by Dave Gross
Tazi looked down at the floor and quickly stepped away from the edge of the chalk circle.
"Don't do it again," she said. "I'm coming back over there."
Tazi knelt before the lock. She slipped a pair of picks from a pocket on her thigh and went to work on the lock.
Tamlin looked down at the corpse of the darkenbeast. He felt giddy triumph mingling with horror and a peculiar sense of pity at the sight.
"Sorry about that, old fellow. We had a few laughs, some good times, I know, but you left me with no-"
"Let's get out of here," interrupted Tazi, opening the cage door.
Tamlin stepped outside his prison, stood to full his height, and immediately wobbled. Tazi took him by the arm then put her own arm around his waist. Her muscles were as hard as packed sand.
"You've been exercising," said Tamlin. He felt increasingly dizzy.
"And you've been losing far too much blood," she said. "Don't talk."
She led him through a short, dirty hall to his captors' room. The corpses of two and a half of them were still there, along with the splintered remains of a stout wooden door. Tamlin's vision was blurring. He smelled blood and dung and seawater.
Soon they were in the slimy passages of the sewers, and Tamlin felt himself lifted in big, strong arms that carried him toward the daylight.
"Vox," Tamlin mumbled as he looked up into the dark, bearded face. "You're not dead."
"No," said Escevar, walking beside them, "but you might be if you don't lie still."
Amid the stink of the sewer, Tamlin thought he smelled roses. Soft hands stroked his arms, and pleasant warmth filled his limbs. Feeling returned to his hands in the form of a dull tingling, which he recognized as powerful healing magic. It surged through every fiber of his flesh, knitting torn sinews back together.
"Hold him still," said a familiar, gentle voice.
It was one of the servants. He raised his head to look at her, but Escevar leaned over him, proffering a pewter flask.
"A little anesthetic?" he offered.
The open flask smelled of brandy, sweet and earthy rich. Tamlin felt a tickling at the back of his throat. His whole body craved a drink of the warm liquor.
"Great gods, no," he said with an effort. "That's exactly what got me into this mess."
Behind them, another roar echoed through the sewers, followed quickly by a pair of terrified screams.
"Somebody should go help him," suggested Escevar.
His tone made it plain that he was not volunteering for the job. To emphasize the point, he quickened his pace and led the way up to the street.
"It's probably better not to approach Tal in his present state," said the servant.
Tamlin looked up past the hands upon his arms and saw Larajin, one of the family's chambermaids-at least until recently.
It had been months since Larajin left Stormweather Towers, and she no longer wore the gold vest and white dress of the household maids. Instead, she had donned a plain, homespun smock and a dun-colored cloak. Russet hair spilled out from her hood, framing a fair face with hazel eyes so light they appeared almost yellow.
Those pretty features had been the object of much gossip from other servants who complained that Lord Thamalon favored Larajin more than was proper. There was even talk that Larajin was Thamalon's mistress, and some of it had reached Shamur. Perhaps the Old Owl had finally bowed to his wife's jealousy and married the girl off to some shopkeeper. That would explain why Tamlin hadn't seen her for months.
"It would be good to have one alive for questioning," said Tazi.
"No need," said Larajin, arching her delicate eyebrows. "I can question the corpses later."
"Larajin!"
"Look what they've done to him," said Larajin. "Look what they've done to your brother!"
Her hands moved from his arms to his forehead. They felt cool and soft, and Tamlin realized he was burning with fever.
"I know, I know," said Tazi. "It's just that I never expected to hear something like that from you."
"You have been away for a while," Larajin said as she continued her ministrations.
The pain was leaking away from Tamlin's body. Even so, he felt as weak as a kitten, and he was grateful when Vox lifted him up through the torn sewer grating and up to the streets. There was an Uskevren carriage, surrounded by men in blue livery, the gold horse-at-anchor ensign on their breasts.
"He should be all right, now," said Larajin. "I'll go back for Tal."
"Be careful," said Tazi, closing the carriage door. She called up to the driver, "Go!"
Tamlin squinted and smiled in a fashion he hoped looked brave rather than delirious. Tazi and Escevar smiled back at him from the opposite seat, but their expressions were tarnished with worry. Tamlin remembered then that he wasn't the only one in peril.
"They told me mother and father were-"
"Missing," said Tazi firmly. "Now that you're back, we'll search for them together."
Tamlin felt relief wash through his chest. He hadn't before realized how tense his muscles had remained those past, uncounted days.
Tamlin thought about what he'd heard during his rescue and said, "And in addition to his talent for imitating father's voice, Talbot has become some sort of monster."
"Well," she said. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"And you've just returned from training as a master assassin?"
"That is not how I'd describe myself."
"Cat burglar, then. Just like mother."
"Well, yes. If you must be rude about it."
"And even the chambermaid has divine powers?"
"That's right," said Tazi. She glanced at Vox and Escevar as if considering whether to speak in front of them. Eventually she shrugged and said, "That, and she's actually our sister."
"Our sister…" Tamlin felt another wave of dizziness coming. He was saved by the absurdity of the revelations. "It appears that everyone I know has become some sort of storybook hero-" he sighed- "and all I can boast is 'most often kidnapped.'"
"Now would be a bad time to tell you about Larajin's twin brother?" Tazi asked. She raised a solemn eyebrow, but the quirk upon her lips was all mischief.
"Now you're making things up."
She kept smiling, but she shook her head.
"Next you'll tell me he's an elf."
Tamlin strove not to take offense at her wild laughter, even though it continued long after they turned off the streets of Selgaunt and rumbled through the gate to Stormweather Towers.
CHAPTER 10
THE SORCERER
On the morning after their emergence from the wood, the wagons waited at a rendezvous point. Within hours, Thamalon watched as eleven more small groups of wagons joined them. Some were similar to those Baeron commanded, while others appeared to be the more traditional sort of flat-bed conveyances piled high with crates and bundles. All were heavily guarded.
After all wagons reported to their commander, Baeron returned and ordered his men to resume their journey. Thamalon was glad to hear that his presence was still permitted, and gladder still that he remained with Baeron's team.
On his occasional business with dwarves, Thamalon found them blunt and predictable during negotiations. Only after a deal was struck did they relax and speak freely-and only after a few mugs of ale had loosened their tongues. At those times they could be the most ribald of colleagues, treating their business partners like decades-old friends if only for a few raucous hours.
In the three days Thamalon rode beside Baeron, he found the dwarf talkative even without benefit of ale. Once they were clear of the elven woods, Baeron became downright friendly, perhaps in gratitude for Thamalon's assistance during the ambush.
The dwarves had been traveling for over ten days, a period Thamalon knew as a "ride," the average length of a caravan journey. They came from their stronghold in the eastern mountains, avoiding elven territory as much as possible. As the Sorcerer's legions drove them farther and farther from Castle Stormwe
ather, the elves retreated deeper into the forest, and the dwarf scouts were hard pressed to keep track of their shifting territory and avoid confrontations.
Curiosity about this other Stormweather rustled constantly in Thamalon's imagination. Had he come across the name in a history or heard that some lord in Waterdeep had named his mansion similarly, he might have smiled and forgotten it. To discover a fortress with the same name as his own holding after falling through an enchanted painting… that was a matter that deserved consideration.
Thamalon didn't much believe in coincidence.
Trying to keep his inquiries casual, Thamalon continued to press for more information on this Sorcerer and his Stormweather.
The dwarves made the perilous journey for trade with the Sorcerer's subjects, especially to buy their most precious commodity: throbe vapors. The armored wagons were actually huge tanks of the gas. They would return fully laden, each with enough of the vapors to fire one of their forges for months to come.
"Why did the elves attack you?"
"They object to the harvesting of throbe," Baeron explained, "and we bring weapons to trade with the Sorcerer."
"What is wrong with harvesting throbe?"
"The elves revere the skwalos," said Baeron. "They believe that the spirits of their ancestors reside in the animals."
"Skwalos?"
Baeron raised his bushy eyebrows, pointed upward, and asked, "What is your word for them?"
Thamalon looked up and saw a gray sky pregnant with rain.
"The clouds?"
"Ho ho!" Baeron punched his shoulder.
Thamalon realized it was a gregarious gesture, but it hurt. He rubbed his arm and wondered how many bruises this adventure would cost him before it was done.
"You do not jest?" the dwarf asked. "Look again."
Thamalon did so, scanning the clouds for a clue. After long seconds, he discerned vast, dark shapes cruising through the mists.
"The floating whale creatures?" said Thamalon.
"If 'whale' is your word for forest, then yes."
"Perhaps the comparison is not apt," admitted Thamalon. "How're they like a forest?"
"Is that a riddle?" asked Baeron, brightening.
"No."
"Oh," said Baeron, making no attempt to mask his disappointment. "Well, over time, the skwalos develop patches of fungus and moss. Some of the ancients eventually catch seeds on the wind and sprout flowers and even trees. My grandmother once told me of elf wizards who cultivated food upon the backs of the greatest skwalos, living in the sky with them to harvest their familiars."
"Harvest?"
"How do the wizards in your land do it?"
"Well, I know little about wizards, but I imagine they summon them with a spell."
"Things are very different here from your land?"
"Indeed. Almost everything here is somewhat strange. Except for you," he quickly amended. "You're very like the dwarves I have met. And the elves are not much different."
Baeron laughed as though Thamalon had made a great joke.
"How long have you been at war with the elves?" Thamalon asked.
"Us? We have had no war with the elves for centuries. Their foe is the Sorcerer. The elves attack only our throbe caravans, and we make an effort not to burn down their entire forest while fending them off The elves protest and send their emissaries to pull at the king's ears, but they still buy our throbe-forged steel. Even the elves have their merchants."
Thamalon chuckled, for he found the remark more amusing than risible. While he was known as a merchant lord, he'd amassed his fortune primarily through land speculation before diversifying the family holdings into such areas as agriculture, craft ware, and investment in a dozen lesser merchants. The Uskevren and their subject interests launched as many as fourteen trade caravans throughout Sembia and neighboring lands each year. The only legitimate venture Thamalon consistently refused to enter was shipping, for the stink of piracy still lingered on the Uskevren name.
Before night fell, the caravan passed through the blackened ruin of a forest. Thamalon had seen such regions before, but rarely so soon after the wildfires had devoured the trees.
"The Sorcerer pushes them back," observed Baeron.
"He did this on purpose?" asked Thamalon. "I assumed it was lightning from a storm."
Baeron said, "Oh, that it was, Far-Traveler. That it was."
When they broke camp the next morning, Baeron promised they would soon enter the Sorcerer's territory. Thamalon was eager to see the lands surrounding the intriguingly named Castle Stormweather, but the sky had other plans. A steady drizzle dimmed the day, and the first sign of civilization was a muddy road.
A few miles later, Thamalon spied the first cultivated fields. He was somewhat relieved to recognize ordinary produce, but alongside the cabbage patches and barley fields he saw rows of huge melons with translucent husks. Perhaps it was a trick of the rain, but once or twice he thought he saw something stirring inside the big fruits. Whatever moved within them didn't alarm the workers who trudged between the furrows.
Thamalon noticed that those workers were elves chained neck-to-neck. Big men in red armor watched over them, spears in hand and lashes at their hips. Thamalon turned to Baeron for an explanation.
"Prisoners of war," he said.
"Slaves," Thamalon suggested with a frown.
"Best not to let the Vermilion Guard hear you say so," cautioned Baeron. "They are proud and quick to answer an insult."
"Does it not seem cruel to you?"
Baeron shrugged and said, "One does not prosper who makes war with the Sorcerer."
Despite the wonders he had encountered thus far, Thamalon began to think he'd seen enough of this strange land.
With each passing league, the caravan encountered increasingly frequent farmsteads. By noon they drove through a small village, where those few inhabitants who had to leave the shelter of their buildings waved at the travelers.
A few hours later, the villages appeared more regularly and converged so gradually that Thamalon realized they were finally within a city. This place was nothing like glorious Selgaunt, with its wide avenues and soaring temples. The place was a convocation of hovels, only rarely interrupted by a proper edifice whose barred doors were flanked by sentries in red armor. Even those buildings were bleak constructions, brick cubes and towers with little ornament. There were no horse-drawn carriages, only rickshaws drawn by pairs of elf slaves, chains jangling between their necks and wrists.
Thamalon noticed for the first time that he had seen no horses, no cattle nor swine-not any kind of beast other than the odd reptiles who drew the dwarven wagons.
They passed through a curtain wall under the scrutiny of more crimson-clad guards. They'd been expecting the dwarves, but they questioned their guest. Thamalon offered the same pseudonym he'd given the dwarves.
Inside the gate, the city began to resemble a Sembian town, with wide central streets and a veritable labyrinth of back avenues and alleys. Like the sprawling habitation outside the walls, the entire place seemed devoid of cheer-except for one peculiar sound.
Muted by the rain, a sweet melody drifted down upon the city from above. A woman's voice, without accompaniment, it was at once alluring and sorrowful. The wordless song moved Thamalon's heart to pity.
"What is that song?" he asked.
"Lady Malaika," said Baeron. "She calls the skwalos."
"She sounds so sad."
"Sometimes it takes tendays, even months to lure them here. The rain is a good omen. They will come soon."
Thamalon imagined what a sight that must be as he gazed around at all the sullen occupants of the city, their eyes cast down upon the rain-slicked stones and rippling puddles.
The caravan passed the last of the buildings and entered a vast plaza bereft of fountains, trees, statues, or any other common ornament of great cities. Instead, iron towers stood in ranks upon the stones. On their crowns were curved hooks and gigantic hollow spears
from which ran long canvas hoses. Rust streaked every surface. Even the ground was stained red.
In the center of it all, looming high over the lesser towers, stood Castle Stormweather.
Thamalon couldn't discern its upper reaches for the rain, but the highest windows he could see were clearly higher than the tallest spire of the Hulorn's palace in Selgaunt. Unlike that garish monument, Castle Stormweather was a dreary fortress. Its wet granite stones were almost uniform in shape, and no two were more than a few shades of gray apart.
While another wall protected it from ground assault, its upper reaches were even more fortified. Iron shutters were closed against the rain, and around every balcony were sturdy doors with arrow slits. Most of the ballista stations were far too lofty to fire accurately upon the ground.
This was a bastion that defended against the sky.
The dwarves turned over custody of their beasts and wagons at the inner gate, where four of the Sorcerer's guards awaited them.
"My thanks for the ride," said Thamalon. He grasped Baeron's arm firmly. "Good luck in your bargaining."
"Where are you going?"
"Perhaps I can find a map seller in the market," said Thamalon. "Or maybe a caravan master who has heard of my homeland, or at least some other region that I know."
"Perhaps," said Baeron, "but first you must present yourself to the Sorcerer. That is the law here."
Thamalon considered the prospect of meeting this Lord of Stormweather. He was very interested in learning more about this place and the man who ruled it, but he began to fear that meeting the Sorcerer might not be the best way to speed him home. The gloom of his city felt like the binder's glue in which careless flies were caught.
Thamalon longed for home.
*****
Another city lay within the walls of Castle Stormweather. Every hall was an avenue bustling with courtiers and servants. Each antechamber through which they were escorted was larger than his own great hall.
The lavish furnishings of the guest quarters impressed even Thamalon, who was accustomed to the finest of Selgaunt's luxuries. Thick tapestries of exquisite design warmed the granite walls, and rich carpets softened the floors. Rather than candles or oil lamps, faintly hissing glass balls illuminated each room from brass pipes protruding from the ceilings.
