The big mercenary snaked his way through the tables and enthralled patrons, and stalked toward Cale, scowling. Cale gave no ground, and soon they stood face to face. The sellsword's four comrades stayed a few paces behind, still wearing idiot smiles.
"When I'm done with her, I said," the mercenary said. His breath stank of sour ale; his clothes of mistleaf. He looked past Cale to the barmaid and said, "I'm not through with you, whore."
"I'm no more a whore than you are a man," she said.
Cale enjoyed the rush of anger visible on the sellsword's face. He allowed shadows to swirl around him and stared into the mercenary's scarred face.
"Apologize," Cale said.
The mercenary's eyes narrowed. His bravado seemed unaffected by the wisps of shadows swirling around Cale.
"What did you say, scarecrow?"
"To her," Cale said, staring down into the man's face. "Apologize. Now."
The mercenary licked his lips. He seemed taken aback by Cale's calm.
"If the next words that come out of your mouth aren't an apology," Cale said, "things will turn out badly."
The mercenary responded with arrogance and a sneer, the latter a poor, distant cousin to Riven's perfected expression of disdain.
"You think you can-"
Fueled by his shadow-enhanced speed and strength, Cale drove his palm into the underside of the mercenary's jaw before the man said another word. Teeth snapped shut on the man's tongue and a spray of blood exploded from his mouth. The man staggered backward, but still managed to lash out a weak punch with his other hand. Cale caught him by the forearm, yanked him forward and slammed his hand down on the table near Riven. The man punched Cale in the back of the head-a weak blow-while Cale drew a dagger and with it nailed the man's palm to the wood.
While the mercenary was still screaming, Cale yanked the dagger free, elbowed him hard in the face, and stuck the dagger at his throat.
"Apologize to her," he commanded. "Now."
Bleeding from mouth and hand, breathing like a bellows, the mercenary glared hate at Cale through eyes watery with pain. His unwounded hand floated near one of his daggers. Cale pricked his neck.
"You're done here," Cale said. "You can walk out, or be carried."
The man stared at him, and must have seen his resolve.
After an additional moment of hesitation, he muttered to the barmaid, "Sorry."
She was too shocked to respond.
"Is that acceptable?" Cale asked her over his shoulder.
She offered a nod, eyes wide.
"You made a mistake, is all," Cale said, trying to offer the man some dignity. "You've been drinking. But now you're leaving. You and your friends."
Behind him, he heard Riven begin to chuckle.
The mercenary's four comrades grumbled and moved a step closer. Hands went to hilts, but Cale saw the lack of resolve in their eyes.
Riven stopped chuckling.
"I wouldn't," the assassin said to them. "Or five get carried out."
They backed off. Cale pushed the big mercenary toward them.
The big man staggered into his comrades, shook off their assistance, wiped his bloody mouth, and cradled his pierced hand. Mumbling half-hearted threats and curses, the five sellswords walked out of the Anchor. Cale and Riven watched them go.
The instant they exited, the common room resumed its normal pulse.
"Dead in the dirt," Riven said to Cale, shaking his head with disapproval. "That's my rule when I pull steel."
"Not mine," said Cale.
He sat, and the barmaid, visibly shaking, started to clear his tankard.
"I-I'll get you another," she said in a quavering voice.
Cale touched her hand-it was warm and soft-and guided the tankard to the table.
"It's still full," he reminded her. "Did he hurt you?"
She looked down at the mercenary's blood that stained the table.
"I've had worse," she said.
Cale didn't doubt it.
"What's your name?" he asked.
He realized he was still touching her hand, and let her go. She looked him in the eye and Cale saw strength there, and pain.
"Varra," she said. "Thank you for ... that."
Cale nodded an acknowledgment. He thought her name a nice one.
"When do you go home, Varra?"
Her gaze narrowed and she flushed.
"What? Why do you ask? What that oaf said-It's not true of me, not anymore. I'm not-"
It took Cale a moment to understand her meaning. When he did, he felt his own ears flush. "That's not what I meant," he said, waving a hand. "I meant that I would escort you home."
He saw that she didn't understand his offer.
"Men like that,"-he nodded at the door through which the mercenaries had exited-"might try to find some dignity by revenging themselves on you."
When she understood his meaning, her eyes softened, but she still said, "They won't. And an escort will not be necessary."
"They're not coming back, Cale," Riven said.
Cale ignored the assassin.
"I know it is not necessary, Varra," he replied, impressed with her diction and dignity. He sensed an education in her background, or at least an educated mentor. "But I'd prefer to do so even still."
She held his gaze for a moment, as though measuring his intentions. The moment stretched.
"Very well," she said at last, and walked away.
Riven, having watched the whole exchange, favored Cale with his signature sneer then said, "I wonder if the Shadowlord knows that his First is as soft as an old woman."
Cale gave the assassin a stare.
Riven chuckled in response.
"Well, while you do that," the assassin said, nodding at Varra, "I'll get to work."
* * * * *
Cale walked beside Varra, following her lead while he kept his eyes and ears alert for any sign of the mercenaries. Like Riven, Cale thought it unlikely that the men would return, but he'd been wrong before.
Fortunately, the sellswords didn't show themselves, though orcs, drunken sailors, bugbears, and slaves marched past. Diseased, reed-thin men and women-human, goblin, and even orc-lingered in alleys or lurked in sewer mouths, coughing, smoking, watching them with the dull eyes of the damned. Voices and the tread of boots carried from the bouncing catwalks and bridges strung high above them. Cale had to adjust his technique to evaluate danger in three dimensions. He found it discomfiting.
Cale hadn't bothered to disguise himself against discovery by Azriim and the other slaadi. He would have to rely on the darkness and crowds to give him anonymity. A disguise would have required an explanation to Varra, and might have dissuaded her from allowing him to escort her. And Cale felt a strange attraction to the woman. Souls akin, perhaps.
Varra used no torch or candle, instead choosing roundabout routes lit by lichen, glowballs, and torches. She seemed unafraid of the street, and Cale knew enough not to attribute her fearlessness to his presence. He admired her mettle. In truth, he admired her.
They walked in silence for a time.
"I told you it was unnecessary," she said after a while. "Those men won't be back. It's happened before."
Cale only nodded.
"It's not far now," she said, filling the silence between them.
Cale, who spoke nine languages, found himself somewhat at a loss for words. Except for Thazienne and Shamur Uskevren, he had not had much interaction with women in recent years.
"How long have you lived here?" he finally managed.
She gave a soft little laugh and said, "A long while." She looked at him sidelong as they walked. "How long have you been here? No. Why are you here? You don't belong here. I can see that. Your friend might, but you don't."
"He's not my friend," Cale replied, though he was not so sure. "We just . . . understand each other. And work together. Why are you here?"
It was clear to Cale that Varra didn't belong in Skullport either.