Erik de Bie - Downshadow

Perhaps she had even spent some of the time in real sleep-ye gods. Maybe she was wearing a half-elPs face too much.

She recalled that the owner of the Dragon had quesrioned her gruffly when the carriage had dropped her off, but she'd waved him aside, along with the catcalls of patrons. She'd ignored the sneers of the serving girls-saucy wenches who sold their charms as openly as drinks-and managed to climb up to her chamber before collapsing into bed.

She examined the damage in the mirror. That blue-headed snip had muddled her mind, adding worry lines around her eyes and lips. She'd often wondered what it would feel like, being struck by dark magic-gods knew she'd done it often enough herself.

"Hit me with my own power, eh?" she murmured. "Children."

All in all, totally unacceptable, she thought. She set to work. She would just touch up a few details of her appearance.

She caressed the invisible pendant that hung at her throat. It faded into sight and gleamed as she harnessed the magic-complex, powerful things for which her wand was not quite suited. It wasn't that she couldn't cast the shaping rirual with the wand-it just didn't feel right to her. It was better for quick castings, particularly illusions and dark, fey-touched art. It had come from her mother, who had been a talented witch of the fey path. The amulet, on the other hand-her patron had built it precisely for this sort of ritual, which was more wizardly than warlock.

She thought she should see Kalen today. Fayne hoped the man was suitably in agony over the wounds she had sustained in his tallhouse. She might suggest that he could make it up by taking her to the revel instead of Myrin, thus furthering her plan.

She left shadows under her eyes, so as to make herself appear a little more vulnerable. She knew Kalen liked the gray eyes, so she made them shine. She slimmed her image slightly, and made her face jusr a bit more darling-her nose, in particular, seemed a bit too long, so she made it small and delicate.

More like Myrin's nose, she realized, and she stuck out her tongue in disgust.

Her amulet had been a gift from her patron on her fortieth name day (gods, how long ago that seemed!), and coincided with her learning how to change her face. First, she had used the wand's illusory powers, but her patron had taught her how to perform a ritual that would make the changes deeper, harder to dispel.

Finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork. This was the face she would wear this day-Greengrass, the festival of spring. It wasn't what she'd call beautiful, exactly, but a proper seduction was accomplished according to the desires of the man or woman seduced. She winked at the mirror, glad of her false face. A blessing no one could see the real one-she didn't spend so much effort hiding it in vain.

Her face and body made up, Fayne selected suitable attire for the Watch barracks: mid-calf gray dress with open front, laced black bustier cut with slits on the flanks to reveal slashes of lacy red underslip, matching scarlet scarf for the cold, wide leather hat for any rain, and her favorite knee-high boots with dagger-length heels.

None of them cheap, but none of them rich-quite what she thought Kalen liked.

As she dressed, she smiled at the revel-ready garments hanging in the wardrobe, carefully selected for the occasion. She would have quite the laugh at that private jest-most of her best pranks were personal.

She threw on a weathercloak to hide her outfit, whisked her way out the Dragon around a few highsun brawlers and patrons waving for her charms, and hailed a carriage.

Vainly, Kalen had hoped that by the next day, Araezra would have calmed herself about the Room of Records and they could talk. But he hadn't seen her all morn, and when he'd asked, a gruff Commander Jarthay had told him she was out on duty. Kalen didn't need the subtle, tight pitch of the commander's words to know things would be tense with Araezra.

He hadn't wanted to go home, so he'd spent the night at the barracks and eaten among the Guard. Thankfully, no one bothered him. His notorious indifference was good for that, at least. That morn, he had tried to work in the Room of Records, but every time he looked up from the ledgers, he would see Rath holding Araezra helpless or hear her choked whispers. Eventually, he moved outside to work in the warm, sun-filled courtyard.

Greengrass was the first day of spring, and the weather treated Waterdeep to warm days, cold nights, and frequent rain. Kalen disliked autumn and spring, with their long shadows and false warmth: he preferred the commitment of summer hear or winrer chill.

In the yard, he left the ledger untouched and began a letter to Araezra, trying to explain what he had done. He paused now and then, to listen to the sounds of training in the court.

A cluster of Watchmen had gathered to watch a practice match between two of the youngest and most handsome members of the Guard: Aumun Bront and Rhagaster Stareyes. The latter was the more handsome thanks to his elf heritage (the legacy of a scandalous, hypocritical indiscretion on the part of his elf supremacist father, Onstal Stareyes, with a serving lass in Dock Ward). The men circled each other, stripped to the waist and sweaty, padded swords swishing.

They sparred under the unimpressed eye of Vigilant Bleys Treth, whom Kalen had done his best to avoid these last days. He didn't much like the man (the feeling was mutual), and Treth had seen Shadowbane on the night Talanna had been hurt. He mighr recognize Kalen.

The other guard who might have known him-Gordil Turnstone-was there, too, sitting on a bench. Though he was ostensibly watching the sparring, Turnstone was dozing.

Bront cut over and high and Stareyes replied with a plunging block. It could have become a counter to the belly, but the half-elf held the parry too long. Finally, Stareyes broke the parry and cut in from the opposite line, then reversed again, striking from both directions in sequence. He feinted right and attacked left. In rhythm, Bront tried ro parry right, and the half-elf dealt him a sharp rap on the left side with his blunted blade.

The watchers clapped and Stareyes flashed his winning smile. Bront cradled his bruised side and gave Stareyes a rueful grin.

Kalen watched them surreptitiously over his spectacles. A part of him wished he could lord his prowess before an audience, but the needs of his disguise prevented it. He'd learned that lesson in a harsh manner during his time as an armar, before Araezra.

He thought about the flaws in Bront's style, and it must have shown on his face. Treth was watching him with a sneer. Kalen averted his eyes.

"Dren," Treth called. "Care to teach us aught?"

The congratulatory chatter in the courtyard fell silent, replaced by whispers.

Kalen said nothing, only looked at his parchment and quill. He had paused before telling Araezra the truth. He could see the unwritten sentence: "I lied to you, Rayse."

Did he dare? Would she understand? Or would she continue to hate him, not only for humiliating her but for lying to her as well? Not to mention that Araezra would be honor-bound to arrest him as a dangerous vigilante-or would she keep his secret?

He shook his head. He hadn't given her any reason to trust him.

A gloved hand seized his book of notes-with it the letter-and tore it from his hands. He looked up, calmly, to see Bleys Treth gazing down at him with that same cocky smile.

"Come, Dren," he said. "You've not graced the yard in some time.

Spar with Stareyes, and show us your style." He winked lewdly. "Now that Rayse's attentions are elsewhere, you've the chance, aye?"

Though Treth was older, almost twenty winters over Kalen, they were the same rank in the Guard: vigilant. But Treth had been a master swordsman for hire, a sellsword for nobles, and he bore an aura around him that had made him quite popular. "The Dashing Jack," the older Watchmen called him-a name he hated. His looks had faded little with the years, but his smile still melted hearts.