by Paul S. Kemp
Dolgan looked at Azriim with a vague, puzzled expression and said, “Hang on, then. You sayin’ I’m a lackey?”
Azriim smiled. “I’m saying—”
“Shut up,” Vraggen commanded, and they did. Partners or no, in the end Vraggen was in charge. “Clean up this mess. It’s time to move on.”
There were other Zhents to recruit, other Zhents to kill, and most importantly, the globe to locate.
Azriim looked surprised, and distantly pleased. “Clean it? Here?”
“How?” asked Dolgan, in that same puzzled tone.
“How do you think?” Vraggen said. “Bloodless.”
He put back the rest of his ale.
“But—” Dolgan started.
“Just do it.”
That seemed enough for Azriim, who took the initiative.
The half-drow scooted his chair nearer to Norel’s, gave an apologetic shrug and said, “I told you to mind your manners.”
With one hand he pinched the Zhent’s nose closed; with the other, he covered his mouth. Unable to move, Norel could only stare wide-eyed while he was asphyxiated. Vraggen wondered distantly what thoughts were going through Norel’s mind while he died. Nothing of worth, he was sure.
Presently, it was over.
“Interesting,” Azriim observed with a smile and scooted his chair back. He wiped Norel’s snot and blood from the tips of his fingers. “I’ve never killed a man with only my fingers.”
“I have,” Dolgan said. “Back outside of Ordulin. Rememb—”
“Do shut up,” Vraggen said, and Dolgan did.
Norel’s corpse, held rigid by Vraggen’s spell, remained upright in the chair, staring across the table with eyes gone glassy. Vraggen looked around to see if anyone had noticed the murder. No one had.
“I’ll animate the corpse,” Vraggen said. “You two escort him out, as though he’s drunk.”
“Be serious,” Azriim replied, shaking his head. “I’ll not have his stink on my clothes. Even alive he stank. And dead, well. …”
Vraggen bit back his frustration. As much as Azriim loathed profanity, that was how much he loved his tailored finery, almost always in one shade or another of green.
“Very well,” Vraggen said, and indicated Dolgan. “You then.”
The big man frowned, but nodded.
Vraggen withdrew a small, roughly cut onyx from the inner pocket of his cloak, reached across the table, and pushed it between Norel’s dead lips. In a low voice, he dispelled the magic that held Norel rigid then recited the charged words to the spell that would tap the Shadow Weave and animate Norel’s corpse.
“Place your hands on the table, Norel,” he commanded, to test the efficacy of the spell.
Norel—or Norel’s shell—did exactly that. Vraggen looked to Dolgan and said, “Walk it out of the inn, then lead it to the bay. Stab it in the lungs a few times so it will sink.”
Dolgan nodded.
Vraggen looked at the corpse and said, “Rise and walk out accompanied by this man.” He indicated Dolgan. “Allow him to lead you where he will.”
Norel pushed back his chair and rose, awkward and shuffling. Dolgan wrapped one of his huge arms around the zombie and the two shuffled out. Norel’s irregular stride was at least passable as the stumbling meander of a drunk. Dolgan began to sing as they made their way to the door.
After they were gone, Azriim raised Norel’s tankard and gave Vraggen a mock toast.
“Well done.”
Vraggen acknowledged the compliment with nod.
“What’s next?”
“We find the globe. I believe that the time of the Fane’s appearance is near.”
Azriim nodded, swirled the tankard thoughtfully. He was silent for a time, then he said, “Remind me again why you’re doing this?”
“Power,” Vraggen replied. “Do you think the Network will cede us Sembia? We’ll need every advantage we can get, and what I propose to do represents the pinnacle of what the Shadow Weave has to offer. You should consider it yourself.”
In truth, Vraggen cared little for personal power, or at least cared little for power for its own sake. His plan to war with Sembia’s Zhents had nothing to do with self-aggrandizement. As he saw it, he had no choice. He could flee the city and die a coward—something he could not live with—or he could stand, fight, and serve the god he had chosen to follow. At least the latter offered a chance for survival. But to maximize that chance, he had to maximize his own power.
Azriim smiled at Vraggen’s offer, a secret smile Vraggen did not care for, and said, “You won’t be human anymore.”
“No,” Vraggen acknowledged, staring across the table. “I’ll be more than human.”
Azriim seemed to digest that.
“Well enough,” the half-drow said with a laugh. “I sure hope you don’t die before we find the Fane. This, I really want to witness.”
CHAPTER 3
FAREWELLS
The light of the rising sun crept across the floor of Cale’s quarters. Half his room was alight with the brightness of dawn, half cast in shadow. Cale thought it an apt metaphor for his life.
His purposeful movements about the small bedroom took him between the light and shadow. In the process, he stirred up the seemingly endless amount of unswept dust on the floor. The motes swirled in the sun’s rays like dancing faeries. If anyone on his staff had left any other room in Stormweather Towers as ill kept as Cale maintained his own quarters, he would have dismissed that person summarily. Cale was a poor housekeeper—a strange fault in a butler, he acknowledged—but he forbade any member of his staff from entering his quarters.
And for good reason, he thought, eyeing the battered wooden trunk at the base of his metal-framed bed. He had never wanted to risk an overly curious member of the household staff jigging the lock of the trunk and drawing conclusions about him and his past from the contents.
He keyed the lock and opened the trunk’s lid. Within lay his enchanted leather armor, slashed and grooved from the many blades it had turned, and a leather pouch holding two of the three potions he had taken from the Night Knives’s guildhouse before he and Jak had burned it to the ground. Two months before he had paid a gnome alchemist to identify the properties of the potions. The one that smelled of clover would turn him invisible for a time, and the cloudy azure one would allow him to fly for a while. He laid the potion pouch and the armor on the bed. At the bottom of the trunk were his weapons belt with his enchanted long sword and two balanced daggers. Those too he laid on the bed. He would no longer keep his weapons and armor hidden away.
Through his window, the great bells of the House of Song sounded the sixth hour. Tamlin—Lord Uskevren, he corrected himself—would be taking his breakfast. Lady Uskevren would be there as well. He would inform them first.
Shamur and Tamlin sat at a small table on a sun-drenched balcony off of the main dining room, talking. Cale could not make out their conversation and would not be so impolite as to read their lips, though he could have.
Shamur wore a violet sundress, sandals, and only a few tasteful jewels. Her hair hung loose and cascaded down to her shoulders. To be dressed so casually, Cale deemed that she must have no appointments that morning. Tamlin, however, had already donned a formal doublet and hose. The lord of Stormweather had business that morning then. The fact that Cale did not know of Tamlin’s appointments ahead of time showed just how small a role he played in the life of the new lord of Stormweather.
Cale walked through the dining room toward the balcony—deliberately loud, so that Tamlin and Shamur would hear him coming. They turned in their chairs to face him as he approached. Tamlin looked grave, but not displeased to see him. Shamur smiled. Cale nodded a greeting to Tamlin and gave Shamur a warm look. Cale and Shamur had reached an understanding while in the strange otherworld reflected in a magical painting. There, they had faced death together and saved each other’s lives. Later, they had mourned Thamalon together. Cale had come to realize that his lady
was no more a sedentary noble in her soul than he was a butler in his. He marveled at her ability to suppress what she was. He had never been quite able to do it.
Out of habit, he evaluated the table settings and fare with a professional eye. All appeared in order—the table services appropriately set, the meal suitable for a spring breakfast. Cora, one of the household staff, hovered on the far side of the balcony, within earshot and sight of the Uskevren if they required anything, but far enough away to give them privacy. Cale gave the young woman a nod of approval then waited to be acknowledged formally by his employers.
“Mister Cale,” Tamlin said around a mouthful of poached egg.
“My lord,” Cale said, though he still found it hard to apply the title to Tamlin.
“Erevis,” Shamur said and smiled still more brightly. The sun reflected off the jewels in her hair, and sparkled in her eyes. She looked radiant. She gestured at a nearby chair. “How very nice to see you. Please sit down.”
Tamlin frowned at Shamur’s familiar use of Cale’s first name, and her offer to allow a servant to dine with the lord of the House.
“Lady, you are gracious as always, but I must decline,” Cale said. He smiled back at her, a soft smile but genuine. Having come to know her, he thought he might miss her the most after he was gone, more even perhaps than Thazienne. He looked to Cora and said, “That will be all.”
Tamlin and Shamur exchanged a glance at that. Cora looked surprised but made no protest before hurrying off.
Surprisingly, Cale felt no anxiety. In fact, he felt comfortable for the first time in months. He looked beyond both of the Uskevren and went straight to the point.
“Lord, Lady, some unfortunate events have befallen my cousin.”
When he had first come to Stormweather, Cale had concocted a fictional cousin whose frequent problems required Cale’s aid, and thereby provided cover for his guild activities. Tamlin and Shamur did not know that his cousin was non-existent. Even Thamalon had not known, though he may have suspected.
“I fear these events will require my long-term attention,” Cale continued, “and will take me from the city. I must therefore request that you accept my resignation, which I offer now.”
For a moment, the balcony stood silent.
At last, Tamlin said, “What? When?”
He did not look unhappy, merely surprised.
“Immediately, my l—”
“No.” Shamur threw her napkin to the table, pushed back her chair, and stood. “Your request is denied.”
“Mother …”
Tamlin reached for her hand, but she jerked it away. She had eyes only for Cale. And what eyes! For a fleeting, guilt-ridden instant, he thought how beautiful she looked, how much he wished he had known her in the days when she had been Shamur the burglar, before she had become the lady of House Uskevren.
“My lady …” Cale began.
She strode forward, looked him defiantly in the face, and said, “This is nonsense, Erevis, and I will not suffer it.”
“Lady—”
“You have no cousin!” she hissed. “Do you think I’m blind or do you think I’m stupid?”
Stunned, Cale could only stare. Her eyes did not hold accusations, just certainty. How long had she known? He had never even told Thamalon.
“Neither, my lady,” he managed to mutter.
Tamlin rose from his seat and asked, “What are you talking about? Of course he has a cousin. Mister Cale has spoken of him often. Tell her, Cale. And now he needs to leave to attend to family matters. Surely we can understand that.”
Shamur didn’t turn around but her face darkened—first with anger, then with … disgust? Was she that disappointed in the man her son had become? Cale thought her face gave him the answer and made plain her thoughts: How will the House survive with Tamlin at its head?
For an instant, that thought made Cale waver, but only for an instant. He could not help the Uskevren anymore. He thought of Thazienne and knew it would cost him too much to stay.
He glanced at Tamlin—who stood with his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side—then to Shamur, whose proud eyes blazed fire.
Cale smiled and said softly, “You’ll still be here, Lady. That will be enough.”
At that, her gaze softened.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but the House needs you here. I need you here.”
“What in the name of the gods are you two going on about?” Tamlin asked. “The man said he’s leaving. That seems simple enough to me.”
Shamur still held Cale’s eyes.
“You don’t have to bing this ken, nipper,” she said.
Cale tried to keep the surprise from his face. Hearing her use cant astonished him more than if she had punched him in the stomach. She, a noblewoman of Sembia, spoke the thieves’ tongue with the practiced ease of a veteran boxman. Cale knew she once had been a burglar of note, but hearing his lady speak the tongue Cale had once used to arrange assassinations … it disquieted him.
“What did you say, Mother?” Tamlin asked.
Neither Cale nor Shamur even acknowledged that he had asked a question.
Thinking back, Cale better understood her happiness in that other world. Unlike Cale, she had never regarded herself as trapped there, even when they had been temporarily held prisoner by the elves. There, she had been free. For her, Stormweather was the trap, and one from which she could not even attempt escape.
He reached out a hand and brushed her fingers with his fingertips.
“My lady,” he said, “if you can speak that language, then you of everyone understand why I can no longer stay.”
Tamlin’s eyes narrowed. Obviously he didn’t like the familiar touch Cale had just shared with his mother.
“What language is that, Mister Cale?” he asked.
Cale did not look at him, instead keeping his eyes on Shamur.
Shamur considered Cale’s comments, smiled sadly, and replied, “I do understand, Erevis.” She straightened and backed up a step. “Sometimes the choices we make become too much of a sacrifice to continue them. Sometimes.”
Cale gave her a nod and looked at Tamlin.
“I believe Lady Uskevren is now in agreement with us, my lord. I will inform the staff and see that all is put in order prior to my departure. I expect that will take a day, but perhaps two. I believe you will find Orrin more than capable of assuming my duties.”
Orrin was the chief steward, an extraordinarily competent young man.
Tamlin nodded. He looked at his mother strangely while he walked up to Cale. He extended his hand. Cale took it. It was more callused than it had been once, harder.
“Cale, you’ve been invaluable to House Uskevren. You’ll be missed.” Cale heard sincerity in Tamlin’s tone, and it moved him. “Of course, I will see to a suitable severance.”
Cale shook his head. “Thank you, my lord, but a severance is un—”
Tamlin waved a hand dismissively and said, “I insist, Cale.” He glanced at his mother. “It is the least we can do.”
“Take it, Erevis,” Shamur said.
“As you wish, my lord, lady. You’ll say good-bye to Talbot for me?” he asked them.
The youngest Uskevren spent most of his time away from the manse, and likely would not return before Cale left.
“Of course,” Shamur said. “And you’ll speak to Tazi before you leave?”
Her tone dropped when she said that last, the way a person might speak a secret.
Cale’s heart jumped at the thought of saying good-bye to Tazi.
“Erevis? She’ll want to see you.”
Cale nodded, mumbled something noncommittal, and began to walk away.
Before he reached the archway to the dining room, Shamur called out, “If I had it to do all over again, Erevis, I’d do it the same way. I understood my choice completely the day I made it. Make sure you’ll be able to say the same years from now.”
Cale heard the truth of her words and thought better of
making a reply. Instead, he nodded and walked out.
Mairen Street, called Shop Street by Selgaunt’s natives, bustled with late-morning activity. Merchant nobles, day laborers on morning repast, and farmers from the surrounding countryside all strolled the cobbled walkways, browsing the endless booths of goods and two-story shops that lined the street. Donkey carts pulling wagons of produce, and lacquered carriages bearing the rich, picked their way through the crowded street and rolled slowly down the road. Street vendors shouted into the sunny morning sky, hawking everything from apples and cabbage, to breads and sweet ices, to bolts of silk, candles, and scented spices. From the street’s numerous open-air eateries and pastry bakeries wafted the pleasant aroma of cooking food—sausage and blueberry tarts. The smell reminded Vraggen that he had not yet eaten breakfast.
“That’s him,” Azriim said, nodding up the street. “Alkenen the peddler.”
The half-drow, dressed in an intricately embroidered forest green cloak, finely tailored trousers, and polished black boots, indicated a vendor just up and across the busy street.
Vraggen and Dolgan tried to get a good look at him through the crowd without being obvious. Solin Dar, late of this world, had told Vraggen that he had sold the globe to Alkenen.
Alkenen straddled a stool before his small, road-worn peddler’s cart. His crossed, goggle eyes watched the passersby as they browsed. Tufts of dull brown hair sprouted at wild angles from each side of his otherwise bald head. Even from a distance Vraggen could see that one of Alkenen’s legs was shorter than the other, but even the good one looked spindly in its simple, homespun trousers.
“You had no problem tracking him down, I suppose,” Vraggen said to Azriim. “His appearance is hardly unremarkable.”
“Perhaps harder than you think,” said Azriim. “He had been out of the city for the past tenday. He only recently returned to Selgaunt. From Cormyr, I understand. I was beginning to fear we would have to scour the Heartlands for him.” He paused before adding, “But you are correct—his poor taste does stand out, even among the Sembians.”
