Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

The Hulorn's garden looked down on the spires of Temple Avenue. Cale saw the top of the bell tower of the House of Song and the narrow, pennon-festooned spire of the Palace of Holy Festivals. Cale had no desire to see Temple Avenue. He'd had enough of gods for the night. Besides, Temple Avenue reminded him of Sephris. He imagined the mad prophet lying awake in his bed in the House of Higher Achievement, counting the number of cracks in the ceiling, the number of breaths he took in an hour, applying one of his obscure calculations, and deriving the fate of Faerun.

A few blocks over, the top of a tower rose above the rooftops. Cale recognized it. Decades before it had been the tower home of a minor wizard, Delikor Saan. Subsequently, an eccentric artist-Cale had forgotten his name-had bought it and converted it into an art gallery and curio shop that catered to the city's wealthy. Cale gauged its height at a full six stories, a suitable perch for a view of most of Selgaunt.

Eyeing the top of the tower, he pulled the shadows about him and stepped through them. He appeared on the tower's top. The wind hit him immediately. His cloak billowed out behind him. He crouched low and steadied himself on the tiles of the pitched roof. He looked out on the city.

Streetlamps lit the main thoroughfares: Rauncel's Ride, Sarn Street, Larawkan Lane, the Wide Way. The broad avenues wound their way through the city like glowing snakes. The Elzimmer River ran along part of its northern wall before emptying into Selgaunt Bay.

Cale could see over the wall to the lamplit flotilla of fishing boats, cargo barges, and ferryboats that dotted the far side of the river. The waterway flowed in clean from the northwest, collected much of the city's filth as it passed by the northern wall, and dumped the dredge in the bay. Cale knew many men who had done exactly the same thing-entered Selgaunt clean, gotten dirty while inside, and ended up in the bay.

He looked to the west, to the Noble District and the grand mansions of Selgaunt's ruling noble families, the Old Chauncel. Even from a distance, he could make out the squat turrets of Stormweather Towers, its gated gardens, the meticulously maintained grounds. He had spent many good days within its walls, with Thamalon, with Tazi, with Shamur. He had fought a shadow demon in Stormweather's great hall, then turned to Mask soon afterward.

He felt a pang of nervousness about seeing them again. They had not seen him since he had been transformed. With effort, he could disguise his appearance as a shade, but even under the best circumstances, he knew he looked different. He worried over how they would respond.

Feeling uncertain, he reached into his pocket and took out the mask. He unfolded it, held it before his face, and looked through the eyeholes. Shadows emerged from his fingers, entwined themselves around and through the mask. The wind pulled at his cloak, at his hair, at his soul. He realized for the first time that unless he died in violence, the shadowstuff that made up his body would allow him to outlive everyone and everything he cared about. He would outlive elves. He could find common ground only with gods.

He put his fingers through the eyeholes, tempted, before shoving it back into his pocket. "In my own time," he said.

He turned around and looked out on Selgaunt Bay, glittering in the starlight. Countless piers, like the fingers of giants, jutted into the bay. A forest of masts rose into the night sky. Cale had last been at sea with Magadon and Jak aboard Demon Binder. They had discovered the Source and its guardian, the kraken. The beast was still out there, Cale knew. And so, too, was the Wayrock, the island home of the temple Mask had stolen from Cyric. Drasek Riven, Mask's Second, was out there. Cale wondered if Mask had appeared to Riven, too.

The majestic gongs of the House of Song sounded the fifth bell. Dawn was only another bell or so away. Cale decided to watch the sun rise over Selgaunt Bay.

Rather than shadowstep back to the street, Cale dangled himself over the edge of the tower's roof, sought a hold for his toe, and started down. He used the shadows to make himself invisible-he did not want a passerby or Scepter mistaking him for a burglar-but he did all the climbing himself, the old way.

The exertion did him good, reminded him of days when he had still been human. By the time he reached the street, he was soaked in sweat-human sweat. He unwrapped himself from the night and set out for the bay. He kept to the shadows as he moved, out of professional habit, but he did not shadowstep or use the darkness to conceal him magically. He moved like an ordinary man, a human man, a skilled thief and assassin. By the time he reached the docks, he was smiling.

Glowballs and burning braziers lit the wharfs. Caravels and carracks dominated the piers, but Cale spotted several freight barges, a longship, and even a bireme, probably from one of the southern realms. Sailors, dock men, and teamsters were already at work loading and unloading crates, barrels, and sacks. The docks never slept in Selgaunt, though the activity was less than Cale expected.

The workers shouted, grunted, cursed, laughed, and sang as they labored. From time to time, groups of two, three, or four wobbly-kneed crewmen wandered back to their ships from a night in the dockside taverns.

A virtual armada of small fishing boats floated along the length of the bay. Like the sailors on the larger ships, Selgaunt's fishermen were already at work preparing their ships to set out. They would spend the morning at sea and return at midday to sell their catch in the Dock Market. Cale had shopped that market many afternoons, with fat Brilla, the Uskevren kitchen mistress, at his side.

Cale moved away from the larger ships and walked down a small pier. A single-masted fishing boat was tied to its end. A wiry fisherman as thin as a whipblade sat in the boat, tending a net. A young man that Cale took to be his son examined the tiller, the mast, the sail. The youth saw Cale approaching. His eyes went to Weaveshear and he nudged his father. The fisherman turned around and took in Cale's appearance. A knife lay on the bench near him.

Cale tried to look harmless, not an easy task. "Do you mind if I sit? I want to watch the sunrise."

The son could not take his eyes from Cale's blade. The elder fisherman shrugged.

"As you wish," he said, and went back to work on his net. When the boy continued to gawk at Cale, the fisherman said to him, "Mind that tiller, boy."

Cale's presence might have made trained killers nervous, but not a Sembian boatman. Selgaunt's fishermen had a well-deserved reputation for being unflappable. Cale smiled, sat, and let his legs dangle over the pier.

The fishermen cast off before the sun rose. The elder nodded a farewell at Cale, the younger waved, and they released the lines. The son oared them away from the pier, Cale watched them grow smaller and smaller as the eastern sky turned from black to gray. The sky brightened with every passing moment until the sun peeked over the horizon. Backlit by the dawn, the boat and the two fishermen looked like nothing more than shadows. Cale knew the feeling.

The slate sea turned blue under the rising sun. The light crept across the water and stung Cale's flesh. The rays caused Cale's shadowhand, the hand with which he had driven a punch dagger into the gut of the God of Thieves, to dissipate into nothingness. He had lost the original hand to a slaad's jaws while doing Mask's will. His transformation into a shade had regenerated it, but only in darkness or shadow. It seemed to him fitting that it was the instrument through which he had wounded Mask.

The fight in the alley already seemed like a dream, the recollection hazy and distant. He wondered if the whole exchange had happened only in his head. He had no wounds to show for it, but of course he would not-his flesh effaced wounds as effectively as the sun effaced his hand.