Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

29 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms

Cale appeared where he had intended, in a narrow alley off Rauncel's Ride in Selgaunt's Warehouse District. Crumbling mudbrick walls boxed him in. Barrels and crates lay haphazardly strewn through the alley. The smell of old vomit and stale piss hung in the air. Cale almost smiled at the familiarity of the odor. He glanced up and down the alley and saw no one.

"Ao, but you took time enough coming back," said a voice.

Cale whirled around, jerking Weaveshear from its scabbard. Shadows swirled from steel and flesh. He spotted the speaker-a slim, dark-haired man with several days' growth of beard on his face-huddled prone against the alley wall. How had Cale missed him the first time?

The man lifted himself on his elbow and peered up at Cale out of a mass of threadbare, filthy clothes and a misshapen, stained cap. Cale figured him a drunk. He saw no weapons.

Cale lowered Weaveshear, took a few fivestars from one of his belt pouches, and tossed them on the ground near the drunk.

"Mind your own affairs, friend."

The drunk did not even glance at the coins. He had eyes only for Cale.

"Haven't I been doing that all this time?" he asked.

The man's knowing tone made Cale wary. Weaveshear still in hand, Cale approached until he stood two paces from the stranger. Shadows oozed lazily from Cale's blade.

"How do you mean?" Cale asked.

The drunk chuckled and sat up with a grunt. Cale realized that the stench of vomit and piss came from the man's clothing, not the alley. Close proximity made the smell worse. Cale wrinkled his nose.

"Foul, eh?" the man said and looked down at his clothing. "Keeps the stray dogs from bothering me."

The man seemed to notice the coins for the first time.

"Ah," he said, and all three vanished under a single deft pass of his hand.

Cale could tell the man was not what he appeared-he was too clear-eyed, to precise in his movements-though Cale did not yet know whether he was dangerous. He had encountered shapeshifters before and decided to take no chances. He pointed Weaveshear's tip at the man's face.

"Who are you?"

The man seemed unbothered by the shadow-bleeding blade pointed at his face. He reached up and put a fingertip on the edge. Shadows from the steel corkscrewed his finger.

"Nice weapon," the man said. He took his finger from the blade, produced one of Cale's fivestars, and tossed it into the air. He caught it on his fingertip, balanced upright on one of its five corners.

Cale kept the wonder from his face. He knocked the coin from its perch with Weaveshear and it chinked on the stones of the alley.

"I will ask you only once more. Who are you?"

The man frowned at the fallen coin. He looked up and asked, "Who do you think I am?"

Cale said nothing, though something about the man felt familiar.

The man leaned over, picked up the fivestar, pocketed it, and stood.

"Why are you backing away?" the man asked.

Cale had not realized he was.

The man smiled, nodded at the pocket in Cale's vest.

"Is that where you keep it?"

Cale's flesh goosepimpled. "Keep what?"

The man said, "The mask."

Shadows swirled around Cale. How could the man have known of the mask?

"You have been scrying me," Cale said, and tightened his grip on Weaveshear.

The man smiled and shook his head. "No. I left it for you in the meadow and you often keep it in that pocket. I do not need to scry you, Erevis. I know you better than anyone."

An identity for the speaker registered and Cale's heart thumped against his ribs. His breath came fast. Who could have known of the mask? Who could have left it for him in the meadow?

"You are backing away again," the man observed.

Cale held his ground, his mind racing. The idea was absurd. He shook his head. He refused to believe it.

The man examined his fingernails and said casually, "We have not spoken much of late. Remind me again of the reason for that."

Cale grasped at an explanation. "Tamlin sent you to meet me. And you were scrying me, despite your denial."

The man smiled. "No. But you already know that."

Cale was shaking his head. It was impossible. Impossible.

"Why do you not just ask me?" the man said.

Cale just stared, sweating. He dared not ask. He dared not.

"Go on," pressed the man, and took a step toward him.

Cale stood his ground, but only with difficulty.

"Ask," the man said. "I know how you like to ask questions to which you already know the answer. Ask."

Cale licked his lips but his tongue was dry. His thoughts raced through his head so quickly they did not make sense. He felt dizzy.

"It cannot be," he mumbled.

The man chuckled. "But it is. I am slumming," he said, as if that explained everything.

Words crept up behind Cale's teeth and he could not hold them in. He had to hear the man say it. The man smiled, waiting.

"Who are you?" Cale asked.

The man winked and shadows engulfed him. When they parted, the filthy rags had disappeared, replaced by oiled black leathers, high boots, a gray cloak, and several slim blades at his wide belt.

Cale took another step back, eyes wide. His legs gave way under him. He used Weaveshear to prop himself up.

The stink vanished with the old clothing. The man's face went from plain and unshaven to sharp, clean, and handsome. He appeared years younger than Cale. Only his smile remained the same. Cale recognized the face. He had seen it before on a statue in the Fane of Shadows, on the statue of Mask the Shadowlord.

"It cannot be," Cale said. The walls of the alley were falling in on him.

"I have already explained that it is possible," said the man-the god-as he dusted off his breeches. "Filthy alley." He looked up and stared an accusation at Cale. "I give you power to walk the shadows anywhere you like and always you appear in alleys. Why not a bathhouse? Or better still, a high-end brothel?"

Cale could only stare, his mind racing, his heart pounding. To his surprise, the awe subsided, replaced by the seed of something else. He was looking at the god who had caused him to sacrifice his humanity, whose schemes had led to Jak's death.

Anger rooted in Cale's soul, chased away the fear, killed the reverence.

"What is it?" the man asked him, a puzzled look in his eye.

"Speak your name," Cale said, his tone hard. He wanted to hear the name aloud before he did what he had to do. Shadows haloed his body.

Mask looked across the alley at Cale with a frown. "You look upset. You are not still angry about Jak, are you? You know, you have never had a sense of humor. Even as a boy, you-"

Cale snapped like a bowstring, and once loose, his pent-up anger could not be reined. He roared, bounded forward with his shadow speed, and slashed with Weaveshear at Mask's throat. Rage fueled his strength; the blow could have decapitated an ogre.

The god barely moved. He produced a slim black dagger from his belt and parried the larger blade with a casual air and an infuriating smirk.

"Now that is amusing. Trying to kill your own god."

Cale gritted his teeth and used his greater size to push Mask against the alley wall.

"Really?" Mask asked. "We are going to go through all this? I wasn't sure, but-"

Cale reached down to his belt, pulled a punch dagger, and drove it into the god's abdomen. The blade sank to the hilt.

Cale stared Mask in the face. Rage made his voice a growl. "Never say his name! Never!"

Mask did not even wince. He glanced down with a surprised look at the dagger protruding from his gut.

Cale twisted it. He had never in his life felt such satisfaction.

Mask looked into Cale's face and anger flashed in the god's eyes.