She is beyond you, fool, he reprimanded himself. Ten years your younger and the daughter of your lord. What would she have to do with a fraud and liar like you?
His internal protestations melted in the warmth that came off her body.
"Erevis, what is it? Has something happened?"
He got a firm grip on himself before looking into her eyes. "Are you going out?" He made a gesture that took in her thieving leathers.
She shot him a look that would have done her mother proud. "Do not change the subject, Erevis Cale. I asked you if something has happened." Despite her stern tone, her soft eyes glowed with concern. Cale wilted.
"Yes, Thazienne. Something has happened. Something… terrible. I have to go away for a while. I hope… I hope to come back soon."
She sat bolt upright. "Hope? What do you mean? Where are you going?"
He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Thazienne-"
"Is this some task my father set you on? If he is putting you in danger…" She jumped to her feet and looked as though she might storm off to find Thamalon on the instant.
"No, no, it's nothing like that." He brushed his fingers across her arm to turn her around. Her skin was so smooth. "It's nothing like that," he said again, the feel of her flesh still tingling on his fingertips. "It's personal business."
"Personal? Then tell me what it is. Maybe I can help." She pulled back her jerkin to reveal a dagger at her belt and Cale caught a tantalizing flash of skin. "You know I'm no amateur to our kind of work."
Our kind of work. Thazienne knew that he could handle himself in the shadows but nothing more about his past. He had played down his skills and explained them as the result of a wild youth.
"No," he conceded, "I know you're no amateur." He studied her eyes, seeking her soul. She stared back for only a moment before turning shyly away. Despite her "wilding," he was confident that her hands remained free of real bloodshed. He wanted them to stay that way. "This is a different kind of work."
"You think I can't handle it?" Her stance and the hard set of her jaw told him only one answer was acceptable.
"No, it's not that. I have to do it alone."
"Why?"
"Damn it, Tazi, I can't tell you why!"
She gave a start at that. He never called her Tazi, only Mistress Uskevren in the presence of others, or Thazienne when they were alone. She shook her surprise off quickly and said, "You mean you won't tell me why."
He hung his head, frustrated but unwilling to give in to anger. Not when this might be the last time he ever saw her. "I just can't, Thazienne. Please? I can't."
She huffed and considered him coolly for a long moment. "Very well then, Erevis Cale. Have it your way." She spun on her heel and stomped for the hall. Her steps slowed as she crossed the room, as though with each step she took her anger dissipated fractionally. When she reached the doorway she stopped, quivering, her back to him. "You be careful, Erevis," she said without turning. "Whatever this is, be careful. You take care of this the same way you take care of everything, all right? Then… come back."
Cale could hear the tears in her voice, but before he could say a word, she pulled the door shut and hurried down the hall.
"Goodbye, Tazi," he whispered through welling eyes.
A fitful sleep came with difficulty and he rose before dawn.
The red wax dripped like blood onto the parchment, sealing the letter, likely sealing his fate. Cale had written it earlier in the morning, his light script an ironic counterpoint to the weight in his soul. Tonight, the letter read. Tenth hour. Drover's Square. Minimal Guard. A simple letter with a message that would be meaningful only to Riven-but its delivery would change Cale's life. Or end it. This letter would set everything into motion, and make his choice irrevocable.
All choices are irrevocable, he chided himself. That's why you're in this fix in the first place.
He had made most of the necessary preparations before dawn, while the Uskevren still slept. He thought it best to act quickly so that Riven would have minimal time to assemble the hit team. Without explanation, he had informed the staff of his upcoming absence and set the household affairs in order. He had personally readied the carriage and loaded it with a locked wooden trunk taken from his quarters.
Like a coffin holding a long dead corpse, that trunk entombed the trappings of his past life: enchanted leather armor taken from the bloody body of a rival, Selbrin Del, on a wharf in Westgate; the still keen-edged blades, both long and short, with which he did his work; and the deadly, magical necklace and the potion of healing given him by Amaunt Corelin, a grateful mage. He had hoped to leave that trunk locked forever, the contents never to be exhumed, but circumstances had made that impossible. The old Cale had to be resurrected.
Smiling mirthlessly, he rose from the walnut desk and strode across the parlor to the orange uniformed messenger boy standing in the doorway.
"Take this to the Black Stag," he said, handing over the letter. The boy abruptly cut his bored yawn short, and his eyes grew to the size of coins. Cale suppressed a smile. "You know it?"
"Yes, sir," the boy said, not quite able to hide a nervous quaver.
"Good. Hand deliver this to the barkeep there. His name is Jelkins. Tell him this is for Riven. Do you understand?"
"Jelkins, the barkeep at the Black Stag. For Riven. Yes, sir."
Cale pulled a shining fivestar from his vest pocket and pressed the gold coin into the nervous messenger's hand. The boy gasped; messengers usually received only a silver raven.
"Thank you, sir!"
"You're welcome. That will be all."
"Good day then, sir." Grinning, the boy buttoned his coat against the chill, pulled on a pair of wool mittens, and hurried out. Cale figured the grin would last only until the boy forgot the shining coin and remembered his dark destination. He needn't have been afraid, though. The Stag wasn't dangerous by day. The animals only came out at night.
Cale glided through the darkness like a ghost. Stalking through the shadowy streets of the warehouse district with long sword and dagger at his belt, he felt surprisingly-and horribly-right. Though he normally suppressed his dark side, tonight he consciously gave it the reins. If he were to succeed, he would need the old Cale: Cale the assassin and thief, not the reborn butler. He just hoped he could separate the two again when the night was done.
He approached Drover's Square from the south, stopped a block short, and ducked into the shadows of a wheelwright's workshop. Before him loomed the tall brick warehouses typical of the district. The wide streets that he would use as his approach sat empty but for the occasional whirlwind of snow whipped up by the bitter wind. He frowned thoughtfully at that. While the cold month of Nightal was hardly the height of caravan season, it was still unusual for the streets to be so empty. Trade never stopped entirely in Selgaunt, even in the height of winter, even at this hour. The strangely forlorn streets made him uneasy.
Calm down, he ordered himself. There's no one here because those guards who weren't driven off by the cold were paid off by Riven. Standard Knives practice on a hit.
Still, Cale had not survived years in the underworlds of Westgate and Selgaunt by acting incautiously. He silently watched the approach to the square for another few minutes, wary. Still no one. His keen hearing picked up no sounds. Even the ubiquitous rumble of carts along Rauncel's Ride was swallowed by the howl of the wind. Satisfied at last, he prowled through the shadows toward the three-story warehouse that was his first target.