Cordrivval Imleth had probably not intended to end his days toppling like a felled tree onto an imported Tashlutan carpet woven with a scene of two dragons locked in mortal combat, but it was a splendid carpet. He'd admired it many times, exhibiting superb judgement. So thick and soft was it that his crashing fall made barely a sound.
"Too many lies can kill anyone," Saer Velvaunt remarked smoothly. "His heart must have been weak. Perhaps he was older than he appeared. I hope he didn't owe you over-many coins, Lord Uskevren?"
Thamalon's eyes were as hard and as sharp as two drawn daggers as he met the hired sorcerer's mocking gaze. "So, too, I've heard it said," Thamalon replied, "can the casting of too many ill-considered spells 'kill anyone.' Has that also been your experience, Saer?"
The wizard moved his shoulders in a careless little shrug. "I've seen both faults result in death, before-but hope not to see such things again." He raised his hand as he spoke, and everyone saw that tiny stars of light were winking and circling about it. "I'll just purge the minds of everyone here of all doubt, by casting a magic on the chal-"
Thamalon's left little finger barely moved, but Cale was very attentive. The butler took two steps forward and bent to heave at one leg of the sorcerer's chair in one lightning-swift movement, spilling a startled Velvaunt onto the floor. Motes of spell-light scattered in all directions as various diners half rose, froze, then sat down again. Half a dozen men in full black armor with the gold Uskevren horse head bright upon their breasts appeared through the curtains, drawn swords dripping with sleep-wine ready in their hands. Velvaunt had, after all, been very well paid to deal with just this sort of unpleasantness.
The well-paid sorcerer came snarling furiously to his knees, lifting one hand to point at the butler-but that hand came to a sudden halt as four house guard swords slid eagerly forward to ring it with their glittering points.
"Casting uninvited spells in a private household?" Cale murmured. "I'm sure you weren't trying to do anything of the sort, Lord. After all, the penalty for that is two years in irons on the docks… and the Lord Lawmaker is sitting right there."
He bowed his head and added smoothly, "I do apologize about the chair. I'll have whatever went wrong with its leg fixed immediately, and in the meantime would be pleased to offer you another seat."
Iristar Velvaunt growled wordlessly at him and regained his feet, face dark with rage.
Anger and fear could also be seen in the faces of the other guests. Saclath Soargyl was growling deep in his throat, his knuckles white and quivering on the hilt of his blade. The lawmaker shot him a quelling glance and asked loudly, his voice glacial but firm, "Is the chalice enspelled?"
"It must be," Thamalon said heavily, "and I will not accept here, this night, the results of any magic worked by this hired sor-"
The Flame of Lathander held up one pudgy hand, a spectrum of rings gleaming in the candlelight. "You need not do so, Lord Uskevren. My skills can determine what the Lord Lawmaker seeks to know. If I may?"
He looked with careful formality to Lawmaker Loakrin and to Thamalon, collecting their nods before turning deliberately to meet the eyes of the butler standing with the swordsmen. Cale gave an almost imperceptible nod of his own before wordlessly turning away to pluck up another chair for Saer Velvaunt, lifting it with silent grace.
Thamalon's eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar and intricate prayer that spilled from the fat priest's lips then. It sounded like no supplication after truth or revelation that he'd ever heard, but a binding of some new magic to old.
Before he could stir or say anything, it came to an end, the priest raising the flat palms of his hands in unison to the vaulted ceiling. Everyone looked at him in eager, expectant silence.
"No," said the priest to them all, carefully not looking at Lord Uskevren, "it bears no recent spells, only ancient enchantments-and those astonishingly strong, after so many years."
"I shall have it tested by High Loremaster Yannathar of the Sanctum," Thamalon said flatly, naming Selgaunt's temple of Oghma, and let him judge." He gave his guests no time for argument as he stretched forth his hand to take up the chalice.
As his fingers closed around the familiar cup, it erupted in leaping flames.
The astonished head of House Uskevren jerked his seared hand back with a gasp of pain, and the man who called himself Perivel Uskevren rose from his seat with a broad smile of triumph.
"Now I think we see who the impostor is," he said almost jovially. "You are not my brother, and you and your brats have no claim here. This house is mine."
*****
The wheezing, whistling thing in the bed looked more like a lizardman than a human. All of its hair was burned away, and burned flesh hung in twisted, wart-studded sheets where there should have been a face. Only the two angry brown eyes told Thamalon that this was his great-uncle Roel.
The rattle in those labored breaths told him one thing more: this might not be Roel for all that much longer.
The eyes caught Thamalon as if they were two sword-points thrusting into his innards and lifting him helplessly, pinioned.
"Promise me," came the horrible, raw snarl that was all Roel could now manage. It broke and wavered on the second word.
"Anything in my power, uncle," Thamalon said quickly, bending near so the dying man would know he was being heard.
An amiable, roaring bear no longer, Roel had gone back to Stormweather Towers and fought through its flames, seeking anyone alive-had fought in vain and come back like this.
Roel struggled to sit up, clawing at the silent, bone-white lady beside the bed for support. His huge hands were bony, gnarled claws. Their fumbling, shaking grasp must have hurt Teskra terribly as they hauled their owner up, but she made no sound and shook her head when Thamalon reached to help Roel. Silent tears were falling like rain on the linens she was standing over.
"Make the Uskevren great again," Roel snarled. "Rich… important… respected!" Coughing seized him for a moment, and he shook his head impatiently, the sweat of his shaking effort glistening across the ruin of his face. "Don't waste your… time… as I did."
"Uncle, I shall rebuild the family to proud prominence once more," Thamalon said fiercely. "This I swear."
"Upon the Burning Chalice?" Roel gasped.
Thamalon nodded vigorously, looked wildly to the servants who stood by the door and said, "Fetch the-"
The clawlike hand that closed on his arm was bruising in its strength. "No… time," Roel snarled. "Let me kiss… Tessie…"
The lady bent swiftly to bring her head down to his, but the light in those blazing eyes went out before she got there.
As Roel's head fell back, Thamalon saw that those ravaged lips wore a last, fierce smile.
*****
"Let me be quite clear about this," the Lawmaker of Selgaunt said carefully, trying not to look at the angry faces of the swordsmen looming over the table. "This chalice tells the watching world who is a true Uskevren and who is not?"
"Indeed!" Perivel boomed triumphantly. "This drinking cup bears magic older than anyone in this hall that cause it to catch fire if the skin of any being not of true Uskevren blood touches it. My ancestor Thoebellon had its enchantments arranged so, as a conceit, after the death of the mage Helemgaularn. Behold!"
All eyes in the room followed the wave of his hand, at the large, plain goblet that stood unmarked on the table, its flames gone.
"No false hand touches it now," Perivel said, with a meaningful look at Thamalon, "so it sits quiescent-waiting. None but those of the blood of House Uskevren can touch the Burning Chalice without awakening it to flame."
"None but those of the true blood of Uskevren can touch the Burning Chalice without it briefly catching fire?" Lawmaker Loakrin echoed slowly, making it a query. He shot a glance at Perivel, received a nod, then turned his head slowly to regard Thamalon.
And the head of House Uskevren nodded his own head, slowly and deliberately.
The lawmaker cleared his throat,
and turned his head to regard the chalice.
"Well," he said slowly, "it would then seem…"
His voice died away like a drone-horn that someone has left off blowing. His mouth fell open and gaped. Heads turned to follow his astonished gaze, and other jaws dropped here and there around the cavernous chamber.
The maid who'd been quietly dusting and polishing her way around the feast hall had just stepped forward to pluck up the chalice. She was now applying a well-used rag to it with careful concentration, turning it in her bare hands above the table. No hint of flame was coming from the cup.
The men at the table stared at her for a long, tense time as she polished the chalice, apparently oblivious to their scrutiny, before the lawmaker stirred again.
This time, his look was directed at the men seated around him, and it was not friendly. "We sit at the table of one of the mightiest merchants of our city," Loakrin said coldly, "and strive to repay his hospitality by trying to wrest his home-this house I have seen him enter and leave for decades of prosperous trading-from him, declaring he is not who he has been in the eyes of all Selgaunt for years."
The lawmaker let a instant of chilly silence hang in the air before he added swiftly, "I believe, and hereby declare in words I shall repeat before the Lord Sage Probiter and the Hulorn himself, that before such a serious accusation can proceed more proof than flames that may or may not come from this chalice shall be needed. Sembia is a land ruled by law, and ever shall be. I have spoken."
He let fall a heavy hand upon the table. As if in response, the chalice rose into the air to hang head-high above the decanters and spat forth a brief halo of flames.
As murmurs arose from the watching servants, Thamalon allowed himself a smile of relief. At least the few parlor tricks Teskra had taught him to work on the chalice, with the aid of the ring on the smallest finger of his left hand, still worked.
So Uskevren would dwell in Stormweather Towers a while yet. At least until this pretender, or some other scheme, clawed at them again.
Thamalon Uskevren gave his guests a bland smile, dropped his gaze to the cold and motionless figure of Cordrivval Imleth sprawled on the carpet-oh, he'd send for healers, and pay full well for a resurrection, but he knew it was too late, and would avail naught-and made a silent promise to himself. It was not one that would have let any scion of House Talendar, House Soargyl, or anyone pretending to be Perivel Uskevren sleep easily in the nights ahead.
For all Selgaunt knew that Thamalon Uskevren was a man of his word, a man who took care to keep all of his promises.
THE MATRIARCH
SONG OF CHAOS
Richard Lee Byers
As the first scene unfolded, Shamur Uskevren's head began to ache. The overture, with its unexpected discords and irregular, constantly shifting tempos, had been grating in its own right, but now that the vocalists in their chimerical costumes had commenced singing, the opera had become genuinely unpleasant. Neither the lyrics of the arias nor the action unfolding at the front of the open-air amphitheater made logical sense, and yet the willowy, ash-blonde matron with the lustrous gray eyes couldn't shake the vexing feeling that the story had meaning, like a nasty joke whose point she couldn't quite grasp.
Wonderful, Shamur thought sourly. She'd finally managed to drag her hellion of a daughter to an entertainment suitable for a young lady, and it was turning out to be an odious ordeal. She glanced to the left to determine just now blatantly Thazienne was grimacing and fidgeting on the smooth limestone slab of a bench.
A lovely young woman with striking green eyes, raven hair cropped short in the most unflattering coiffure imaginable, and an outlandish red Cormyrean bodice and gown, Tazi was indeed making no secret of her restlessness. She was disgracing herself and her family, and never mind the provocation. Shamur drew breath to whisper a rebuke, then noticed the stout, gray-headed widower seated behind her daughter.
Shamur knew Darvus Baerent, just as she knew all the members of all the best families in Selgaunt. Hitherto, she would have sworn that the aged merchant noble was as stolid and harmless as some old ox long accustomed to the yoke. Now, however, he was breathing heavily and staring fixedly at the nape of Tazi's neck. Despite the evening chill, sweat beaded his brow, and his pudgy fingers played nervously with the jeweled hilt of his dagger. Irked at being ignored, his companion, a buxom girl young enough to be his granddaughter, glowered at him.
Unlikely as it seemed, Shamur could tell something was wrong with Darvus. A fever-induced delirium, perhaps? Taking advantage of a momentary lull in the music, she spoke his name in a cool, dry tone that seldom failed to bring both her social inferiors and her peers up short, even if it had long ago stopped working on Tazi.
Darvus jumped and jerked around to meet her gaze. His eyes widened, and his mouth worked soundlessly, as if she'd surprised him committing some unspeakable crime. He leaped up and ran, trampling and tripping over the feet of the other spectators in his row. To Shamur's surprise, none of them reacted.
Shamur considered going after Darvus, but an instant later a scream shrilled across the amphitheater. Startled, she cast about, looking for the source. Several tiers below her, pretty, auburn-haired Kenna Toemalar sprang up on her seat and tore her clothing open. Eyes rolling wildly, spittle flying from her gnashing mouth, the young noblewoman scrabbled at her newly exposed flesh, which ripped away easily in semi-liquid chunks as if she were melting. Amazingly, none of her neighbors moved to restrain her, nor even recoiled or turned his head to gawk.
Indeed, Shamur now observed, most of the audience sat slack-jawed and staring, stuporous and inert. Some wept, whimpered, or twitched as if suffering the horrors of a nightmare from which they couldn't wake. Meanwhile the singers and musicians played on, seemingly as oblivious to the spectators' incapacity as they were to the pinpoints of violet light that began to flicker in the air around them.
Tazi touched her mother's arm. "Something's wrong," the young woman said. Predictably, she sounded less alarmed than intrigued.
"Obviously," Shamur said. She rose to call out a warning, then, to her ears at least, the music blared. A blaze of violet lightning dazzled her, and a force like a great wind snatched her up and tumbled her away.
*****
Shamur allowed Harric, a grinning, gap-toothed footman clad in blue and gold Uskevren livery, to help her from the carriage. Tazi impatiently scrambled down on her own.
Before them rose a great hall whose essential lines were all but indistinguishable beneath encrustations of parapets, arches, cornices, friezes, entablatures, turrets, minarets, finials, balconies, gables, gargoyles, stained-glass windows, and the gods only knew what else. For a moment, the sight seemed wrong, as if Shamur shouldn't be here, or, shouldn't be here again. But the notion made no sense, and when Tazi spoke, it slipped from her head.
"Palace of Beauty, my rosy red arse," the younger woman said.
Privately, Shamur agreed. Andeth Ilchammar's newly constructed theater, concert hall, and art gallery was an architectural atrocity. But she had no intention of saying that and so encouraging her daughter in her disrespect. "You can scoff and jeer out here," she said, "but once we pass through that door, I expect you to be on your best behavior. The Hulorn himself has invited us to partake of a 'unique aesthetic experience'-"
"Oh, bollocks, you don't even know what it is!"
"I know that the invitation said it will be extraordinary, and if you lack the refinement to enjoy it, you will at least pretend to appreciate the honor."
Tazi rolled her eyes. "Oh, very well. Let's get it over with."
Recognizing the Uskevren ladies, the ceremonial guards in their black and silver surcoats stepped aside to allow them to pass. The high, arched doorway gaped before them like a mouth waiting to swallow them up, and as Shamur contemplated it, she felt a pang of weariness.
For a moment, it was as if her daughter's willfulness had infected her, and she didn't want to go inside either. Didn't want to spend another evening listeni
ng to dry, stately chamber music and chattering about charity work, culture, and whatever bits of dreary gossip the other merchants' wives had unearthed. She'd spent too many nights that way. She wanted Her mouth tightening, she pushed such useless thoughts away. It no longer mattered what she wanted, nor had it for a long time. All that counted now was the obligation to be a staid and proper burgher's wife and to prepare her children to perform their familial duties as well. Lliira knew, the latter wasn't easy.
Oh, Tamlin had turned out fine, whatever his father thought. But Tal, his younger brother, needed both encouragement and guidance. Indeed, she had to oversee every move he made, not that she begrudged him the attention. At least he made an effort from time to time. Tazi didn't. She had the wit to learn manners, music, embroidery, and the other womanly arts which would help her make an advantageous match, or the secrets of accounting and trade which would enable her to take a hand in the Uskevren's commercial ventures. But all she cared about was venery, carousing with riffraff far below her station, playing pranks, and generally getting into trouble.
Well, not tonight, Shamur thought, regarding her grimly. Tonight you'll comport yourself like a demure, refined young maiden, no matter how it galls you. Perhaps intuiting the tenor of her thoughts, Tazi stuck out her tongue.
Beyond the entry was a high-ceilinged foyer, lit by magic and lavishly decorated with a miscellany of paintings, tapestries, and sculptures, including a towering marble equestrian statue in the middle of the terrazzo floor. The piece depicted Rauthauvyr the Raven, founder of Sembia, slaying a gorgon, a feat that, to the best of Shamur's knowledge, the legendary warrior had never accomplished in the flesh. About the pedestal milled a prime selection of the city's aristocracy, the drone of their conversation, the swish of their trailing garments, and the jangling of their abundant jewelry mingling with the harmonies of the glaur, zulkoon, and thelarr players performing in the clerestory.
The Halls of Stormweather s-1 Page 5
