he saw what he had come to see and his brewing anger dissipated. A butcher's boy hurried through the street traffic with a package of wet cloth in his hand. He carried it to the door of the scribe's store, knocked, and waited, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. When no one responded to his knock, he opened the door and took a step inside.
The fat scribe appeared in the doorway, irritated, and hustled him out.
"I told you not to bring that into my shop," the scribe said.
"Then answer my knock, goodsir," the boy said, and pushed the package into the scribe's hands.
The scribe fumbled with a retort, managed nothing, pushed a few coins into the boy's hand, and hurried him off. The boy ran past Riven, never noticing him.
The scribe-Riven could not remember his name-unwrapped the cloth to reveal a pile of boiled meat scraps. Seemingly satisfied, he retrieved two shallow buckets he kept near his stoop and put equal portions of the scraps in each.
Whistling a tune and nodding at a passerby, he carried the buckets to the doorway of Riven's garret. He used a key to open the door and entered. Some bustling sounds issued from just within. After a moment, he exited with another bucket and put both down on the ground.
"Come, girls!" he called, and gave a whistle so loud and piercing that Riven figured the sailors back in the Dock District had covered their ears. "Here, dogs!"
The few passersby on the street eyed the scribe curiously but otherwise paid him no heed.
Riven waited, watching, expectant, hopeful. To his surprise, his heart was racing.
"Come on, girls!" the scribe called again. "Are you out there? Here!"
The scribe put his fingers to his mouth and was about to unleash another whistle on the world when two small, four legged figures padded out of an alley to Riven's left and started across the street.
Riven could not contain a grin when he saw his girls.
"There you are," said the scribe. He nudged the bucket of scraps with his toe. "Come now. Mealtime. It's boiled organ meat. Very good. And water I drew this morning."
The dogs pelted across the street, tails wagging, but skidded to a stop halfway. They stood in the street, noses in the air, sniffing. Both of their tails went stiff, then began to wag. The older bitch turned an excited circle, chuffing. Her whelp fairly jumped on her back in excitement.
Riven's grin broadened.
The girls looked in Riven's direction and bounded toward his hiding place, tongues lolling. That they had recognized his scent gave Riven more pleasure than anything had in a long while.
"Dogs!" the scribe called, and stomped his foot. "No! Come, here! Here! Beware the wagons!"
The dogs darted out of the way of two vegetable carts pulled by mules and crossed the street.
Riven rose from the shadows.
The scribe saw him and his expression fell. He reached for a post to help him keep his feet.
The girls swarmed Riven, jumping up on his legs, yipping. He held a hand down and they licked his fingers. He scratched their ears, petted their flanks, each in turn. They looked exactly as they had when he had left them. Both were well fed. The scribe had kept his word.
"You," called the scribe across the street, a nervous tremor in his voice. "You've returned."
Despite his delight at seeing the girls, Riven put on his professional sneer before walking across the street. The girls trailed him, circled him, tails wagging. He found it difficult to look intimidating with two small dogs jumping about his legs and yapping.
The scribe watched him approach, mouth open, as though he wanted to speak, but said nothing.
"I told you I would check on you from time to time," Riven said, and kept his voice hard.
The scribe nodded rapidly enough to shake his paunch. "Yes. I've done as you asked. You see?" He pointed at the buckets of scraps, the other bucket of water.
"I don't recall asking," Riven said.
For a moment, the scribe lost his tongue. "Yes. Well, they're good dogs. Very good. They come every day." He kneeled and patted their flanks with genuine affection. They licked his hand but quickly returned to circle excitedly around Riven. "Look how happy they are to see you," the scribe said, standing. "They've even forgotten their food."