Perhaps twenty other patrons sat huddled in pairs and trios at the Stag's greasy wooden tables. Their hissing whispers remained indecipherable even to Cale's sharp ears, but he could imagine the content of their conversations well enough. He had been party to many such conversations himself once-black market deals, bribes, assassinations…
Drasek Riven, he saw, had not yet arrived. Irritated, Cale walked across the common room to the bar and exchanged four coppers for a tankard of ale. He took a table far from the Stag's only public entrance, in a corner that commanded a view of the rest of the room. The stink of sweat, spilled ale, and the lantern's fish oil created a distinctively vile stench unique to the Stag, and disturbingly familiar to Cale. The smell recalled to him the man he had once been, a man who did black deeds in the cover of night. He thought again of the corpse back in the alley and knew that the ghost of that man yet haunted his soul. He still did black deeds.
Trying to banish the image of the assassin's panicked gaze, Cale threw back a gulp of sour ale and slammed the tankard down on the table. A few wolfish faces jerked his way at the sound, but his cool stare quickly turned them back to their own business. He mopped his bald pate with a suddenly sweating hand, a hand that had slit a throat only minutes before.
"You are not that man anymore," he chanted, as though invoking a spell. "You are not that man anymore."
The corpse he had left in the alley made a mockery of his claim and he knew it. No matter that he had played the loyal servant to Thamalon Uskevren for the past nine years. He remained a killer. Anything else, no matter how well played, was a sham. If Thazienne ever learned of his fraud…
Shaking his head angrily, he dismissed Thazienne from his mind. Now was not the time for distractions. He could not afford to show weakness when facing Riven. That black-hearted bastard smelled weakness like an Inner Sea gray shark smelled blood in the water. Cale needed to be focused.
Endless minutes passed and still no Riven. Cale grew increasingly edgy. His long fingers beat an impatient drumbeat on the arm of his chair. Why had Riven contacted him? Their scheduled meet was still a tenday away. Where in the Nine Hells was he?
The door to the Stag flew open, and Drasek Riven strode into the common room as if he owned the place. Without a glance to either side he stalked directly up to the bar, his scarlet cloak billowing behind him like a pool of blood. Wordlessly accepting a tankard of ale from the skinny, greasy-haired barkeep, he turned to survey the common room with a contemptuous sneer. His right hand rested comfortably on the hilt of one of his two sabers.
Gazes that had nervously followed the assassin's trek to the bar hurriedly turned back to their own business and dared not look up. Drasek Riven fairly stank of murder. He had a reputation among the Night Knives as a man who loved to kill. No one in the Stag risked eye contact. Except Cale.
Cale met Riven's hard gaze with a cool stare. The assassin's one good eye flashed recognition, and he strutted over to the table. Licking his lips, Cale tasted the salt of sweat. Riven reminded him of a hunting cat-compact, powerful, and predatory.
Calm down, man, he ordered himself. Though he towered over Riven physically, Cale knew his own bladework was no match for the temperamental assassin's slim sabers. He made his face an emotionless mask as Riven slid into the chair across from him.
"You're late," Cale announced matter-of-factly.
Riven regarded him over the rim of his tankard while swigging a gulp of ale. He set the tankard down softly and sneered. "So?" Clearly, the assassin was itching for a confrontation.
Cale gave no ground, though it meant risking naked steel. He pointed a single finger at the assassin's pockmarked face and hissed, "So the next time you make me wait, I walk away. You understand? We'll let the Righteous Man decide who's in the wrong."
That struck home. Cale was Riven's only rival for the guildmaster's ear. Where Cale urged caution and patience to the Righteous Man, Riven urged violence, and violence now. Most times, events had proven Cale's counsel the better. Riven would not want to make the Righteous Man choose between them. Not yet.
Cale watched with satisfaction as Riven's smug sneer twisted into a scowl. Tight lipped, the assassin fixed him with a menacing glare. "You push me too hard, Cale, and I'll gut you like a bluefish. The Righteous Man be damned."
Still unwilling to back down, Cale leaned forward and stared unflinchingly into Riven's scarred face. The assassin had lost an eye on a job years ago but disdained an eye patch. The scarred, empty hole in his face provided a window into a soul equally scarred and empty. "You know where to find me," Cale calmly stated.
To his credit, Riven gave no ground either. "That's right," the assassin replied softly. "I do." He flashed stained teeth through a neatly tended goatee. "The Righteous Man won't be able to protect you forever, Cale. When he's gone, I'll still be here. Then we'll have this conversation again." Riven's hard gaze promised blood.
Cale leaned back in his chair and tried to look unconcerned. "It's starting to stink in here. Be about your business, errand boy."
Riven jumped to his feet and whipped a saber from its scabbard before Cale could even get a dagger drawn. Suddenly staring down the point of Riven's blade, Cale slowly removed his hand from the dagger's hilt. His heart raced. Riven stared at him a long moment, waving the saber blade under Cale's chin. Cale said nothing, only stared. At last the assassin sheathed his blade and slowly sat back down. His signature sneer returned tenfold.
"You're slow, Cale," he mocked. "Very slow. You're like a little dog… lots of yap-" he leaned forward and champed his teeth, his one eye burning a hot hole of hate into Cale's consciousness- "but no bite." He sat back and smugly crossed his arms over his chest.
We'll see, bastard, Cale thought. You show me your back, and I'll show you your grave. Though he itched to say those words aloud, Cale kept his calm and said, "The information, Riven."
The assassin made a deliberate show of slowly quaffing from his tankard before speaking. "The information is this, Cale: Naglatha has hired us-"
"Naglatha! Since when do we work for an agent of the kingdom of Thay?"
"Since she started paying in platinum suns," Riven snapped. "Now shut up and listen." The assassin leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. His breath made Cale want to gag. "An issue is soon to be before the Hulorn, and Naglatha wishes to see it decided in Thay's favor. The Righteous Man assured her that he could see to it."
"What issue?"
"Not my business," replied Riven easily. "Not yours either. We're just providing the leverage."
Cale saw immediately where the conversation was going. He shook his head and spoke hurriedly, trying to head it off. "I've already told the Righteous Man that I've got nothing on Thamalon Uskevren. I'm working on it, but the man is clean."
"So you say," replied Riven. "But you've been 'working on it' for years. The Righteous Man is growing impatient, and so am I. No one is that clean, Cale. Your inability to come up with some dirt makes a man wonder."
Cale leaned forward in his chair with narrowed eyes. That comment hit too close to the mark. "Wonder about what?" Under the table, his left hand fingered a dagger hilt.
Riven returned his cold stare, unflinching. "About where your loyalties lie."
Cale sniffed derisively and leaned back in his chair as though unconcerned. "It's no wonder you're a lackey. You don't see the value of having a Night Knives agent in the Uskevren household? I've proved my worth to the Righteous Man ten times over, but I can't find something that doesn't exist. We'll have to use someone else."
Riven laughed, a sound like a hacking cough, and said, "It's already been decided. We're using Uskevren. He's got the most influential voice among the Old Chauncel. Since you've been unable to come up with anything, I've convinced the Righteous Man to address matters more directly."