And by then, the building would be lost. Selgaunt's fire-crews would spend their energy preventing the flames from spreading to the buildings nearby. The Night Knife guildhouse was dead. The Night Knife guild was dead, and Cale had been reborn.
Side by side the two friends walked upstairs, from the darkness and toward the light.
"I can't believe it's over," Jak said. The smell of smoke was already strong in the air.
"It isn't," Cale said, and left it at that. This end was only a beginning-his whole life had changed in the course of only two days. He now had to return to Stormweather and face Thamalon with the truth, the whole truth, no more lying. He had to face Thazienne, who by now must have read his note and learned his feelings for her. His life would be different from now on, harder in some ways, but at least he'd be able to face himself.
"We never did find out who Yrsillar meant by'the other,' " Jak observed, as they emerged onto the street.
Cale nodded. His mind had already turned to his next task-Riven had set this entire nightmare into motion.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Viven rose and dressed in silence. Behind him on the feather bed, Iris lay amidst a sea of sweat-soaked sheets, still breathing heavily. Her dark hair pooled on the pillows. Small but nicely proportioned, her shapely legs stuck tantalizingly out of the blankets. The soft candlelight highlighted the curve of her thigh, the smoothness of her skin. He felt the stirrings of arousal again but sublimated them-he had too much on his mind to spend all night with a whore.
The Night Knife guildhouse had burned to the ground two nights ago. There had been rumors about peculiar remains found in the charred ruins, but he didn't know whether Yrsillar and the shadow demons had been caught within the flames or had used the arson as cover to hide themselves. As usual, Malix, who finally had returned from Zhentil Keep yesterday, could offer no insight. Riven had come within a bladewidth of splitting that self-satisfied dolt on the spot. Malix had foreseen nothing, and his plan to let Yrsillar slay the Zhentarim's enemies-while it had wiped out the Night Knives-had gone very bad very fast.
In typical fashion, it would fall to Riven to pick up the pieces. The aftermath of this misadventure would cause unrest in -the underworld. The various gangs would be scrambling for position. The Zhentarim had lost so many men-including Verdrinal, Riven thought with a satisfied sneer. It was far from certain that the Zhentarim would come out of this better off than they had come in.
This might be the time to get out, he thought. With the Zhentarim as weak as they now were in Selgaunt, old grudges would resurface. Carrying the black and gold badge of the Network might be the quickest way to a bloody endIris interrupted his thinking with a giggle.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing," she playfully replied in her lilting, singsong voice. "The smoke from the candle made a mask around your face. You looked like a bandit just now."
Riven waved the black smoke from his eyes and grunted at her foolishness.
"Come back to bed," she pleaded. He found the offer tempting, but resisted.
"No, I've got things to do yet."
She writhed around on the bed with an exaggerated sigh.
He ignored her, grunted a goodbye, pulled on his scarlet cloak, and strode from her flat.
Due to the late hour and bitter cold, Ironmongers
Lane stood empty and dark. All but one of the street torches had been extinguished by the wind and the city's linkboys didn't concern themselves with relighting the lamps on back streets.
Thoughtful, Riven crunched through the ankle deep snow.
For the next month or so, he would have to keep an eye on Malix. With Verdrinal dead, Malix likely would try to pass responsibility for this operation to Riven. He might even try to kill him and attribute blame posthumously. He thought again about getting out.
Movement a block ahead drew his attention. Out of habit, he backed into the shadows of a nearby building and peered up the street.
A short, cloaked form was staggering down the street. A drunk halfling, he recognized. Not especially unusual at this hour. A feathered capRecognition dawned and he exhaled a cloud of frozen mist sharply. Fleet. Riven could count the number of halflings in Selgaunt on both hands, and only one of them dressed like a peacock even in the depth of winter. Jak Fleet.
He snarled silently and his hand drifted to his back. He still bore a scar from the backstab that little whoreson had dealt him a month ago. Malix had forbidden him to hunt Fleet down for fear of Harper retaliation, if Riven even had been able to find the little puke. Fleet went underground as well as anyone.
But now here he was-drunk and alone. If Riven had worshiped a god, he would have thanked him for this.
Time for payback, he thought as he stepped from the shadows and silently trailed after the halfling. He drew both his enchanted sabers.
Fleet turned right on Larawkan Lane and headed east, toward the Warehouse District. Still staggering, the little bastard hummed as he walked.
You're sloppy, little whelp, he thought. And it's going to cost you.
Gradually, he closed in, careful to maintain silence. Fleet had no permanent residence in the city. That's what made him so hard to locate. Riven assumed he was making for a Harper safehouse. The Zhentarim knew the Harpers kept at least one safehouse in the Warehouse District, but they didn't know where. At the moment, Riven wasn't concerned with finding that out. He wanted Fleet's blood, not his hideout.
The wind picked up, whipping Riven's cloak behind him. Fleet lost his hat and turned to retrieve it.
Riven ducked into the darkness, held his breath, and didn't move.
Fleet skipped clumsily after his hat, at last caught it, tucked it under his armpit, and headed back off toward the brick towers of the Warehouse District. He showed no sign of noticing Riven.
Riven emerged from hiding and followed.
Fleet moved deeper into the district. Silently, Riven closed to within twenty paces. He felt the thrill the hunter feels as he closes on his prey.
Near Drover's Square, Fleet looked both ways and ducked down an alley.
Drover's Square was the place Fleet had given Riven his scar. Appropriate that he die here, Riven thought.
He followed the halfling down the dark alley, using carts and refuse heaps as cover. Ahead, Fleet continued to weave uncertainly. He stopped periodically, confused, and muttered to himself. With the acoustics better in the alley than in the windswept street, Riven could make out his words.
"… thish hash a back door?" He giggled in that annoyingly high-pitched halfling way. "No? Darksh."
The halfling trekked on. Ahead, Riven saw the alley hit a dead end. Too drunk to realize it, the halfling walked forward. The prey was trapped. Sneering, Riven let his foot scrape the street. Fleet froze, but didn't turn.
Riven stepped from the darkness and walked forward. "Jak Fleet, I've been looking for you."
The halfling whirled in alarm. Riven put on his most contemptuous sneer, expecting to see Fleet wide-eyed with fear. Instead, the halfling wore a sneer of his own and spoke without slurring.
"And we've been looking for you, Drasek Riven."
We?
Too late he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. Ambush! Riven whirled to see a tall, bald specter slide from the shadows and cut off his retreat. Gale! The towering bastard held a long sword in one hand and a piece of black cloth in the other.
"Gale!"
Fleet giggled.
Riven's lips peeled back in a hateful snarl. Quickly, he got his back against the alley wall and lowered into a fighting crouch. He could take both of them in a straight fight.
"Come on, then," he challenged. He whirled his enchanted sabers before him with easy grace. He'd give these whelps more than they could handle.