He knew what Cesira would say. Cesira would send Dantane away without hesitation.
"I want you to watch the party," Kall said, surprising them both.
Dantane raised an eyebrow. "Watch it for what?"
Kall had no idea. "I have no mercenaries, no guards employed to see to the security of the house. You can act in that capacity."
Dantane hesitated. "Lord Morel, you claim a powerful druid as your companion-"
"Yes, but she's fairly intractable. ."
"— so I fail to see what added benefit I can be."
"You're saying you don't want to continue to receive the impressive mound of coin my father paid?"
"I've seen your guest list, Lord Morel. It more resembles a creditor account. How long will you be able to retain my services once this evening's festivities are concluded?"
Kall had no notion of that either. "Start with the party. We'll go from there." On the heels of one problem settled, another occurred to Kall. He took out his mother's pouch, held the strings, then tossed the pouch to Dantane.
The wizard caught it, a puzzled frown crossing his face. "What's this?"
"A task for after the party," Kall said. "Search its contents for any dangerous magic." He still didn't completely trust Meisha.
"And if I find some?" Dantane asked.
Kall paused at the top of the stairs. "Destroy it."
Later, Kall sat at his father's desk, his arms folded behind his head as he listened to the muffled sounds of the party going on outside the study. He was still sitting when the door opened, and Lord Marstil Greve stepped inside.
Lord Greve was a handsome man just entering middle years, but his muscles had begun to soften. He wore a jeweled knife at his belt, inset with two gems-one a ruby in a nest of gold, the other a glimmering emerald.
"Lord Morel? I believe we had an appointment," said Marstil.
"My apologies, Lord Greve," Kall said, coming around the desk to offer his hand. "My mind was consumed by other thoughts-old memories."
The merchant nodded. "Understandable. It must be strange to come home after so long an absence. My sympathies on your father's death, he was-"
"Suicide," Kall corrected.
Marstil blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"My father took his own life," Kall repeated pleasantly. "In this study, as a matter of fact."
Marstil appeared extremely uncomfortable. "I hope you don't mind my speaking with you privately, Lord Morel. . and speaking plainly," he added, watching Kall's face.
"Not at all."
"Being newly arrived in Keczulla, I'm sure you're unaware that among the merchants of the city, my family is growing in prominence, though we do not have the history associated with the Tanisloves, the Bladesmiles … or the Morels." Marstil paused, waiting for Kall to comment. When he was met by bland silence, he continued, "Yet, I have been given to understand that the house of Morel has suffered from.. " he paused again, and Kall almost smiled. Marstil was searching for a delicate way to say that Morel was a coin toss away from destitution.
Kall saved him the trouble. "Morel would be foolish to ignore an offer of alliance, should it be extended," he said, and Marstil immediately relaxed. "Since we're speaking plainly, I confess my circumstances are such that I'm finding it difficult to pay the daily expenses of a house of Morel's stature, even so far as to be unable to pay the servants' wages or-" he stopped, as if afraid he'd said too much.
"How unfortunate." Marstil's eyes gleamed. He knew he would have the upper hand in their negotiations. "The outcome of this meeting will greatly affect us both, then."
"Oh, I'm certain of it," Kall said. He poured a pair of drinks from a decanter on his desk. He handed one to Marstil. "Of course, it hasn't been terribly difficult to get by, considering my circumstances. Few servants remained at Morel house, even during my father's time. They were all slaughtered by assassins, you see."
The glass stopped halfway to the merchant's mouth. Amber liquid sloshed on his fingers.
"Oh, excuse me, my lord," said Kall. "I filled the glass too full. Allow me to fetch you a towel."
"Yes, thank you," Marstil murmured.
Kall opened a drawer in the desk. He tossed a black cloth to Marstil. The merchant caught it absently, and was wiping his fingers before he realized what he held. He unrolled the silk hood and let it fall between his hands, revealing two crudely cut eyeholes.
"It's not the original, I realize," said Kall. "But it matches my memories closely. What do you think, Lord Greve?"
Marstil dropped the mask and spun toward Kall in one lightning movement. His arm came around, taking the decanter off the desk. Kall dodged, and glass shattered against the wall. Marstil went for the knife at his belt, but Kall locked a hand around his wrist.
"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" he asked, his pleasant tone unchanged. "That I wouldn't know you as soon as I saw your blade? You're a fool, Marstil, a dead fool."
Marstil struggled, but he'd spent too many years away from hard fighting, and Kall was no longer a stripling boy. He held the man without breaking a sweat.
Kall eased the knife from Marstil's sheath and laid it against the merchant's throat, starting at the ear.
"Shall I give you the same death you gave her?" Kall asked. He waited for the man to answer, to plead, but saw only fear and confusion in Marstil's eyes. The bastard didn't even remember the ones he'd killed. "Gertie never saw her death coming, but you will. I'll savor that time, and the pain, until I'm ready to let you go, unless you tell me where Balram is."
"I–I have no idea." Marstil's eyes flicked to the mask and back to Kall's face. There was no lie in them, only terror. "Kortrun and I parted company long ago, when I set out to build my business. Please … listen," he said. "I h-have not been Balram's man … in years," he stammered, swallowing against the steel at his throat. "I am a merchant now. I've made a family."
"A family," Kall echoed. "Oh, dear. That's the death card, is it? Now I'm required to have mercy." He leaned in close to the man's face. "Tell me, Marstil, do your wife and children know how their father earned his fortune? Do they realize the manse they sleep in at night was paid for with Morel blood? If I tell them that, after I've killed you, do you think they'll forgive me? I like to believe they will." Kall pressed down, and Marstil shrieked. "What else have you got to offer me, Marstil? Please, don't mention your family to me again."
"All that I have!" The merchant trembled as a drop of blood ran down the knife's blade into his field of vision. "Whatever you want!"
Slowly, Kall eased the knife away and lifted something in front of Marstil's eyes.
The merchant focused on Gertie's gold medallion, flecked with old blood. "Wh-what is that?"
"The symbol of our new alliance," Kall answered, putting the chain around Marstil's neck. "Your commitment to the service of Morel. The house of Greve is now the benefactor of Morel's servants. They will be paid generously from its coffers, for the whole of their lives, whether they stay with Morel or not, whether the house thrives or burns to the ground. And upon their deaths, every guard, maid, cook, and steward will be buried with the highest honor at Greve's expense. It's not so large a thing to ask, in exchange for your life. Don't you agree?"
Marstil nodded wordlessly.
"Most importantly, you will wear this medallion always, Marstil," Kall said, in a voice of quiet menace. "If ever I see you've taken it off, I will take off your head. You may be assured I will enjoy that far more than I enjoy letting you live."
He stepped back. Marstil fled the study, taking Lathander's sun and leaving his jeweled blade.
Kall followed him out into the ballroom. A lady standing nearby scuttled aside to avoid colliding with the running merchant. She watched his retreating back in consternation.
Kall swept up to her and bowed grandly. "Lady Tanislove," he said, smiling his most charming smile, the one that never worked on Cesira, "might I request a dance?"
"Try this one," Laerin suggested, snagging a
flute of a bruise-colored liquid from a passing tray. "If you sip it with a bite of cheese, the flavor becomes blueberry tart." He sipped and chewed thoughtfully. "Uncanny."
Morgan wedged a morsel of cheese between his cheek and jaw and took a gulp of wine. "Save a lot of trouble if you just eat the tart." He wrinkled his nose. "Probably tastes better, too."
"Yes, but you have to get in the spirit of things," Laerin chided him. "Tethyrian Blueberry Blush is much more expensive."
"Silly name too." Morgan's eyes were on the crowd. "Didn't know you were a wine snob."
"I am a man of many tastes and talents."
"Good thing shovelin's near the top of the list, 'cause you're knee-deep in sh-"
"Zzar," Laerin cooed, reaching for another tray.
"Careful!" Morgan grabbed a fistful of the half-elf's hair, hauling it and the rest of his friend behind one of the ballroom's marble statues.
"Morgan, why are we hiding, and do I happen to have any hair left, or did you take it all?" Laerin asked calmly.
"Shut it." Morgan pointed across the ballroom, where Kall strode along on the arm of a lady in a green silk gown with fine silver chains encircling her arms from shoulder to wrist. The woman lifted her lips to Kall's ear to whisper something that made him chuckle.
Morgan shook his head. "That'll get him a punch in the bowels-two silver on it."
Laerin sighed. "Cesira would never maim him for flirting with Lhynvor Tanislove. The lady has more sense than that."
Well said. Cesira's arm slid companionably around Laerin's waist, accompanied by a scent that was both flower and herb, exotic and completely removed from the heavily perfumed bodies in the ballroom. I don't believe you flattering idiots were on the guest list.
"Ten families seemed a modest number for a welcome home party," said Laerin. "What harm is there in adding two more guests?"
"We didn't come in under 'flattering idiots,' " Morgan grinned. "We're in disguise."
"Obviously, it's working well," Laerin said dryly, but he sobered quickly enough. "We're here to keep eyes on Kall."
"Too many debt-collectors in the room," said Morgan.
Laerin looked at her askance. "Surely you don't object?"
Not at all, Cesira said. But Kall will-with fervor. I welcome you, so long as you stay silent and invisible.
"Not two of Morgan's greater talents, but we'll do our best," Laerin assured her. He took a step back, surveying the druid's gown. A wide belt at her waist gathered layers of skirts in subtle shades of earthen red. Worked into the belt's dark leather was the figure of an oak leaf, the symbol of Silvanus. Slashed sleeves revealed tanned arms and matching leather bands encircling each of her wrists. "I'll say this, since I'm certain Kall hasn't thought to," the half-elf said, "these fine Amnian frill-lovers have nothing on you, Lady of Mir."
Cesira inclined her head to hide her smile. My thanks, O flattering idiot.
Laerin laughed. "How fares the Lady Morel?"
Her eyes on the swirling crowd, Cesira did not immediately reply. Hired minstrels-she had no idea where Kall had found them-had begun a circle dance, which had drawn many of the guests from the balcony to line up in colorful half-moons across the floor. They were all smiles and good-natured jesting on the surface, but Cesira knew why the merchants were here. They wanted to see if Kall could hold his own among them.
Everything in Amn was a test, a measurement of investment and potential gain. If Kall's manner and surroundings showed promise, the merchant families would give him time to pay the debts of his father. That's why Cesira had agreed to serve in the role of the lady of the house, however much it galled her. She had no intention of letting the wolves eat Kall alive.
She'd directed the servants in gutting and cleaning the house with the same thoroughness she displayed when scourging an army of goblins. The results may not have rivaled the Tanislove estate, but there would be no chink in Morel's armor from this front.
Have you watched them? she asked, nodding to the dancing throng.
"Glaring peacocks, the lot," Morgan said dismissively.
"No." Laerin shook his head. "She means the merchant families."
"What of 'em?"
"They announced them at the door, each according to his station," said Laerin. "I watched them separate immediately, almost as if they couldn't stand to be in each other's company."
Morgan nodded sagely. "Reminds me of my family."
"It's what they prefer you to think. Look." Laerin pointed with his glass to a group of women gathered near the staircase. Their ornate turbans shimmered with glitter dust and bobbed together like a star storm with the force of the women's back and forth whispering. "The younger lass, standing at the edge of the crowd-she's Seyana Veshpel, a niece of Lord Uskan Veshpel-patriarch of his house. I saw her announced last in her family. See how she's treated as such?"
Yet that youngest Veshpel, said Cesira, so innocently lingering at the edge of the group, stands less than a whip crack from her father, and he from his wife, and she from-
"Lord Uskan," Morgan said, seeing the pattern emerge.
"So it goes with every family," said Laerin. "A living chain to see and hear everything in the room. Whatever their personal rivalries, good business benefits the whole family."
"Forced loyalty," Morgan muttered, shaking his head. "One of Morel's fine emeralds says in private they're one wrong word from slaughtering each other." He raised a fist, showing three of the Morel emerald and stone symbols between his fingers.
"Where did you pick those up?" asked Laerin, affronted. "I only received one."
Cesira rolled her eyes. As did everyone at the party, she said.
"Oh, wait, here's another," Laerin added. He smirked, drawing a handful of glittering green from his pouch.
Wonderful, Cesira muttered. Now, would you care to point out which ladies you lifted them from, or shall I wait until one of them gives me a look of horror when I try to speak to her?
Morgan pointed to a woman whose dress was a configuration of red silk scarves fastened in her hair and looping outwards, wrapping down around all the vital portions of her lithe body. "She was definitely one of them."
Thank you, the druid sighed. I think I can divine the others on my own.
Cesira slipped away to join Kall just as Lady Tanislove left him.
He's here-Lord Rays, she told him. He arrived while you were with Marstil.
"Is he still coherent?"
Barely.
"Wonderful. He'll be much more open to my proposal."
Cesira tapped a slender finger against her chin. Now, would that be another business venture, my lord, or the systematic murder of Bladesmile mercenaries? I do get the two confused, you know.
"The latter," Kall said dryly, "but I only intend to murder the ones who prove uncooperative."
You still think one of them will be able to lead you to Balram?
"Somebody knows," said Kall darkly.
As he started to walk away, Cesira took his arm. Relax, Kall, she said. The Morel name demands the merchants treat you as an equal, no matter the breadth of your debt. You have the manner and skills to fit in their world.
For some reason, the compliment made Kall wince. "What little talent I have comes from my father, and his father before." He grinned. "I'd rather you praised me on my skill with a sword, which you rarely do."
Oh, but I disagree. You make a fine adventurer-a talent inherited from your mother, no doubt, Cesira remarked lightly, waving and smiling at a lady across the room.
Kall sighed, thinking it wiser to ignore the path the conversation was taking. "Where is Rays?"
Cesira pointed across the ballroom to where a man swayed drunkenly against one of the marble statues. He used the brief loss of dignity to make lewd pantomimes with the statue and his body, much to the horror of a group of passing ladies.
The Bladesmiles are among the most powerful and respected families in Keczulla and greater Amn. Why does this one play the fool? Cesira asked abs
ently.
"His wife died," Kall said, drawing the druid's gaze and a noise of sympathy. "A year ago. He cares nothing for status and position now."
Then perhaps Lord Rays has more wisdom than us all. Cesira watched Kall cross the ballroom, weaving purposely among his guests, on to the next stage of his plan.
Suddenly uneasy and feeling eyes upon her, Cesira looked up at the balcony and met the clear blue gaze of Syrek Dantane.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Keczulla, Amn
3 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Dantane inclined his head respectfully to the druid. Her eyes registered surprise, but she concealed it quickly.
So Morel hadn't told her he was here. Dantane wondered why. If Morel distrusted him so thoroughly, wouldn't he wish to have the eyes of those he did trust tracking him constantly?
The wizard took a step toward the stairs, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as silent magical wards hummed. The spell was not powerful, but the relative lack of magic in the room made it seem stronger-akin to tolling a bell in a tomb. Had this been a gala in Waterdeep, the resonant hum would have been lost in the greater cacophony of minor cantrips and protective spells.
Dantane looked to the dais. A young woman had stepped forward with a lute. She sang in a deep, pleasing alto, an unremarkable song, but she livened up the show by pausing in the middle of a verse to tell bawdy jokes or humorous stories, always deftly picking up the tune exactly where she'd left off. The crowd gathered, laughing, at the edge of the dais to listen.
Dantane's eyes fixed on the lute. The bard's instrument, or something inside it, was the source of the magic-an illusion, possibly glamour to conceal some defect on the part of the singer. Dantane scanned the crowd for Morel, wondering if he should inform the young lord.
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