Midnights Mask by Kemp Paul S Page A

bounded toward his hiding place, tongues lolling. That they had recognized his scent gave Riven more pleasure than anything had in a long while.
    “Dogs!” the scribe called, and stomped his foot. “No! Come, here! Here! Beware the wagons!”
    The dogs darted out of the way of two vegetable carts pulled by mules and crossed the street.
    Riven rose from the shadows.
    The scribe saw him and his expression fell. He reached for a post to help him keep his feet.
    The girls swarmed Riven, jumping up on his legs, yipping. He held a hand down and they licked his fingers. He scratched their ears, petted their flanks, each in turn. They looked exactly as they had when he had left them. Both were well fed. The scribe had kept his word.
    “You,” called the scribe across the street, a nervous tremor in his voice. “You’ve returned.”
    Despite his delight at seeing the girls, Riven put on his professional sneer before walking across the street. The girls trailed him, circled him, tails wagging. He found it difficult to look intimidating with two small dogs jumping about his legs and yapping.
    The scribe watched him approach, mouth open, as though he wanted to speak, but said nothing.
    “I told you I would check on you from time to time,” Riven said, and kept his voice hard.
    The scribe nodded rapidly enough to shake his paunch. “Yes. I’ve done as you asked. You see?” He pointed at the buckets of scraps, the other bucket of water.
    “I don’t recall asking,” Riven said.
    For a moment, the scribe lost his tongue. “Yes. Well, they’re good dogs. Very good. They come every day.” He kneeled and patted their flanks with genuine affection. They licked his hand but quickly returned to circle excitedly around Riven. “Look how happy they are to see you,” the scribe said, standing. “They’ve even forgotten their food.”
    Riven had trouble keeping his expression hostile.
    “You’ve done well,” Riven said, and it was the best show of appreciation he could manage. He left unstated the fact that he would have killed the scribe without hesitation had he done any less. “I will be leaving again soon. But I will be back for them. Until I am, keep doing as you have, You have enough coin?”
    “Of course,” the scribe said.
    Riven had paid him enough previously to care for the dogs for a year or more.
    “Good. Go, now.” Riven waved him back to his shop. “Be about your business. I want to check on my garret in privacy.”
    The scribe looked to Riven, to the dogs, and almost smiled. He was wise enough to keep a straight face, however, and melted back into his shop.
    Riven watched him go, then gathered the three buckets and entered the garret with the girls.
    The moment he shut the door behind him, he sank to the floor and put the buckets before him.
    “Eat, girls,” he said.
    They seemed more interested in him than the food, so he accommodated them with stomach rubs and head scratching. Finally, he coaxed them into eating, As always, they shared space around the bucket rather than squabbling for position as most dogs would.
    “No rivalry for First and Second, eh?” he said. The older bitch turned to regard him with a question in her brown eyes and scraps dangling from her jaws. He only smiled and she returned to her meal.
    Afterward he spent a few hours with his girls, doing nothing more than playing or petting them. He wondered what they did all day, and the wondering made him worry. They could run afoul of a wagon cart, a horse, or some petty bastards like the pirates Riven had left dead on the streets of Skullport.
    His girls were gentle creatures-he had no idea why-but he did know that gentleness was not rewarded on the street. He had learned that lesson often in his youth. But somehow his girls had managed to survive without becoming vicious.
    He watched as they ran circles around the room, barking, nipping playfully at each other, licking him, tackling each other. They were friends, inasmuch as dogs could