“You seem to know much about it,” Kalen said, struggling to keep his voice calm.
“Toy told me.” Again, Myrin seemed to have left their argument completely behind. She spoke efficiently, as though reciting from memory. “It leaves skeletons of all different races, bleached and stripped of any remaining flesh. Some believe it’s a magical malady.” She shrugged, as though that were not just possible but likely.
With a chill, Kalen remembered the skeleton he’d found in the butcher’s shop, wedged into the closet. Had that also been a victim of the plague? And what of the rat, trapped with the bones, who had perished only heartbeats after attaining freedom?
“I propose that we find the source of the plague,” Rhett went on. “If it’s a natural malady, we find out where it comes from and how it spreads. If it’s a wizard, we stop him. In this way, we help Luskan-which makes Lady Darkdance happy.” He looked at Myrin, who nodded. “With the plague gone, the quarantine will end, which makes me happy. I can go back to interesting duties, if Father can get the Guard to take me back.” Rhett smiled. “Also with the quarantine gone, we can leave Luskan, which makes Saer Shadowbane happy. All three of us get what we want. Right?”
“Right.” Myrin looked positively delighted by that suggestion.
Kalen couldn’t help shaking his head, frustrated but impressed. Perhaps there was something to this boy after all. The sword had chosen him-no doubt it had a purpose. But could Kalen take that chance again, after what had happened to Vaelis? He didn’t often pray and he’d sworn never to beg, but right now, he felt like doing both.
Mercy, Threefold God, Kalen said silently.
“Very well,” he said finally. “If Myrin really is in command, we can do this thing. But”-he fixed Myrin with his gaze-“will you promise to leave with us when it’s over?”
“Very well.” Myrin nodded. “That’ll give us, me, plenty of time. To make a difference, I mean.”
Suddenly suspicious, Kalen scrutinized Myrin. She was not saying everything. A year ago, she’d worn her thoughts on her face, but now he couldn’t read her as easily.
“Very well,” Kalen said. “Rhett, you’re Myrin’s warder.”
Myrin’s smile evaporated. “What? Sir Reginald?”
“It’s Rhett, actually,” the lad said. “And me? What about you?”
“That’s the bargain,” Kalen said. “Until we find the source of the plague, he’s your guardian. I’ll do what I think best. Or do you refuse?”
Myrin stared at him for a long moment, then she nodded hesitantly. “Very well.”
“And what of that?” Rhett pointed to Vindicator.
“I told you that was yours,” Kalen said.
“Aye, Sir.” Rhett nodded.
Myrin glared at Kalen. This deal did not please her, and he took some satisfaction in that. “Well I, for one, am tired,” she said. “On my seer’s word, I’ve been up all night waiting for some sword-wielding madman and fancy that! Here you are, Kalen.”
Kalen ignored the barb, but it did remind him of the halfling. “And I will watch Toytere,” he said. “When he turns on us, we’ll be ready.”
“Mystra, Kalen! You’d think he was plotting some imminent betrayal right now.”
“So, about that betrayal.”
With practiced grace, Toytere lit his pipe and puffed out a smoke circle, squinting at the Coin Priest-Eden-who sat across from him.
“There be a … complication,” he said.
“Oh, don’t leave it there,” Eden said, sipping her fire red drink. “Say on.”
The dark and loud Whetstone made for a perfect place to meet and conduct business. The festhall catered to those who wanted their primary senses dulled as they took their pleasures. An absence of light dimmed a patron’s sight, a persistent cacophony of horns and drums (enhanced and maintained by magic) shattered the ears, and a steady supply of strong wine and brandy took care of the wits and nerves. The darkness and hanging curtains of opaque fabric hid the more deplorable acts committed among its sheltered tables. The effect allowed festhall patrons to focus on the other aspects of the experience-smells and tastes, sharp pains and pleasures-and to do it in complete privacy.
The halfling and the human, both in cloaks to hide their faces, sat to one side in intrigue-laden privacy and talked. Many betrayals were schemed in such places, and Toytere had come prepared. One did not become chief of one of Luskan’s Five through carelessness or an abundance of trust. These two did better than most through their alliance: Toytere with his Sight, Eden with her considerable power base. He relied upon his usefulness to her, but only to a point.
“Perhaps you’re reconsidering the bargain we made?” she said. “Or perhaps the coin and alliance are not enough? You want more?”
“Nothing like that, me dear.” Toytere narrowed his eyes. “Another player be entering in-Little Dren. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Perhaps.” Her eyes glittered-gray and platinum-as she considered this.
Toytere always had difficulty reading Eden’s face, which obscured her thoughts so well. He’d first met the woman when she arrived in Luskan five years ago, but her toughened visage suggested she’d lived here her whole life. Not that he would ever ask, of course-it would not do to seem too interested.
“The crusader should prove no concern,” she said at length. “Only the girl matters.” Eden leaned closer to Toytere and he smelled the thick perfume and blood on her skin. This was a dangerous woman-and very enticing. “How are you handling her, by the way?”
“With utmost hospitality as I bide me time, awaiting the opportune moment,” the halfling replied. “Brandobaris! She actually believes she be in command. What a jest!”
“You always did play the game with a casual hand,” she said.
He grinned with his sharklike teeth. “You’d be surprised what me hands can do.”
“Little surprises me.” Eden rose and proffered her hand. “In that case, my fellow conspirator, I leave you in the goddess’s grace. Do not spurn her gifts.”
“Me lady.” He took her hand but did not kiss it. “Never would I do that.”
She walked out, her braced leg making her limp. The patrons of the Whetstone moved out of her way with palpable respect, fear, or both. Back at the table, Toytere smiled and drained the rest of his ale. This tenday would be a good one, Little Dren or no.
He only hoped that when the time came, he got to kill Kalen Dren himself.
CHAPTER NINE
23 KYTHORN (DAWN)
In the early hours of the morning, Kalen finally gave up trying to sleep in the foul-smelling warren of the Drowned Rat. The fire had burned down to crackling embers and the dim light of imminent sunrise shone through the boarded-over windows.
Vindicator clasped loosely in his lolling hand, Rhett snored by the smoky hearth, as content as though the common room were that of any other inn in all of Faerun. Kalen admired the boy’s ability to fall asleep so readily, though he didn’t particularly enjoy the snoring. The roaring sound had no rhythm to it: rather than lull Kalen, it startled him awake if he drifted.
By contrast, Kalen had only managed to doze, never able to let down his guard. He had not dreamed, which was a blessing in and of itself. All too often, when he closed his eyes, he saw bloody dreams and accusing faces. Instead, he dozed and stirred at every noise. Several times, he’d had to stare down Rats who crept toward Rhett, eager to get at his purse or the fabulous sword. Kalen might have enjoyed the game of cat and rat, were it not for Myrin.
Myrin.
What had he expected? That he would show up, fight off a dozen captors, and whisk her off in his arms? He should have known Myrin would resent that, but he’d never expected such stubborn resistance. What could he have said differently?
“I hope you can protect her, boy,” he murmured toward the snoring Rhett. “Or I’ll have my hands full protecting you both.”