The Shadowmask by R. A. Salvatore
I let out a heavy sigh. Elbeth, Perrault. Everyone who had tried to help me was hurt, missing—or dead. I briefly considered returning to the docks. But the thought of facing Sea Sprite’s crew again filled my heart with shame.
Pirates hunting me had attacked the ship, and though we had won the battle, several crew had been killed, and the ship was damaged. Our victory came thanks only to Drizzt Do’Urden and his friends, who had disembarked the ship more than a day before. If I returned to Sea Sprite and brought on another attack, the crew would be overwhelmed. And I would never forgive myself.
The crowd pressed me on to the edge of the market. In my darkest days on board the ship, Drizzt had spoken to me about family—not the family you are born to, but the one you find. I knew he was talking about the crew of Sea Sprite, telling me that they were my family. I hung my head. Maybe I should return to the only family I had left and give up my foolish journey. The stone had caused me nothing but pain.
A feeling like a thousand tiny pinpricks shot up my arm. I shook my hand reflexively, and accidentally slapped the wide backside of a shopper passing beside me.
“Aii!” the woman shouted. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” She shoved my shoulder—hard.
I lost my balance and crashed into the side of a small tent at the edge of the market. The tent wall crumpled, and the pole it was attached to dropped directly on my head, dazing and blinding me. I stumbled forward and fell to the dusty ground.
A large hand, heavy and strong, grasped my shoulder. A deep, throaty laugh filled my ears.
Asbeel!
CHAPTER THREE
I thrashed about, only serving to further entrap myself. The tent cloth wrapped about my arm and entangled my legs. I felt like a fly in a spider’s web, each movement only ensuring my demise. I tried in vain to grip the dagger in my belt to cut my way out of the trap. But I could not reach it.
A second hand joined the first, gripping me tightly, holding me still.
“Relax,” said a deep voice, a voice not Asbeel’s. “You try to move large, but you are trapped, so you move not at all. Move small, and you will move far.”
“What in the world does that mean?” I asked, my voice muffled by the drapery.
“Be still,” the voice said quietly—as quietly as a thunderstorm could be. “And I will help you.”
The hands released me, tentatively. When I did not resume my struggle, they began slowly to unwrap the tangled mess I had become.
A few moments later I lay on the dusty floor inside the tent. Its remaining cotton walls rippled gently in the breeze. The fourth strip of fabric lay in a pile on the ground where I had tumbled into it. The air was hazy with smoke leaking from the pots of incense placed around the room.
“Greetings, maimed one,” said an old man. He spoke with the cadence of a bear shambling through the forest: not in a rush to get anywhere, not wasting any energy where it wasn’t needed; but with the confidence of a creature secure in its own great strength.
“How do you know my name?” I asked, climbing to my feet unsteadily.
“What?”
“My name. You called me Maimun.” I took a step back. “How did you know my name?”
The man towered over me, his head nearly touching the top of the small tent. Everything about him seemed out of place in those tight quarters. “I called you ‘maimed one.’ Scarred one.”
I felt him staring at my chest. My shirt had fallen open, revealing the long black patch across my chest. “Tar,” I said. “To cauterize the wound.”
“Yes, and it must have hurt greatly,” said the man. “But I wasn’t speaking of that wound. There is magic about you, and that is scarred as well, more than your flesh.” He stepped closer, leaning heavily on a single bone, as tall as his shoulder, which in turn was as tall as most men. The great thing was blackened along one side, and from its top dangled feathers, claws, and teeth.
The hair on the back of my neck pricked up. “Who are you?” I asked.
“I have no name,” he said.
I took another step back and glared at him. “How can you have no name?”
“I had a name once, but it was taken from me. I shall not get a new one until I rejoin my tribe in the next land.” He raised his bone staff and pointed to a corner of the tent filled with pillows. “Now, come, Maimed One, sit with me a while, that I may look at you.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me, I could see the open street, filled with bustling shoppers, a clear path to escape should he attempt an attack. If I sat in the corner of his small tent, I would be in a much more dangerous position.
“You have questions, yes?” He said, smiling. “I can look at you and maybe see the answers.” From behind his long hair, pale blue eyes, like the midwinter horizon a moment before dawn, stared at me, unblinking. I felt weak, naked, beneath his piercing gaze.
I shook my head. Had I truly fallen so far? Had Asbeel really chased me to such a frightened state? There was no doubt I needed help. I had no one else to turn to. Perhaps the man could tell me how to find the masked woman and retrieve the stone. I took a deep breath and decided to trust him.
As I sat down on the pile of pillows, a cloud of dust rose up, stinging my eyes and nose. The pillows were not as soft as they looked. I rubbed the new bruise on my thigh and shifted to a more comfortable position, as the old seer settled cross-legged on the bare floor in front of me.
I had witnessed divination magic in practice only once before: when Perrault’s dwarf friend Alviss had used his crystal ball to allow me to spy on Perrault and his friend Jaide. I knew from various tomes that scrying often used such tools—a crystal ball, a mirror—to peer through to a distant place, so I scanned the room for any such object. But the space was sparse, almost bare. A chest sat against the wall opposite the tent’s door (the proper entrance, not the fallen wall), with a stack of books atop it. I thought back to Perrault’s collection of books, which I had taken such care to organize. The seer’s books were stacked haphazardly; only three of the seven were spine-out, and those were in no particular order, with one of Volo’s accounts sandwiched between what I could only assume was a spellbook and one written in a language I could not read.
Smoke wafted about the large man, drifting up from a lit candle set at his feet—where did it come from? Ever so slowly, the man began to rock back and forth; his lips moved, but I heard no sound. The smoky haze moved with him. His features wavered within it, and though I knew I could reach out and touch him, somehow I felt as if he was not fully there.
After a moment I found myself swaying in rhythm with him. A wave of calm washed over me.
I leaped to my feet, my eyes darting around the room. I felt as though I’d been startled awake from a long nap, though I was sure I hadn’t been asleep. The old man’s eyes flew open, and he took in a quick breath.
“What just happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I looked at you, and someone looked back.” He leaned heavily on his staff and rose up beside me.
“What do you mean, ‘looked back’?” I asked.
He paused, as if searching for the words to explain. “I told you before, there is magic about you. I looked at you to find that magic and to follow it.”
I nodded and gestured for him to speak more quickly. Suddenly, I felt as though there was no time to lose. “And what did you see? Did you find the magic?”
“No.” The old man replied, not seeming to notice my panic. He spoke in the same measured pace. “Someone else was following the same line. He seeks what you seek.”
“Who? What was his name?” I asked, then shook my head. Divination magic surely didn’t work like that. The old man must be thinking me a fool. “I mean can you describe him?”
He nodded, and suddenly I felt less absurd. “A stranger to these lands, of skin and manner. Magical by nature, not by practice.”
“That is all?” I said. “You see nothing more?”
The old seer picked up the c
I paced the tiny tent and flexed and unflexed my left hand, which tingled as if I’d sat on it too long. My mind was spinning, rolling over all the possibilities. Who could the magical person be?
The woman in the mask? I had no idea what her nature was, nor her skin, nor anything about her. But no, the seer had said “he seeks what you seek.” The masked stranger already had what I sought. And she was female, that much I was sure of.
Did he mean Asbeel? The thought made my heart race. I scanned the crowds outside, but the demon was nowhere to be seen. Asbeel did seek the stone. But he also knew who had it. I thought back to when the woman in the mask had appeared in the alley. He had seemed to know her somehow, but I certainly couldn’t ask Asbeel who she is. If I were to find him again, he would surely try to kill me. That thought sent cold chills up my spine.
I glanced again at the stack of books, at the Volo in particular. I recalled a passage in one of Volo’s books describing one of the rarest sentient races seen on Toril’s surface. “Creatures of magic themselves, they are in tune with the unique magical nature of the deepest parts of the world.” The book described the various sub-races of the elves; the passage described the drow.
The drow. Magical by nature. Pitch black skin. Strangers to our world. I had only ever seen one drow in my life. He had entered the city only a day earlier to complete a journey of his own.
“Drizzt?” I raced toward the seer. “Was it Drizzt Do’Urden you saw?”
The seer gazed at me for what seemed like an eternity, and he slowly nodded. “It matters not what I see. It matters only what you feel.”
With that I was certain. Drizzt was the answer. He was searching for the stone. And to find it, all I had to do was find him.
CHAPTER FOUR
I pushed my way to the edge of the market crowd, and found myself staring down a lane to the city gate—or rather a hole in the wall that served as a gate—to a road out into a sandy wasteland. Four guards flanked the portal, leaning lazily against the cool stone of the wall, staying in the shade.
I ran to the gate, passing a group of beggars along the side of the road. As I passed, they pleaded for scraps and coins, but I did not slow my pace. “Hey,” I called. “Hey, guard!”
If Drizzt and his friends had left the city here, the guards would know it; if not, I would attempt to navigate the maze of the city to another gate, and so on.
None of the guards stirred as I approached. I wondered for a moment if they were asleep.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me? Guard!”
At last the biggest man spoke. He scarcely moved a muscle, as if he had perfected the art of pure laziness. “Go away, beggar rat,” he said.
I stepped closer. “I am no beggar. And I need some help.”
He opened one eye. “You look like a beggar, and it ain’t my job to help.”
“It’s your job to protect the people of the city. And I don’t look like a beggar. Have you ever seen a beggar with a cloak like this?” I waved Perrault’s magical royal-blue cloak, exposing the finely-crafted hilt of Perrault’s dagger, belted at my hip.
The guard stood and faced me. “You’re right, I suppose. You don’t look like a beggar. You look like a thief.” He took a step forward, trying to appear menacing. He stopped to rub the sleep from his eyes, and I nearly laughed aloud, but thought better of it.
The guard would be of no use to me, I knew. And I needed some answers—now.
“Any of you, then,” I said, turning back to the row of beggars on the street. “Any of you see a dr—” I nearly said drow, but caught myself, remembering that Drizzt would surely be wearing his magical mask. “Any of you see an elf come through here, probably with a dwarf and two humans?”
After a moment, no one answered, so I moved farther down the lane and repeated my question.
Someone answered, a boy who looked to be about half my age. I winced when he stepped forward. Dirt coated his face and bare chest. His ribs showed through his hollow chest. “Yeah, I seen ’em.” His voice was weak, almost flimsy. “Elf, woman, dwarf, giant.”
My heart leaped. “That’s them!” I fished around in my pocket for coins, and found three, all silver. I brought one out and presented it to the boy. All the other beggars perked up at the sight and began moving toward me. I ignored them. “A silver for you if you can tell me where they went and how to find them.”
“They left the city through them gates,” he said. “I dunno where they’s heading.” He smiled, for no reason I could see.
“Where does that gate lead then?” I asked.
“I dunno. The Calim Desert, I suppose. Get a camel and follow ’em.” He held out his hand.
I placed the coin in it, but did not let go. “Who sells camels?” I asked.
“Lotsa folks sell camels.”
“Who near here?”
The boy thought for a second, then pointed down a side street. “Sali Dalib, he sells camels. His tent is at the next market down that road,” he said. I released the coin, and the boy scampered off into the shadows.
Sali Dalib’s tent stood almost directly in front of the street, just as it opened into a relatively small market square. The large pavilion had recently been damaged, I saw, as two men worked on a makeshift scaffold raising one side of it. Outside there was an empty enclosure, for camels I assumed.
A goblin sat beside the door. He held a small bag to his head. His face was discolored around the bag—a bruise, I realized. In his other hand was a small wand. He pointed it at me, briefly and subtly. I pretended not to notice as I approached.
“We are not open, no, no,” said a voice from within. A man in a brightly-colored flowing robe and a shining yellow turban came outside. He carried a large traveler’s pack as if he were heading out on a long journey. “No food for de beggars today, no, no. Go away.” He shooed me away, but the goblin grabbed his robe and whispered. The man stopped.
“But perhaps we can make an exception. Yes, yes, we can,” he said. “You wish to buy, yes, yes? Or maybe to trade?” His voice rose an octave as he spoke, his tone switching from the gruff dismissal of a beggar to a honeyed sales pitch now that he considered me a potential customer. Perrault had always told me to judge a person by their actions when they have nothing to gain from you; by that standard, I did not much like Sali Dalib.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the man cut me off. “Inside. We should talk inside, yes, yes,” he said, closing the few feet to me in the blink of an eye and putting his arm around my shoulders. He herded me to the tent. The goblin followed behind, quietly.
“I be Sali Dalib, purveyor of de finest wares, yes, yes! I have everything you need, at de bestest prices in de whole city!”
The interior of the tent looked much like the exterior: fine silk in many mismatched colors pieced together somewhat haphazardly. It would have been a fine shop, were it not partially destroyed. On one side of the tent lay a mess of broken trinkets, shelves, and ropes. On the other side a case of magical instruments caught my eye.
Sali Dalib hopped over to the shelf, following my gaze. “You wish to buy a Doss lute? I have one on sale cheap!”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Sali Dalib had already moved to the next shelf. “Or perhaps a nice traveling cloak? You already have one, yes, yes, but dis one is so much finer!” He held up a coarse yellow cloak, patched in several places. “We can trade, yes, yes!”
“How about some broken shelves?” I asked sarcastically, looking past him at the shelves and ropes scattered around the floor. “You seem to have a lot of those.”
“Yes, yes, we have many,” he said, apparently not catching the joke. “A minor accident, we had, yes, yes. How many would you like?” He beamed at me, bouncing up and down slightly in obvious anticipation, until his turban slipped and fell over his eyes.
“None. I just want information,” I said. I coul
He pulled his turban up, eyes narrowed. “Information about what?” he asked. His voice, so round and robust before, was utterly flat.
“About an elf. He would have been traveling with two humans—a small woman and a huge man—and a dwarf.” I meant to continue, but a groan from behind me—from the goblin—cut me off.
Sali Dalib stared at me. “You be friend of de drow?” he snarled.
“Friend? Not really, I’m just looking for—” I choked on my own words. He had identified Drizzt as a drow. “So you did meet them?” I asked, trying not to show the trepidation I was feeling.
“Friend of de drow is not welcome here,” Sali Dalib said, standing up as straight and as tall as he could manage and pointing at the door.
“Wait, wait, I’m not his friend,” I said. “I’m looking for him. He owes me gold.” It was an outright lie, of course, but I figured perhaps I could connect with Sali Dalib in terms he could relate to. “I just need to know where he went.”
“Calimport,” the goblin gurgled behind me.
I rolled my eyes—of course they were headed to Calimport. “I mean, how? By what path?”
“By camel, yes, yes. By de caravan—” Sali Dalib’s voice seemed to lighten mid sentence. “No, no, not de caravan road, by de bestest road.” The goblin groaned again, but Sali Dalib shot him a glare, and he stifled his complaint.
“The bestest road?” I parroted.
“Yes, yes, de bestest road. It be marked by signs. Yes, yes, just outside the city, and it be de fastest and safest road to Calimport! De bestest, it be! That be why they call it de bestest road, yes, yes!” Sali Dalib was positively beaming at that point. “You need a camel, yes, yes. Sali Dalib will sell you a camel and cheap, yes, yes.”
“I have no money.” I would have felt worse about the lie if I were not so sure Sali Dalib was trying to swindle me.