Paul Kemp: Twilight Falling

Looking at the immobile Zhent, Vraggen sighed with disappointment. Norel would have made a fair addition to their crew. He'd shown backbone, there at the end.

Ah well, he thought, what had to be done, had to be done.

He stared across the table into Norel's unblinking eyes and said, "As I said, Norel, you've made a regrettable decision. You do know what comes next, don't-"

The smack of Azriim's asp-quick backhand across Norel's face stopped Vraggen in mid-sentence. Even Dolgan's dull eyes widened with surprise.

"I told him, 'no expletives,' did I not? I believe I did." The half-drow spoke in the same relaxed tone of voice that he used when ordering a meal. "You have a foul mouth," he repeated to Norel

Vraggen glared. "Do attempt to maintain your self-control, Azriim," he said.

The half-drow sneered and said, "Do I appear to you to be out of control?"

Vraggen indicated Norel. A thick stream of blood flowed down the Zhent's face from the left nostril.

"I told him, 'no expletives,' yet he cursed nevertheless," Azriim explained. "My striking him was meant as a further rebuke for his disobedience. He deserved it." Before Vraggen could frame a reply, Azriim added, "And I don't take orders from you, Vraggen. I'm your partner, not your lackey. I can interpret the globe, and therefore know how to find what you seek. You're the adept who can gain entrance. That makes us equals."

Vraggen's fingers pressed into the soft wood of the table and he hissed, "Watch your tongue, fool."

He glanced around at the nearby tables, but no one seemed to have taken any notice of the half-drow's comments. Vraggen sometimes regretted his alliance with Azriim. The half-breed outcast of House Jaelre had a mouth that ran like the River Shining, and he too often took unnecessary risks. Still, Azriim spoke truth-they were partners. Inexplicably, the half-drow had a sage's understanding of the heavens-he had never explained to Vraggen how he had come by that education, and Vraggen didn't ask. Vraggen brought to the partnership knowledge of the Zhents and Sembia's underworld, and a mastery of the Shadow Weave and related arcana.

They had met years before, near Tilverton, when Vraggen had first received training in the use of the Shadow Weave. Since then, their partnership had solidified. Vraggen needed Azriim's knowledge to find the Fane of Shadows and plumb the secret that lay within, while Azriim needed Vraggen to help him establish a new criminal organization to replace the Zhents in Sembia, an organization with the half-drow at its head. Partners indeed.

Dolgan looked at Azriim with a vague, puzzled expression and said, "Hang on, then. You sayin' I'm a lackey?"

Azriim smiled. "I'm saying-"

"Shut up," Vraggen commanded, and they did. Partners or no, in the end Vraggen was in charge. "Clean up this mess. It's time to move on."

There were other Zhents to recruit, other Zhents to kill, and most importantly, the globe to locate.

Azriim looked surprised, and distantly pleased. "Clean it? Here?"

"How?" asked Dolgan, in that same puzzled tone.

"How do you think?" Vraggen said. "Bloodless."

He put back the rest of his ale.

"But-" Dolgan started.

"Just do it."

That seemed enough for Azriim, who took the initiative.

The half-drow scooted his chair nearer to Norel's, gave an apologetic shrug and said, "I told you to mind your manners."

With one hand he pinched the Zhent's nose closed; with the other, he covered his mouth. Unable to move, Norel could only stare wide-eyed while he was asphyxiated. Vraggen wondered distantly what thoughts were going through Norel's mind while he died. Nothing of worth, he was sure.

Presently, it was over.

"Interesting," Azriim observed with a smile and scooted his chair back. He wiped Norel's snot and blood from the tips of his fingers. "I've never killed a man with only my fingers."

"I have," Dolgan said. "Back outside of Ordulin. Rememb-"

"Do shut up," Vraggen said, and Dolgan did.

Norel's corpse, held rigid by Vraggen's spell, remained upright in the chair, staring across the table with eyes gone glassy. Vraggen looked around to see if anyone had noticed the murder. No one had.

"I'll animate the corpse," Vraggen said. "You two escort him out, as though he's drunk."

"Be serious," Azriim replied, shaking his head. "I'll not have his stink on my clothes. Even alive he stank. And dead, well…."

Vraggen bit back his frustration. As much as Azriim loathed profanity, that was how much he loved his tailored finery, almost always in one shade or another of green.

"Very well," Vraggen said, and indicated Dolgan. "You then."

The big man frowned, but nodded.

Vraggen withdrew a small, roughly cut onyx from the inner pocket of his cloak, reached across the table, and pushed it between Norel's dead lips. In a low voice, he dispelled the magic that held Norel rigid then recited the charged words to the spell that would tap the Shadow Weave and animate Norel's corpse.

"Place your hands on the table, Norel," he commanded, to test the efficacy of the spell.

Norel-or Norel's shell-did exactly that. Vraggen looked to Dolgan and said, "Walk it out of the inn, then lead it to the bay. Stab it in the lungs a few times so it will sink."

Dolgan nodded.

Vraggen looked at the corpse and said, "Rise and walk out accompanied by this man." He indicated Dolgan. "Allow him to lead you where he will."

Norel pushed back his chair and rose, awkward and shuffling. Dolgan wrapped one of his huge arms around the zombie and the two shuffled out. Norel's irregular stride was at least passable as the stumbling meander of a drunk. Dolgan began to sing as they made their way to the door.

After they were gone, Azriim raised Norel's tankard and gave Vraggen a mock toast.

"Well done."

Vraggen acknowledged the compliment with nod.

"What's next?"

"We find the globe. I believe that the time of the Fane's appearance is near."

Azriim nodded, swirled the tankard thoughtfully. He was silent for a time, then he said, "Remind me again why you're doing this?"

"Power," Vraggen replied. "Do you think the Network will cede us Sembia? We'll need every advantage we can get, and what I propose to do represents the pinnacle of what the Shadow Weave has to offer. You should consider it yourself."

In truth, Vraggen cared little for personal power, or at least cared little for power for its own sake. His plan to war with Sembia's Zhents had nothing to do with self-aggrandizement. As he saw it, he had no choice. He could flee the city and die a coward-something he could not live with-or he could stand, fight, and serve the god he had chosen to follow. At least the latter offered a chance for survival. But to maximize that chance, he had to maximize his own power.

Azriim smiled at Vraggen's offer, a secret smile Vraggen did not care for, and said, "You won't be human anymore."

"No," Vraggen acknowledged, staring across the table. "I'll be more than human."

Azriim seemed to digest that.

"Well enough," the half-drow said with a laugh. "I sure hope you don't die before we find the Fane. This, I really want to witness."

The light of the rising sun crept across the floor of Cale's quarters. Half his room was alight with the brightness of dawn, half cast in shadow. Cale thought it an apt metaphor for his life.

His purposeful movements about the small bedroom took him between the light and shadow. In the process, he stirred up the seemingly endless amount of unswept dust on the floor. The motes swirled in the sun's rays like dancing faeries. If anyone on his staff had left any other room in Stormweather Towers as ill kept as Cale maintained his own quarters, he would have dismissed that person summarily. Cale was a poor housekeeper-a strange fault in a butler, he acknowledged-but he forbade any member of his staff from entering his quarters.