With those words, she pushed the door open and hurried through, closing it behind her. Cael listened as her footsteps faded into the distance. He stood for a moment on the stairs, staring blankly at the light of his candle. He felt strange, as light as a wisp of smoke, yet his feet seemed heavy. It seemed as though, with each receding footstep, something was being drawn out of him.
“What am I doing?” he mumbled to himself. Then, shaking off his last uncertainties, he dashed out Claret’s candle against the stone step, opened the door, and stepped boldly into Smith’s Alley, trying to look as if he belonged.
The alley was dark, though not to his elven eyes. His vision adjusted to the darkness, and he scanned his surroundings. All around him, leaning through dark open windows or overhanging balconies, people silently stared down at him, like a conclave of ghosts. In one window, a soft glow swelled as a wrinkled old man drew at the pipe between his teeth. He stared at Cael without seeming to care one way or another.
To the right lay the northern way, the way to the docks and Oros uth Jakar’s ship. To the left and about two bowshots away, there appeared to be some kind of party in progress. Flares were burning from the balconies and a crowd had gathered in the alley. Their shadows leaped and danced wildly, like satyrs in a drunken revel, and there was music playing, weird and high, shrill pipes and tambours thrumming. He noticed a lone, familiar figure trying to blend with the revelry.
“Alynthia,” Cael said to himself. “What is she doing?”
As he watched, several figures broke away from the main group of dancers. They surrounded Alynthia. One touched her. She spun, and another grasped her from behind. Cael saw the dagger flash in her fist. Her assailant fell, grasping his belly. The music broke off and a mob swarmed around her, yelling.
Cael found himself running toward them, desperate to rescue Alynthia. They were too far away. He’d not reach them in time. Foolishly, he saw, Alynthia was facing them, brandishing her dagger.
As Cael neared, the mob suddenly began to disperse. A wild idea came into Cael’s mind that they had seen him and were frightened. They bolted in all directions, flying through windows, slamming doors, up drain spouts, down cellars, and into the sewers. In ten heartbeats, the crowd vanished as though it had never been. Only the lights on the balcony, still flaring into the night, remained. Into this light strode a party of Knights of Neraka. There were five Knights, all heavily armed with cocked crossbows, swords, and heavy shields.
Cael slipped into the shadows beneath a stair, barely ten paces away. The Knights warily approached Alynthia, who still stood her ground. Her weapon had disappeared.
“Good sirs!” she called to them in a strained voice. “Glad I am that you happened this way. Surely, you have saved my life from those ruffians.”
“Mistress Alynthia?” the lead Knight asked uncertainly.
“The same,” she answered. “I am the wife of Oros uth Jakar, as you know. He will certainly be grateful for your timely arrival here. I am sure you will be rewarded.”
The captain of the Knights remained wary, his sword drawn but dangling at his side. “What do you in this place at such an hour?” he asked. The other Knights kept careful watch over the shadows around them.
“I… I indulged too freely this eve and became confused on my homeward trek,” she stammered. “I did not know where I had ventured until it was too late.”
“May I examine your papers,” the captain said.
“Why do you need to see my papers?” Alynthia asked.
“It is the law, Mistress.”
“Do you know who my husband is?”
“Yes, Mistress. I still must see your papers.”
Reluctantly, Alynthia withdrew a small wallet from her belt and handed it to the man. He took it and stepped back, nudging one of his fellow Knights, who casually but obviously trained his crossbow on the beautiful captain of thieves.
“We have been searching for a thief this night,” the captain said as he turned so that the light of the balcony flares might fall across the identification papers in his hand. “An elf, with red hair worn quite long. A friend of yours, we are told. His name is Cael Ironstaff.”
“Ah, yes, Cael! We dined together earlier tonight. Why, What has he done?” Alynthia asked.
“He may have been witness to a crime,” the captain said as he thumbed through Alynthia’s papers. “You dined with him, you say. What time did you part company?”
“Just before sunset.”
“Where did you sup?”
“With my husband, at a place called The Portal, in the Old City. I fail to see why you are questioning me. I thank you for your rescue, but I must be on my way. My husband is expecting me.”
The captain closed the leather wallet with a snap. “Forgive us, Mistress,” he said. “Your papers are not in order. You must come with us.”
“Not in order?” she cried.
“There is no stamp showing your exit from the Old City this evening.” He took her by the arm.
“But they must have… I didn’t…” she stammered.
“I am sure it will all be cleared up. Nevertheless…”
Cael had watched all this with a growing sense of panic. She’d be questioned, suspected. They could prove nothing, but it didn’t matter. Sometimes mere suspicion was enough. Not even her husband could protect her, nor would he dare to try, for fear of exposing the Guild.
Impulsively he stepped from the shadows into the light of the flares. “Did I hear someone mention my name? Cael Ironstaff, son of Tanis Half-Elven, at your service.” He bowed with sweeping arrogance to the startled Knights even as he gripped his staff.
“Grab him!” the captain of the Knights shouted as he flung Alynthia aside. Grinning, the Knights swept in a circle around the lone elf. He clutched his staff tighter, holding it awkwardly like a sheathed sword at his side.
“Mistress Alynthia, you may go,” Cael said as the Knights closed around him.
“Mistress Alynthia, if you flee, you will as much as prove your complicity,” the captain growled without turning. “You, elf. Surrender your weapon. You obviously have no concept of how to use it anyway. A staff is no weapon against swords.”
“Mistress Alynthia, please, run!” Cael shouted.
Without thinking, she turned and started to flee. But she had not gone a dozen paces before she stopped. She whirled around to watch the drama unfold.
She was not the only one. A second pair of eyes watched from the door of the building through which they had entered the alley. A score more watched from the balconies, rooftops, and surrounding windows.
Unmindful of his observers, Cael turned his full attention to his opponents.
“A staff is no match for swords,” he said. “Though my shalifi showed on more than one occasion that, properly wielded, a staff might overwhelm a good swordsman, even a vaunted Knight of Takhisis.”
“Knight of Neraka! Pah, arrogant elf!” one of the Knights spat. He set aside his crossbow and drew his sword. “We’ll see about that.” The others followed his example.
“Then again,” Cael argued, “he often told me never to match wood ’gainst steel. ’Twere better far to meet a swordsman with sword. And so he gave me this.”
Cael drew from the staff a long bright sword. Indeed, it seemed almost as if the staff had transformed into a sword as his hand passed along it, for no empty scabbard remained. The hilt of the sword was wrought of the same black wood as the staff, and there was no crosspiece to protect his hands. In the pommel, a green jewel, glowed like sunlight through green waters.
“An illegal weapon, and magical to boot!” the Captain snarled. “It will make a fine trophy. Let’s test its mettle.”
As one, the black-armored warriors proffered the Knight’s salute to an enemy. Cael stole the moment to cut down the Knight closest to him while the man was involved in foolish ritual. He seemed only to caress the man’s belly with the edge of his sword, but the steel rings of the Knights’ mail parted, and the coils of his belly flopped out onto the cobblestones. He pitched forward with a surprised cry, trying to hold in his guts.