Lord of Stormweather fr-7

by Dave Gross

  Those same shelves overflowed with texts on elementary trade practices and folios of laws and regulations by state. While he needed them for reference, Tamlin had been finding that he remembered far more of his father's business instructions than he could have hoped. Still, he left the day-to-day administration to Escevar, who'd paid far better attention during those tedious meetings.

  Tamlin's real interest resided elsewhere. Open on his desk and on the shelves all around were tomes and librams and codexes-not mere books. These were the repository of arcane knowledge, secret lore, and chronicles whose narratives were merely a disguise for the power that lay beneath them.

  "What do you hope to find in all these spooky old books?" asked Escevar.

  "Perhaps some clue about magical paintings," said Tamlin.

  That much was true, but he left unspoken his other reason to investigate matters arcane. Just before Escevar's arrival, Tamlin had discovered a most intriguing account of his own grandfather's startling display of magical powers in the moments before his death.

  "Has Pietro replied to your invitation?"

  "He begged off," said Tamlin, "but he said he would look for me at the Soargyl affair."

  "Suspicious, that."

  "Perhaps," said Tamlin. "Talbot likes the Malveen for this, too. Still, I find it hard to imagine Pietro conspiring to harm me. We have always gotten on so well, and he has never shown the least political inclination. And don't suggest Laskar is up to any tricks. The man would give you a straight answer to a 'Where's Elminster?' riddle."

  Escevar shrugged an affirmative.

  "No, I think our enemy lies elsewhere," said Tamlin, "and I think he's using magic."

  "Like the Talendar did last year," suggested Escevar.

  "Yes, but we put an end to that, didn't we?" Tamlin still looked back on the fight against Marance Talendar with pride. He still kept the ugly hand axe that had proven so lucky in his several battles against conjured monsters.

  "That reminds me, have you heard from the guild?"

  "Yes," said Escevar reluctantly. "It will cost more than the entire month's warehousing fees, but they're willing to send one of the wizards you requested. She will arrive at dusk."

  "Helara?" Tamlin remembered the blond, red-robed wizard as both competent and easy on the eyes.

  "No, the gadget-mage," said Escevar.

  "Magdon! But she's only an apprentice."

  "Apparently she graduated to journeyman wizard since you last saw her. Besides, after the trouble of your promissory note last time, they insist on payment up front, and we simply do not have enough ready coin to entice a senior-"

  "All right, have done," said Tamlin, waving him down.

  Having been responsible for the family treasury the past few days, he was beginning to understand why Thamalon had always been angry at his spendthrift ways. Being wealthy didn't always mean having coin on hand.

  "It matters little to me which wizard they send, as long as she can shed some light on our current predicament."

  "And on those dreams of yours?"

  Tamlin felt a pang of guilt. He should be concentrating all his efforts on finding his parents, not the meaning of the return of his childhood dreams. Still, he couldn't resist the hope that the two events were somehow related.

  "Perhaps," he admitted, "but only after she helps us determine what spells have operated in the house on and since that night. Maybe she will even find that painting, or the stolen gold-just as she helped us find those odd coins before. Probably they'll turn up in some footman's locker."

  "Are you sure of that?" Escevar frowned. "Mister Cale is scrupulous in selecting the servants."

  "And where is he now?" said Tamlin, stroking his chin. "What do we really know about good old Mister Pale, anyway?"

  Escevar tried and failed to smother a smile.

  "What?"

  "You look just like your father when you do that," said Escevar, imitating the chin stroking. Usually comparing Tamlin to Thamalon was enough to provoke the younger Uskevren, but this time it only made his expression that much more severe-and that much more like his father's. "What I meant was, your father trusts Cale."

  Tamlin appreciated Escevar's use of the present tense. Despite his legal assumption of his father's mantle, Tamlin still couldn't bring himself to believe his parents were dead.

  "True enough," he said. "Still, the fact that he too is missing troubles me."

  "Does it have to have been a servant?"

  "I think it had to be someone inside the house," said Tamlin. "Barring an intruder, that leaves the servants and my siblings."

  "But they're the ones who rescued you."

  "Yes, yes, but something about the way the kidnappers behaved made me suspect there had been a change in plans. Or perhaps the one who hired them planned all along to rescue me, and-"

  "What better alibi than to be the one who saved you?" Escevar completed his thought. "I see what you mean."

  Tamlin rose to pace around the desk. Escevar finally tired of his master's restlessness and sat down beside a bust of Helemgaularn of the Seven Lightnings. Tamlin had had the statue moved into his office in hopes that the old wizard's wise eyes and fabulously braided beard would act as inspiration in his own magical investigations.

  At last, realizing that Escevar wouldn't be the first to cast such black suspicions on his family, Tamlin voiced his own uncomfortable thoughts.

  "It seems awfully convenient that Talbot killed the two kidnappers who ran."

  "He must have known you would have a cleric question their spirits," said Escevar. "Besides, they knew nothing of use."

  "But that cleric was Larajin. She and Talbot have always been close. How do we know she told us the truth?"

  "Well, she wants your support for this new shrine of hers," suggested Escevar.

  Tamlin had been giving serious consideration to Larajin's petition for funds, but the heretical nature of her worship troubled him. The Sunites would resent competition of any sort, especially from a sect that reduced their deity to a human reflection of the elf goddess of love and beauty. While Thamalon and Shamur had raised their children to reject bigotry, too many of Selgaunt's rich and powerful disdained anything to do with elves.

  "It's not really Larajin who worries me," Tamlin said by way of dismissing the troublesome matter, "but Talbot. I'm afraid he's always hated me."

  "He's your younger brother," observed Escevar. "It's practically his duty to hate you."

  "Well, if he's not behind this intrigue, then whoever is gave him yet another good reason to hate me. He thinks I've stolen his coin."

  "You're sure he actually left it in the library?"

  "The lack of a receipt is strange," allowed Tamlin. "Still, what a clumsy ploy that would be. It's easier to believe he's telling the truth. What really bothers me…"

  Tamlin didn't complete the thought. He'd told no one about the mystery correspondence he found within his father's library desk. He still had the vellum sheet of code and the one letter that he'd slipped into his boot, but he had found the others missing by the time he returned to his father's library.

  What troubled Tamlin about their speedy disappearance was that Talbot had been the only one to see him handling them.

  "Maybe there is no enemy inside the house," said Escevar, rescuing Tamlin from his unpleasant reverie. "Even without magic, a very good thief might have slipped out with a painting, or your brother's coin."

  "A hundred-pound coffer of coins?"

  "Well, maybe a very strong thief. Or one with a magic bag of holding-absurdly-large-objects, like that one you almost bought from that warlock at the Black Stag a few years ago."

  "I see your point," sighed Tamlin. "Still, the thief angle troubles me, too. If it had happened at any other time, I might suspect Tazi was playing a prank on Talbot or me or both of us."

  For a while, he stood silently by the window. Outside, the courtyard was sheathed in ice after the previous night's hailstorm. Four of the groundsme
n had finished cutting away the upper half of a tree that had broken under the weight of the ice, and they were chaining it to the harness of a draft horse that stamped and blew plumes in the cold morning air.

  "Well," said Escevar, rising from his chair. "I'll leave you to your contemplations."

  He made a cursory bow and slipped out into the hall.

  Vox entered and shut the door behind him before taking up his place beside the fireplace. He stood there as still as a statue, his big hands planted firmly on the butt of his great axe.

  Since Tamlin's escape through the secret passages, the bodyguard had refused to leave him alone in a room. There was no point in arguing with him, for Vox could pretend to be as deaf as he was mute when Tamlin gave him orders he didn't like.

  Tamlin returned to his desk. He set aside the books he'd been studying and removed the coded list and the letter from his sleeve, along with a copy he'd been annotating. Since the disappearance of the other letters, he didn't trust any locked drawer to keep the clues safe.

  At first glance, the letter he'd saved from the thief disappointed Tamlin. It was full of insincere thanks for a singularly dull Eventide feast that Thamalon had hosted over a month earlier. Tamlin didn't remember any of the banal entertainment to which Gorkun Baerent referred, but that was hardly surprising considering that he'd insulated himself against the dreary festivities with a little party of his own well before the guests began to arrive.

  Thinking back on the event with a clear mind, however, Tamlin instantly realized that the anecdotes and remembrances must have been invented. He was sure, for instance, that he would have remembered a dozen halfling women juggling flaming pins over a bridge of ice conjured by a Thayan wizard-no matter how drunk he'd been at the time.

  Obviously the letter was in code, and if Tamlin's guess was right, the vellum page held the key to breaking it.

  He'd tried holding the page to a mirror, reversing each individual word, reading only the first letter of each word-only the second, and the third letters. He'd tried reading it backward and vertically, but none of those simple variations unlocked the secret of the scrambled words.

  Until that morning's news that Tazi was angry with him, Tamlin had considered asking his sister for help. She was clever with such things, but he feared she would be more likely to push him out a window than help him crack a mysterious code.

  Tamlin needed a break. A nice stroll might be just the thing to stir his imagination toward a solution to the problems he faced. Unfortunately, the only way to get away from all distractions was to take that walk within the walls of Stormweather Towers.

  The secret passages had been calling to him ever since he'd fetched his father's master keys. Perhaps it was the return of another childhood phenomenon, like his dreams, but Tamlin felt a strong desire to retreat into those secret avenues. There he could travel without escort, without distraction, without any impediment to his whim. If he wished, he could emerge from behind the kitchen ovens and surprise a scullery maid with a pinch. If he was very quick, he could vanish as quickly as he'd appeared, as if by magic.

  That's why he liked the secret passages so much, he realized. There he could travel unseen throughout the mansion, emerging when and where he wished and vanishing just as quickly.

  Like a wizard.

  Tamlin looked over at Vox, whose black stare had never left his master since he entered the room.

  "You realize," Tamlin said, "there's really no safer place in Selgaunt than within the secret passages of my own home."

  The barbarian's gaze did not waver, but his scowl deepened.

  Your father is not the only one missing lately.

  That was true, thought Tamlin. Both Thuribal Baerodreemer and Gorkun Baerent had vanished in the days following the disturbance at Stormweather. In both cases, the nobles had disappeared without a trace, and no amount of divination magic could conjure an explanation from their spirits.

  "I'd bring you along, really. It's just that irksome 'secret' clause."

  Where are you going? signed Vox.

  "I just wish to walk about the house, unseen. Perhaps I'll visit the wine cellars."

  You want a drink?

  "No, no, I assure you. It's just so cool and dark down there. I like the quiet."

  Maybe you want to sleep?

  "If I wanted a nap, I wouldn't be going for a walk."

  When you were little, and your nanny found you had left your bed, you were sleeping in the cellar. Remember?

  "No. How absurd!" said Tamlin. Despite his objection, he half remembered being lifted from his blanket on the cool stone floor. "Why would I do such a thing?"

  Try as he might, he had no clear memory of such nocturnal visits to the wine cellar. Apart from the obvious appeal of its stores, he didn't know exactly why he found the dank chambers so soothing, yet he did. Casting his mind back to childhood, he could conjure only a vague recollection of dozing among the casks.

  "Dreaming eye, eh?"

  Vox nodded. It may be.

  "I think you're on to something, Vox, old boy. A stroll in the cellars is exactly what I need."

  *****

  A visit to the wine cellars held many simple pleasures. One of them was an excuse to carry a real torch. There was no logical reason why Thamalon should forbid the continual flames lamps from the cellar, but Tamlin realized the Old Owl had done it to enhance the atmosphere.

  He had succeeded.

  A black path ran along the bare stone ceiling above the route most commonly used by Thamalon and his guests upon visiting the cellars. As Tamlin and Vox followed the trail, cobwebs fluttered in the corners-for the servants were under strict orders not to dust there.

  The narrow passages between casks the size of carriages gave the place a claustrophobic air. In winter, the wine cellar felt only slightly cooler than in summer. All it needed were a few well-placed skeletons set into the walls, and one might mistake it for a catacomb.

  For one who had enjoyed its stores so freely, Tamlin had seldom visited the wine cellars-at least not since he was a child. He remembered hiding among the casks while Escevar and Tazi searched for him in a game of hide-and-seek. He could also recall at least one occasion on which he'd precociously dared the pretty young daughter of one of the cooks to explore the place with him. He'd hoped to kiss her, but instead he ended up leading the hysterical lass back out of the darkness after she glimpsed a big yellow spider.

  The more he struggled to recall these childhood memories, the more strange it seemed that he'd avoided the place throughout his teens and twenties. Whenever Thamalon had invited visitors on a tour, Tamlin had found a reason to beg off. On those rare occasions on which he wanted a specific vintage from the cellars, he'd never thought twice about sending Escevar or another servant to fetch it rather than entertain his guests with an excursion into the fabled depths of Thamalon's cellar.

  Whether it attracted or repulsed him, the cellar had spoken to Tamlin all his life, and he had never realized it.

  "Feel anything?" asked Tamlin.

  Vox signaled a negative. His torch sizzled as the flame touched a patch of moisture on the low ceiling.

  "Neither do I," said Tamlin. Disappointment hung heavy on his words, but he shrugged it off as he spied a familiar feature of the cellars.

  Opposite an iron rack devoted to bottles imported from the farthest reaches of Faerun was the wall of ancestors, or "the rogues gallery," as Tamlin liked to call it. From Phaldinor all the way down to Thamalon, the heads of House Uskevren and their immediate families were preserved in fresco.

  Thamalon's painting was a striking likeness, but Tamlin suspected the others were less accurate. Indeed, they were rendered in the classical style that loved grace more than realism. Most of their contemporary portraits had perished in the fire that consumed the original Stormweather Towers, but on occasion Tamlin had seen a surviving etching or cameo of one of these ancestors. All of them displayed the strong Uskevren brow and nose. Those who lived long enough fo
r their hair to turn snowy reassured Tamlin that he would likely keep his full head of hair even in his dotage-should he live long enough to reach it.

  "Remember this?" Tamlin ran his fingers across the face of Roel Uskevren, his great uncle. Despite diligent but careful scrubbing, the faint image of a mustachio curled up from his lip to his cheeks.

  Vox made the simple gesture for "ouch."

  "Poor Escevar," said Tamlin. "I felt just awful about the beating he took for that one."

  He felt worse, signed Vox. He pointed to the motto at the top of each portrait's border: Too Bold To Hide.

  Vox had made it plain long ago that he found the tradition of a whipping boy both unfair and unmanly. In his opinion, he who made the offense must be brave enough to own up to it. Allowing another to take his place didn't speak well of the young man whose family motto praised courage and accountability.

  Thankfully, Escevar hadn't served in his original function for over a decade, and he seemed no worse for the punishment. In fact, his endurance had paid off far sooner than he could have imagined. He was chief among the Uskevren family servants.

  Tamlin ran his fingers along the carved letters. Something about them disturbed his thoughts. It was more than just a guilty conscience over daring Escevar to the vandalism and the hundred other offenses that had earned the servant a hiding. Nor was it his own lingering sense of uselessness since and even before his father's disappearance. He felt that he was on the verge of some revelation, but he couldn't put it into words.

  Vox touched his shoulder. What is it?

  "I'm not sure," said Tamlin. "Something about this place… about these portraits. Don't you feel a little strange down here?"