at him like he was still a man, and Cale suspected that was because both of them knew darkness almost as well as Cale.
He pushed the maudlin thoughts from his mind and distracted himself by focusing on the passersby, noting weapons, movements, glances. He had not lost his trained eyes, and he picked out the professionals with satisfying ease. The thieves were apparent enough to him that they might as well have been wearing a uniform.
And something else was apparent to him, too shadows. He was as conscious of the location of shadows as he was of his own hand-those cast by people, by buildings, by carts. They were his tools now; he was connected intuitively to the dark places around him. The realization both comforted and disquieted him.
“I think I’ll purchase a new hat,” Jak said, eyeing with admiration the wide-brimmed wool cap perched atop the head of a fat merchant with a ratty moustache. The little man doffed his filthy and torn hat and slapped it against his thigh, then replaced it on his head. “Mine is a little road worn. Some new clothes, too, maybe.” He eyed his burned pants with dismay.
“We should re-equip entirely while we’re here,” Magadon said. “Rations. Field gear. Arrows for me. I’ll handle that. I assume we won’t remain long, Erevis?”
Cale did not know, so he shook his head. “We will see, Mags. It depends on what we can learn.”
They had very little to go on. The Sojourner had mentioned the Eldritch Temple of Mystryl but the reference meant nothing to Cale. He thought he knew someone who might be able to help-Elaena, the High Priest of Deneir in Selgaunt. She had healed Jak once, when he had been wounded by a demon, and she, along with all priests of Deneir, valued lore and lost knowledge. She might have heard of the Eldritch Temple. Cale hoped she would remember them and agree to assist.
“Surely we’ll be here at least long enough to clean up?” Jak asked. “I mean, look at you two. You look like you’ve been swimming in a sewer.”
Magadon smiled. “We have been swimming in a sewer. And you look little better, Jak Fleet.”
Jak grinned, doffed his cap, and bowed.
Cale agreed with Magadon’s assessment. Skullport was a sewer, and its stink still clung tenaciously to his clothes, to his skin, to his soul.
“We ought to fill our bellies, too,” Jak said, warming to his subject. “Roadtack and conjured food can sustain a halfling only so long.”
Magadon nodded at Jak and smiled. “Especially this halfling.”
“That’s truth,” Jak said, and patted his stomach. ‘Venison, I say. Or pork.”
“Hot beef stew,” Magadon said.
Cale forced a smile and nodded agreement. He knew that recent events had left a mark on his friends. Over the last few hours-hours, he thought, marveling that so much could have occurred in so short a timethey had fought the Skulls of Skullport, barely escaped a collapsing cavern in the Underdark, journeyed to and from the Plane of Shadow twice, and fought the most powerful spellcaster and mindmage that any of them had ever encountered. Jak and Magadon looked drawn, wrung out. Their banter told Cale that they needed to engage in something ordinary to remind them that all was not slaves, shadows, spells, darkness, and danger. Walking under the sun on the streets of Selgaunt, they looked as relaxed as Cale had seen them in a tenday. They needed human activity. Strange that Cale did not feel the same need.
“Let’s take a meal now,” Cale said to accommodate his friends. “And gear up. Afterward, we will call on Deneir’s temple.”
“Elaena,” Jak said, nodding. “A good thought. Worth a die cast. But as you said, food first. So follow me. I know a place.’
The halfling turned off Rauncel’s Ride and led them a few blocks to a clapboard-sided tavern and eatery called The Workbench, frequented by watermen and laborers. Oars, a rusty anchor, and various old tools hung from the walls. The thin tapmaster took in their
He pushed the maudlin thoughts from his mind and distracted himself by focusing on the passersby, noting weapons, movements, glances. He had not lost his trained eyes, and he picked out the professionals with satisfying ease. The thieves were apparent enough to him that they might as well have been wearing a uniform.
And something else was apparent to him, too shadows. He was as conscious of the location of shadows as he was of his own hand-those cast by people, by buildings, by carts. They were his tools now; he was connected intuitively to the dark places around him. The realization both comforted and disquieted him.
“I think I’ll purchase a new hat,” Jak said, eyeing with admiration the wide-brimmed wool cap perched atop the head of a fat merchant with a ratty moustache. The little man doffed his filthy and torn hat and slapped it against his thigh, then replaced it on his head. “Mine is a little road worn. Some new clothes, too, maybe.” He eyed his burned pants with dismay.
“We should re-equip entirely while we’re here,” Magadon said. “Rations. Field gear. Arrows for me. I’ll handle that. I assume we won’t remain long, Erevis?”
Cale did not know, so he shook his head. “We will see, Mags. It depends on what we can learn.”
They had very little to go on. The Sojourner had mentioned the Eldritch Temple of Mystryl but the reference meant nothing to Cale. He thought he knew someone who might be able to help-Elaena, the High Priest of Deneir in Selgaunt. She had healed Jak once, when he had been wounded by a demon, and she, along with all priests of Deneir, valued lore and lost knowledge. She might have heard of the Eldritch Temple. Cale hoped she would remember them and agree to assist.
“Surely we’ll be here at least long enough to clean up?” Jak asked. “I mean, look at you two. You look like you’ve been swimming in a sewer.”
Magadon smiled. “We have been swimming in a sewer. And you look little better, Jak Fleet.”
Jak grinned, doffed his cap, and bowed.
Cale agreed with Magadon’s assessment. Skullport was a sewer, and its stink still clung tenaciously to his clothes, to his skin, to his soul.
“We ought to fill our bellies, too,” Jak said, warming to his subject. “Roadtack and conjured food can sustain a halfling only so long.”
Magadon nodded at Jak and smiled. “Especially this halfling.”
“That’s truth,” Jak said, and patted his stomach. ‘Venison, I say. Or pork.”
“Hot beef stew,” Magadon said.
Cale forced a smile and nodded agreement. He knew that recent events had left a mark on his friends. Over the last few hours-hours, he thought, marveling that so much could have occurred in so short a timethey had fought the Skulls of Skullport, barely escaped a collapsing cavern in the Underdark, journeyed to and from the Plane of Shadow twice, and fought the most powerful spellcaster and mindmage that any of them had ever encountered. Jak and Magadon looked drawn, wrung out. Their banter told Cale that they needed to engage in something ordinary to remind them that all was not slaves, shadows, spells, darkness, and danger. Walking under the sun on the streets of Selgaunt, they looked as relaxed as Cale had seen them in a tenday. They needed human activity. Strange that Cale did not feel the same need.
“Let’s take a meal now,” Cale said to accommodate his friends. “And gear up. Afterward, we will call on Deneir’s temple.”
“Elaena,” Jak said, nodding. “A good thought. Worth a die cast. But as you said, food first. So follow me. I know a place.’
The halfling turned off Rauncel’s Ride and led them a few blocks to a clapboard-sided tavern and eatery called The Workbench, frequented by watermen and laborers. Oars, a rusty anchor, and various old tools hung from the walls. The thin tapmaster took in their
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