The Halls of Stormweather s-1

by Philip Athans

  As the trio were bandaged and brushed, Escevar asked in a hush, "Is the old owl still up hooting?"

  Servants piffed to hear Thamalon Uskevren the First so nicknamed. Dolly, who kept the pulse of the mansion, recited, "The master and mistress have retired. Master Talbot has embarked on a short hunting trip to the hills. He hopes to fetch a hart to the table for the Moon Festival. Mistress Tazi attends a play at Quickley's."

  Escevar frowned. "Deuce, maybe we should stay within walls 'til daylight and see what your father advises. Those kill-crazy dog-creatures, whatever they be, were sicced on us by human huntsmen. If we meet Zarrin-"

  "We shall meet her." Tamlin pointed his toe as a kitchen boy yanked on his knee-high boot. "Father's entrusted me with a mission, and I'll see it carried out, and damn the riffraff."

  Escevar and Vox sighed in mutual suffering. The youth said, "Damning riffraff can lead to early death, friend. Why can't the meeting wait until dawn, though that's hours off since it's winter."

  "Father insisted on secret." Tamlin tugged on a quilted doublet of red embroidered with the gold horsehead-and-fouled-anchor badge of the Uskevren clan. Over it he strapped a broad black belt with scabbards for sword and smatchet. An armorer's apprentice roused from bed had fetched a new sword. Servants silently waited for the master to leave so they could return to bed. Dolly brushed Tamlin's dark unruly hair.

  The Young Master went on, "Of course, everything in Selgaunt is done in secret. What with the Soargyls dropping out of sight, now's the time to snatch up their neglected properties and contracts, Father says. And so we shall, once we strike the stockyards. Uh, where are the stockyards, anyway?"

  Escevar rubbed his face and muttered under his breath.

  The looming Vox raised a finger for a short lesson, then borrowed Escevar's smatchet. Thick-bladed, with a checkered grip of teak and a thong to circle the wrist, it looked like a gardener's tool for slashing brush. The blade's throat was queerly cut with a deep slot. As an old weapons master, Vox hated the groove for weakening the blade, but new experiments in swordfighting were the rage with Selgaunt's youngsters. This "blade-breaker" slot was designed to replace a cumbersome shield. Carried left-handed, a fighter slashed down to both fend back an opponent and to hook his blade in the groove. Twisting the smatchet locked or broke the enemy blade, thus exposing him to the right-hand long sword. Escevar and Tamlin had practiced the maneuver, but Vox had proclaimed that "clowning around with toys by day" was no real test of alley fighting in pitch darkness when half-drunk.

  Vox demonstrated once more how to cock the smatchet up while pointing the long sword down, and how to windmill a "circle of steel" in lieu of a shield. Obeying the fightmaster, Escevar practiced a while, swiping and slashing the length of the hall.

  Tamlin fussed with pins and medallions brought on a velvet pillow. As a frequent target of kidnappers and assassins, he had a superstitious awe of good luck charms. One gewgaw featured an imp clutching a gold coin, a charm for business, and that one Tamlin pinned over his heart. From his baldric buckle he hung a tiny chain with a gauntlet symbolizing strength, and to his hat pinned a silver arrow spearing two hearts, in hopes Zarrin succumbed to his own charms. Tamlin donned the round blue hat with a gay pheasant feather and swirled around his shoulders a blue cloak edged with ermine, then struck a pose, hands on his swordbelt. Servants clapped at his smart appearance, and Tamlin smiled and bowed.

  "What do you think?"

  Vox swiped hands down his front, then mimed circles around his eyes. Escevar interpreted, "I agree. The white fur will make you luminous in the dark."

  Escevar tugged on his hat and a borrowed cape. He wore fine clothes but plainer than Tamlin's, while Vox wore a plain brown smock and leather vest under his bearskin cape, and went bareheaded. Both wore small horsehead-and-anchor pins denoting servitude in the Uskevren household. The two waited by the door.

  Preening in the mirror, Tamlin scoffed. "Piffle. I haven't any enemies. Only tons of friends. Well, we're off. Wish us well in our venture at the, uh…"

  "Stockyard," supplied Escevar.

  "Yes, jolly good."

  A footman opened a big double door that unleashed a blast of frigid air fresh off the sea, then shoved it shut after the trio left. Shivering servants trooped off to bed. Dolly took along Tamlin's torn cloak to mend, knowing he'd probably never wear it again.

  *****

  "Tamlin! Young Master Uskevren, a word, please!"

  "Wheel of the wizard!" groaned Escevar. The trio toiled against a stiff wind that howled off the Sea of Fallen Stars and sizzled right through their bones. Nightal was the coldest month, and more than once the nightwalkers slipped on patches of ice criss-crossing the rutted streets. Yet the streets were busy as dozens of parties meandered from tavern to tavern. For young folk, the night was still young.

  Many waved to Tamlin and his bodyguards.

  Now a lone man trotted up. Padrig Tuleburrow was called "Padrig the Palmer" because his hand was always out and always empty. Always he had some scheme brewing. Tamlin was a soft touch, the conniver knew, and never could his companions dissuade him.

  "Master Tamlin!" Padrig was tall but soft, in a foolish lop-eared fur hat, fur coat, and the layered robes of a prosperous middleman. "You look dashing tonight, a veritable scion of Selgaunt and proper heir to your father's throne!"

  "Oh, stop, Padrig." Tamlin smiled at the flattery. "My dear father is hardly a king, just a canny merchant."

  "Brilliant merchant!" oozed Padrig, "and it's obvious that canniness carried to his eldest son. Mark my words, Master Tamlin, you'll rule this city some day! And I know how to help you gain those celestial heights! There's been talk…"

  Escevar muttered to Vox, who always stood behind Tamlin, "First you butter the biscuit, then you bite it."

  "… a special deal for only my closest friends and best customers, Master Tamlin. I can't slip any details, it's all very hush-hush, but this plan-"

  "Scam!" hissed Escevar.

  "-plan," Padrig plowed on, "involves only the best families of Selgaunt. Master Tamlin, if you invest a mere thirty ravens-"

  "Thirty ravens?" objected Escevar. "I don't get paid thirty ravens in a year!"

  Ignoring the peasant, Padrig went on, "A paltry sum, to be sure, but with great potential for growth. You'd be sorry to miss this opportunity, Master Tamlin. When it comes back five-fold, everyone will know who's the smartest bargainer in town-"

  "We know who," grumped Escevar, "and may he sink in the bay to feed the fish and do something useful for once in his life."

  "Oh, pay him, Escevar, and stop fretting," said Tamlin. "Once I've sealed tonight's bargain, we'll be awash in coin."

  Grumbling, Escevar counted out thirty silver pieces from a purse but held them until Padrig signed their receipt in Escevar's little red-leather book, marking them "investment." Even as he counted the coins again, Padrig's ears perked. "What mission are you bound to tonight, Master Tamlin? It's clever of your father to entrust you with family business."

  "We're bound for the stockyards. We have a secret meeting with-Ulk!" Tamlin jerked as Vox's finger jabbed his spine like a dagger. "Uh, that is, we're bound to carouse up one side of Sarn Street and down the other. So much ale, so little time, you know! Ha, ha!"

  "Don't I know! Ta, ta!" Laughing, coins in hand, Padrig melted into the shadows like a djinn into smoke.

  Rubbing his back, Tamlin groused, "Drat the dark, Vox! I'll pass pink for a tenday from a bruised kidney!"

  "If your father hears you blabbed his secret plans," warned Escevar, "you'll be bruised all over from getting hurled down every staircase in Stormweather Towers."

  Tamlin had no retort, so they marched on.

  Clustered on the Heartland's crumpled coast, Selgaunt was an up-and-down patchwork of jeweled houses, sparkling parks, twisty streets, and proud people. The adventurers waved to friends as they walked the length of Larawkan Lane, for Stormweather Towers crouched hard over the harbor while the stockyards strad
dled the city's western gate where it opened to farmlands and vineyards.

  Gritting his teeth against a stiff wind, Escevar groused, "We'll reek like manure for a tenday! Why would anyone plan a secret meeting in a herd of cows?"

  "The contracts concern four-legged beasts as well as two-legged ones, as Father put it."

  "What else did he instruct for these negotiations? Or shall Vox and I be as surprised as Zarrin's party?"

  "Trust me, Es."

  Tamlin's friends only sighed.

  The stockyards bustled even after midnight. Many cattlebreeders and sheepherders had driven in animals before the city gates closed so they could adjust to their strange corrals. Calm animals fetched more at auction than skittish ones. Tamlin and his escort circled lowing cattle and gibbering sheep, and watched where they stepped, for the livestock had made their mark on Selgaunt's streets. Translucent globes floated above some cattle like firefly lanterns. Tubes plugged into the cow's hind ends and glow-coals burned the released gas for light, a handy piece of farm magic that always amused newcomers to Selgaunt's marketplace.

  Amidst a maze of holding pens sat the Stock Market. The long drafty swaybacked barn held stalls and a judging ring where animals were paraded before bidders. Entering the tall double doors, the Uskevren clan found the building warm as a bakery, steamy as a greenhouse, and fragrant as a spring meadow. Farmers and drovers talked or sang to their beasts to settle them. Some saved pennies by sleeping in the stalls with their beasts, for the clustered animals heated the place better than sheet-iron stoves.

  The secret convention was relegated to the second floor, which was partitioned into offices and meeting rooms. As the party's leader, Tamlin made to mount the stairs first, but Escevar blocked him. "We nearly got our heads chewed off in Twelve Oak Park. Let me stick my face in first, please, milord?"

  The broad stairs stretched over stalls where sheep and cattle contentedly chewed cuds. A farmwife curried a placid brown-and-white beast. Clumping up the stairs, Tamlin whispered, "This is a secret meeting, so look like cattle buyers." Raising his voice, he called, "I say, isn't that a fine looking cow! Yes, indeed, a magnificent cow, madame! And lucky too, with two colors! Just what I need to nurse my calves! I'll bet that one produces buckets of milk!"

  The farmwife looked up, puzzled. Vox sniffed, his idea of laughing, and Escevar chuckled. Nodding at the big beast, Vox put two fingers to his brow, stuck one finger before his groin, and made a double pulling motion.

  Tamlin shook his head. "Sorry, I don't understand."

  "He says your cow is a bull," supplied Escevar. "And good luck milking him."

  "Oh." Tamlin followed his friend into the second-floor hall. "They probably teach that in farmer school. It's not something we merchants need to know."

  Behind, Vox made a sign of strangling himself. Escevar grinned but drew his smatchet with his good right hand.

  Through intermediaries meeting intermediaries, Tamlin Uskevren was to meet Zarrin Foxmantle in the farthest room just after two bells. Tamlin heard the city bells toll, far off but clear in the thick sea air, just as Escevar clicked the latch and threw open the door without stepping forward.

  Thunk! A throwing dagger sizzled past and thudded into the door jamb. A female voice shrilled, "You backstabbing bastards! Get in here so we can kill you!"

  Warily the three men peeked in the door. At the far left, the corner was lit by three lanterns hung from low rafters. A scarred table was surrounded by rickety benches and stools, the only furnishings. Flyspecked notices and lists were posted on the walls between many pegs for cloaks and coats. Shuttered windows in the end wall would overlook the holding pens. At the table, surrounded by four servants, stood a young and beautiful blonde woman. Her hands were empty of knives, the Uskevren delegation noted, but her snapping brown eyes looked sharp and dangerous.

  The Foxmantle quintet had lost a war. The leader's purple embroidered vest lacked gold buttons, she missed her hat and a glove, and her cape hung askew because the chain had broken. Her attendants in purple and blue, two women and two men, were equally roughshod. A woman sported a black eye, and a man carried one arm in a sling. All five bristled with weapons.

  Mostly the men marked Zarrin, one of five breathtaking Foxmantle daughters. Pub talk liked to hash over which Foxmantle heir was the fairest, the most hellacious, and the most fun in bed. Zarrin strove hardest to gain power within her family, refusing the role of "a brood bitch who births a bunch of brats for my father and mother to bounce on their knees!" Tamlin and Zarrin were old sandbox chums, for only lately had the two families come into competition. The Foxmantles had always farmed, pressing wine, growing dyestuffs, salting meat, and tanning hides and furs, while the Uskevren had, before the family's Great Fire, farmed the sea. Since Thamalon the First had begun buying and renting farms, dickering with the Foxmantles had become necessary lest they compete in the marketplace and make prices plummet.

  Lovely Zarrin fumed but offered no more aggression, so Tamlin plucked the knife from the door jamb and, smiling, offered it to her. "I say, Zar, your welcome lacks the usual Foxmantle cheer. Have you suffered some setback in our city's spangled streets?"

  "You're dark-damned right we suffered setbacks!" Zarrin snatched back the throwing knife. Tamlin had unwisely held it by the blade, and now looked at his fingers through slits in his gloves. "What's the idea of siccing gnashers on us?"

  "Gnashers? The flying dogs?" Absently Tamlin scratched his chin and made the scab bleed. Escevar stripped his left glove to show seeping bandages. Tamlin said, "We met some too, and their whistling keepers."

  "Keepers?" asked Zarrin. "We didn't hear any whistles."

  "We did. Vox killed one." Tamlin told about the foreign hillman in the gnasher-fur vest.

  Zarrin pouted prettily. Her blonde hair, piled and pinned in back, yet fell about a widow's peak to blonde brows. "We just turned a corner and ran into a howling pack. We thought they were famished wolves that slipped into the city after cattle. They chewed up my retainers and spat us out. One servant's at Selune's temple having his hand amputated."

  "Where were you attacked, milady? In what part of the city?" asked Escevar. "And when?"

  "Below the Hunting Gardens, not far from the main house." The Foxmantle freehold guarded the northern gate where Galogar's Ride became Rauthauvyr's Road. "Not long after sundown."

  Vox held up two fingers, stretched his arms, curled his hands to imitate a tree, showed ten and two fingers, then animals scampering before his eyes. Tamlin interpreted, "Yes, that's near two miles from Twelve Oak Park. How can the keepers move a ferocious pack of monster-dogs through the streets without being seen? Did you notice some had wings?"

  The two parties compared notes but learned little. Now and then from below came the bellow of a bull or bawl of a calf.

  "Who knows?" Zarrin concluded. "Maybe these hill-men are crazy or cultists. Or maybe they work for someone in Selgaunt. If either of us were kidnapped, the ransom would bring a flock of ravens. We just need to watch our backs, as usual." For emphasis she traced the family crest embroidered on her bosom: three vigilant eyes in purple set on a slant. "Drop it for now and get to business. You and I need to split up the gate tariffs and the drovers' and freighters' trade."

  "So Father informs me." Handing his cape to Escevar, Tamlin took a stool and rubbed his hands as his father might. "The Soargyls-May they all be stricken with seven-fold boils!-kept the carters under their thumb by killing the troublemakers and extorting from the rest. But lately none of their thugs have collected the protection money: excuse me, civil supervision taxes. So collections at the gate are haphazardly enforced. Both our houses want to bid on the contracts for the gate tolls. Rather than brawl in the streets, we should reach some agreement."

  "I have one: simplicity itself," offered Zarrin. "Consider. My family's house overlooks Rauthauvyr's Road. Your family keeps a tallhouse near the Way of the Manticore. Why not tend our separate gates? We'll negotiate with the Hulorn's seneschal fo
r tolls from the North gate, and you take the Western. You've seen how busy the traffic is in these stockyards. Imagine the revenue you'd collect over a year! We'd sacrifice some duty to maintain the Elzimmer Bridge, but it's worth it to not cross the city just to empty coffers."

  They talked. Smiling, smug, and bewitched by Zarrin's beauty, Tamlin failed to see Escevar and Vox signal in the background. Before the companions knew it, Tamlin spit on his palm and shook hands. "I say, Zar, this is smashing! We'll stay out of each others' hair and all prosper! My father will be pleased, and so will yours, I'm sure! We need to celebrate-Escevar, what's all that noise?"

  The bellows and bleats of livestock had grown so loud the negotiators had to raise their voices. Every animal within blocks, it seemed, bawled or squawled. Farm dogs barked and farmers shouted. Escevar slid down the hall and trotted back. "Something's spooking the cattle! They're almost breaking down the stalls downstairs! I can't see what's stirring them!"

  "Well, go find out!" Tamlin ordered. Escevar trotted off. Zarrin's people shifted weapons. Axe in hand, Vox unlatched the window shutters.

  As if shot from a catapult, two winged dogs swooped through the open window and smashed into the swordtrainer.

  In that same second, Escevar dashed into the room, grabbed the door, and tried to slam it shut. Three unwinged gnashers bashed the door and knocked the bodyguard sprawling.

  Four more gnashers galloped into the room, toenails skittering on the sandy floor. Two more soared through the window.

  Everyone fought for their lives.

  Tamlin glimpsed brown backs and yellow teeth and smelled the open-sewer stench. Then a gnasher clamped bonebreaking jaws onto his knee-high boot. Another leaped and slammed Tamlin into the back wall. Savage teeth snagged his doublet, and Tamlin was dragged half-over with the dog's weight. A third vaulted its comrade and snapped teeth like a bear trap. Only his wild flailing saved Tamlin's right hand. Tripped by the dog tugging his leg, Tamlin sprawled on hands and one knee, all too aware his throat was vulnerable to attack.