Erik de Bie: Downshadow

It subsided-his last meal slowly sank back to his belly.

"Well enough," he said. He reached down, fingers trembling, and found Araezra's hand. Numbness stole the feeling from his fingers, so he squeezed her hand only gently-he couldn't be sure how hard he was clutching her. She didn't seem pained, and that pleased him.

Araezra's eyes searched his face. "These morning duties are hard on you, I can tell," she said. "I'll speak with Jarthay-move us to a less nocturnal schedule."

"I'll manage," Kalen said, as he always did.

Araezra smiled. They walked on, each in their own space this time.

"Thank you, Kalen," she said. "Back there… you know how I can be."

"I know," he said absently, and he laid his hand on her shoulder. His touch was brotherly. "Your coin at the Knight?"

"Agreed." She smiled at him. "Come, aide-lead the way." "Sir," he replied.

As they walked south, Kalen reviewed his mental note of the jewelry-surely cheap, likely fenced-that he had seen in Kolatch s shop. Kalen's sharp eye had noted it all: three earrings, a ruby-eye pendant that would be easily recognized, and the dragon brooch. He studied it in his mind, making sure he remembered it keenly.

They reached the Knight 'n Shadow, at the corner of Fish and Snail streets, after a brisk walk. The bells of Waterdeep's clock (named, by its uninspired dwarven builders, the "Timehands") chimed: one small bell past dawn.

Kalen guided Araezra through the door of the tavern and waved for a pair of ales.

The Knight 'n Shadow was a two-story tavern, connected by a long, poorly lit staircase that spanned two worlds: Waterdeep above, and Downshadow below.

The Sea Knight tavern, which previously occupied the site, had utterly collapsed in 1425. Whether the result of a wizards' duel or a bout of spellplague (the accounts of locals differed), no one could ever say for certain. Some enterprising miner had dug out the cellar and discovered its connection to Undermountain. He built stairs, platforms for sitting, and a rope ladder, hired burly, ugly guards with spears to keep the monsters and coinless hunters at bay, and the shadow-dark half of the tavern-was born. The knight above ground grew shabby and dingy, like a sheet of parchment soaking up blood from below. It absorbed the stink of Downshadow and became the same sort of place: a squatting ground for unsuccessful treasure hunters, coin-shy adventurers, and other criminals. Men like Rath.

The dwarf savored the tavern's duality. It reminded him of himself: smooth faced, even handsome on the surface, but hard as steel beneath. Perfect for his line of work.

Quite at ease in his heavy black robe despite the moist heat of the shadow below, Rath sipped his ale, ignoring the two dwarves wholike all dwarves who approached him-had come to test their mettle. Like all dwarves in every wretched land he visited, he mused.

They had seated themselves, uninvited, at his table, and had stared at him without speaking for the last hundred count. The first-an axe fighter with a thick black beard tied in four bunches that brushed his hard, round belly-sipped at his tankard. The other-a dwarf with a thick red-gold beard that spilled over his wide chest-was trying hard not to let Rath catch him laughing. He'd cover his mouth so as not to erupt with laughter, but the sounds that escaped his fingers were reedy and almost girlish-grating in Rath's ears.

Finally, when the stench of the dwarves had grown too much for his nose, Rath said, in a mild, neutral tone, "May I help you gentles in some way?"

The two dwarves looked at one another as though sharing some private joke.

Blackbeard smirked at Rath. "Lose a bet?"

It was the smooth face. Dwarves could respect a bald pate, as many went bald at a young age, but to have no beard was practically a crime against the entire dwarf race.

The red-bearded one let loose a loud burst of his childish laughter, as though this was the funniest jest he had ever heard, and slapped the table. Rath's tankard of watered ale toppled, spilling its contents across the grubby wood and into his lap.

Anger flared-hot dwarf anger that was his birthright. Immediately he rose, and the pair rose with him, hands touching steel. Their eyes blazed dangerously.

"Now, now, boy," said the smiling Blackbeard, hand going for a knife at his belt.

Cold swept through Rath, smothering his natural reaction. It was a trick, he realized, so he did not meet their challenge. Instead, he waved for more ale, then sat down and began picking at his black robe, unable to keep the disdain from his face. He'd just had his clothes laundered.

The dwarves watched Rath warily as he sat, and he knew their game. That had been a move calculated to provoke a brawl. Now, though, their trick spoiled, they stood uneasily, halfway to their. seats, half standing. Rath found it amusing and allowed himself the tiniest smile.

"You're just going to sit there?" asked Blackbeard. "After I insult you?"

"Obviously," said Rath.

Redbeard chuckled, but Blackbeard scowled and cut his companion off with a hiss. He leaned in close. "What kind of dwarf are you that won't rise to fight?"

"A kind more pleasant than yours, it seems."

Blackbeard's race went a little redder, and his red-bearded friend stopped laughing. The eyes in the tavern turned toward them and Rath could hear conversations subsiding.

Rath wondered if these were native dwarves or foreigners. The dwarves of Waterdeep were few enough, but trade and coin were good in the city. Thus they came, those more accustomed to the merchant's scales than hammer and pick. Plenty of mining went on to employ those with traditional skills, in the bowels of fabled Undermountain or in the new neighborhoods popping up all over the city. In UnderclifF, beneath the eastern edge of the old city, dwarves sculpted homes out of the mountainside (illicitly or not). Or in the Warrens, where they could dwell amongst others their own size.

Rath had never considered going to either of those cesspools, and he had no drive to dig or mine. These two did not look like builders or diggers-more like fighters. Foreigners, he decided-sellswords or adventurers, the kind who itched for trouble. He could see it in their bearing and in their confident glares. Besides, had they been Waterdhavian, they might have heard of the beardless, robed dwarf who stalked Downshadow and thus known better than to bother him.

The beardless dwarf, for true, he mused. He hadn't thought of himself as a dwarf in some time-not since he had shaved his beard on his twentieth winter solstice, forty years gone.

"I don't like being ignored," Blackbeard said finally, unable to hold back his anger. "You get on your feet, or Moradin guide me, I'll cut your throat where you sit." He drew his knife.

The red-bearded dwarf gave the same wheezing giggle and reached for his own steel.

Rath opened his mouth to speak, but a murmured "sorry" stole the dwarves' attention. The serving lass with her bright red hair and high skirt came and left his ale, sweeping up the coppers he'd set on the table. Rath thanked her without looking up-without paying her the slightest attention. The other dwarves ogled her, as sellswords are wont, and Rath felt queasy.

"You going to say something?" asked Blackbeard. "Or am I going to say it for you?"

At that, Rath had to accept that they weren't going to go away. He took up his tankard and sipped. Nothing for it, he thought, but to deal with the situation.

"Your Moradin," he said softly over his tankard, "weeps for his people."

The dwarves looked surprised at the sound of his gentle voice. "Care to say that again, soft-chin?" said Blackbeard, his voice dangerous.

Rath set his ale on the table and folded his hands. "Do you know why so many of your gods have faded and died since the world before?"