Midnights Mask by Kemp Paul S

loremaster’s expression. He remembered Sephris’s words to them when they had called to his spirit after his death-Release me, Erevis Cale. My time on Toril is complete. It has not summed to zero. The loremaster had seemed at peace then, for the first and only time since Cale had made his acquaintance.
    “What have they done to you?” Jak softly asked, and stared accusingly at the two priests to either side of Sephris. They did not meet the little man’s gaze.
    Sephris ignored the question, looked Cale up and down, and said, “The darkness has found you, First of Five. Soaked you. And you think it is done. But it has only begun. There is more, much more, yet to come. To all of us. Did you know that? Did you know what you were doing? What you were causing?”
    Cale felt Jak’s and Magadon’s eyes on him. The priests, too, stared holes into him.
    He swallowed and managed to say, “I’ve done what I’ve had to. I can’t always see the consequences.”
    “Come inside, Sephris,” called the bearded priest at the top of the stairs. “You can speak with them inside. Come.”
    “You do not see them because you do not want to see them, First of Five,” Sephris said. He spun and stalked up the stairs.
    The six Ogmanytes fell in behind him, along with Jak, Cale, and Magadon. Cale’s legs felt heavier with each step.
    Riven sat for more than an hour in the late afternoon shadows across the street from the scribe’s shop. His old garret, adjacent to the shop, stood dark and closed.
    At last he saw what he had come to see and his brewing anger dissipated. A butcher’s boy hurried through the street traffic with a package of wet cloth in his hand. He carried it to the door of the scribe’s store, knocked, and waited, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. When no one responded to his knock, he opened the door and took a step inside.
    The fat scribe appeared in the doorway, irritated, and hustled him out.
    “I told you not to bring that into my shop,” the scribe said.
    “Then answer my knock, good sir,” the boy said, and pushed the package into the scribe’s hands.
    The scribe fumbled with a retort, managed nothing, pushed a few coins into the boy’s hand, and hurried him off. The boy ran past Riven, never noticing him.
    The scribe—Riven could not remember his name-unwrapped the cloth to reveal a pile of boiled meat scraps. Seemingly satisfied, he retrieved two shallow buckets he kept near his stoop and put equal portions of the scraps in each.
    Whistling a tune and nodding at a passerby, he carried the buckets to the doorway of Riven’s garret. He used a key to open the door and entered. Some bustling sounds issued from just within. After a moment, he exited with another bucket and put both down on the ground.
    “Come, girls!” he called, and gave a whistle so loud and piercing that Riven figured the sailors back in the Dock District had covered their ears. “Here, dogs!”
    The few passersby on the street eyed the scribe curiously but otherwise paid him no heed.
    Riven waited, watching, expectant, hopeful. To his surprise, his heart was racing.
    “Come on, girls!” the scribe called again. “Are you out there? Here!”
    The scribe put his fingers to his mouth and was about to unleash another whistle on the world when two small, four legged figures padded out of an alley to Riven’s left and started across the street.
    Riven could not contain a grin when he saw his girls.
    “There you are,” said the scribe. He nudged the bucket of scraps with his toe. “Come now. Mealtime. It’s boiled organ meat. Very good. And water I drew this morning.”
    The dogs pelted across the street, tails wagging, but skidded to a stop halfway. They stood in the street, noses in the air, sniffing. Both of their tails went stiff, then began to wag. The older bitch turned an excited circle, chuffing. Her whelp fairly jumped on her back in excitement.
    Riven’s grin broadened.
    The girls looked in Riven’s direction and