The exception was the Raven. She, I mean it, had her hood down, showing off golden hair that pooled on her shoulders like spilt ale. She looked as if she had elfin blood in her. Her ears were slightly pointed, and her chin tapered to a soft, rounded end. I had to remind myself that all this was an illusion. She-it, I mean-was a shapechanger, and could look like King Azoun or my Granduncle Maskar if it so desired. A doppleganger in its true form was a slender humanoid-sexless, hairless, and pale gray in shade. Altogether an unappetizing thought.
The Raven was in animated conversation with the giant sunset at her table. Her brow became furrowed at one point, and she tapped her oversized case with a slim hand. We were too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious they were haggling about something.
And it did not require a master mage to figure out what they were arguing about. The case was about the size and shape that could carry a wizard's crystal ball. Or a Tripartite Orb of the ancients.
Whatever Sunset said seemed to calm her down, for her features cleared. She listened, then nodded, then grabbed the satchel and strode toward the door. Sunset remained at his seat. All eyes were on her, but when she arrived at the doorway, the doppleganger turned and, for the briefest moment, locked eyes with me. I don't know if it was true or not, but I felt as if the world suddenly shifted on its axis and spun in a new fashion.
Then she, it, was gone. I turned back and noticed that the giant Sunset had disappeared as well, probably back to some hidden room with a cabal of Red Wizards ofThay.
"C'mon!" snapped the halfling. "We'll lose 'er if we don' get movin'."
Relieved mildly that my ally was also using the female pronoun for our target, I followed the smaller cloaked figure out of the Unicorn. Our departure did not create any response or commotion, but then, we kept our hoods up.
Night had fallen like a drunken dwarf, and the streets were nearly empty. Those with something to lose were already squirreled away in their beds (unless bothered by their magical granduncles). Selune was full, however, and reflected like a beacon off our quarry's blonde tresses.
We followed her to a small rooming house near the river. A buck-toothed ogre denied us entry, but a few gold coins did buy the information that the young lady (who gave her name as Demarest) had just arrived, always carried the valise, and was staying on the second floor, near the back of the inn.
So it was that, almost a full day after Granduncle Maskar first manifested himself, I wore a voluminous robe and edged along a window ledge, a similarly dressed halfling in tow. The breeze off the surrounding plains was brisk, and at several points, I was afraid the cloaks would catch the wind fully and send us spiraling, head over boot heels, over the low buildings of Scor-nubel like errant paper kites.
For the first time that evening, I regretted giving Ampi the night off. He was most perturbed about my pursuing magic-killing artifacts, so I gave him leave. Even now, he was probably curled up in some merchant's library, digesting some history of the Heartlands, or the Collected Romances of the Obarsksyr Line, while his master was about to take involuntary flight.
Progress was, therefore, slow. Were we near the front end of the building, we would have undoubtedly been spotted by the watch, in their plate mail and copper helmets. As it was, we did our best to imitate gargoyles when someone passed below us in the alley, and spent the rest of the time inching toward the desired goal, a lit window. As we approached, the occupant within doused the light. We halted for another long moment to ascertain that the faux Demarest had not dimmed her lamp in order to see clearly outside. Then we resumed our onerous march.
The window was latched, a wise precaution even on the second floor in Scornubel. The halfling Caspar produced a long, thin piece of wire that, wedged into the slot between the window halves, sprang the latch easily.
"In ye go, lad," hissed the halfling, smiling with his ivory-white choppers.
"Me?" I whispered back. "I thought you halfling folk would be better at the 'sneaking into someone else's room' sort of thing, being closer to the ground and all."
The halfling gave a disgruntled snort. "Well, I could, but then ye'd be out here on the ledge, twice as big as life, waitin' for the copper-top watch to pick ye off. Of course, if that's yer choice…" He let his voice trail off.
I could see his point. I also realized that if I wanted the Tripartite Orb, I had better get my hands on it before he did.
I slid into the room as silently as I was able, the cloak's ability to muffle my steps offset by its own bulky weight. The moonlight was full in the room, and reduced everything to blue highlights and ebon shadows. Demarest, the doppleganger thief known better as the Raven, was asleep on a wide bed, only her hair, now shining like silver in the moonlight, visible above the wide comforter.
The valise was on a low table across from the bed. It would likely hold the orb, the halfling's gold, or both. It would pay, I thought, to open the satchel and check. If the halfling's gold were not in there, I was sure that I could convince Uncle Maskar to make good their financial loss.
The satchel's large metal clasp opened with a ratcheting click, the bag falling open on the table. There was another click, which at first I thought was an echo. Then a very steely feminine voice behind me said, "Step away from the bag, or I will drop you where you stand."
I am by nature very good at taking orders, as befits a nonmage in a family of wizards. I put the satchel down on the table and took two steps backward, holding my hands up in clear view. I left the bag open, more from not being told to do otherwise than from any innate curiosity. Within, there was a glint of crystal, not gold.
"Now turn toward me," said the dulcet voice.
I turned slowly, and as I did, I could see Caspar's silhouette at the window. I tried not to flinch, but only hoped that he had planned for this possibility. The woman seated on the bed did not seem to notice him.
The doppleganger was carrying a crossbow, one of those drow-made hand-held jobs that looked every bit as dangerous as it was. She held it level on me and kicked the comforter off her. She was fully dressed beneath the covers, which I realized with both relief and regret.
She regarded me coolly. "A more foolish disguise than normal, Raven," she said. "Did you mug some fop of a noble for that face?"
"P-Pardon?" I managed, my mind in a bit of a whirl. "I'm sorry, I'm not the Raven. I thought you were-"
I made the mistake of lowering my arms slightly. Raven pointed the crossbow toward my chest, and I raised them immediately.
"Don't even flinch, doppleganger, or I'll drill a new hole through you."
"I'm sorry," I said, wondering if Ampi could hear my silent plea in whatever library he had ensconced himself, "but I'm not the doppleganger here. You are, and if you're confused about it, maybe we should talk about it instead of drilling anyone or anything."
Demarest the not-Raven, not-doppleganger laughed. It was a crystalline laugh, but cold and cruel. She raised the hand crossbow to point at my face, and I closed my eyes. I really did not want my last sight to be a crossbow bolt barreling in on me.
There was a twang, but surprisingly no impact or even the slight breeze of a near-miss. Instead, there was a low, feminine cursing. Taking a breath to assure myself I was among the living, I opened my eyes again.
Demarest was back on the bed, clutching with her left hand at the small bolt that had pierced her right front shoulder. Her right arm, though still attached, lay on the bed inert. Of the crossbow I could see nothing. Blood streamed down from the wound along her arm, darkening her blue robes and pooling in a magenta stain on the linens.