"You might lighten up with the golden touch, Deuce. Even your allowance only stretches so far." Blearily Escevar, who always handled the money, upended a purse. Silver and copper plinked and plunked across the table and floor as booze-soaked Selgauntans cheered! Escevar bent to pick up coins and fell off the bench to more cheers. Some friends helped pick up coins while others pocketed them. Groggy, Escevar counted, getting a new total each time.
"Never mind, Es. I've got credit!" Tamlin called for more stout, though he hadn't yet touched the first one. Drinking, slopping down his doublet, Tamlin tried to focus as Vox made a cutting stroke across his throat. "Cut? Throat? What, there's a cutthroat behind me? Oh, cut! You mean, my father cut off my allowance? Oh, I don't think he means it-Hey, where's everyone going?"
At the deadly words "cut off my allowance," the heir's new-found friends vanished for other reaches. Within seconds, Tamlin, Escevar, and Vox sat alone. No one in the pub, not even dung shovelers and grave robbers and tax collectors, would sit with them.
"Drat the dark." Tamlin slurped stout and belched. " 'Scuse. I wanted to ask those fellows something, but I can't think what. Allowance-Oh, hey, has anyone seen Zarrin Foxmantle? She's blonde, about this high-Oops!" Waving an arm almost pitched Tamlin off the bench, and he forgot what he'd asked. Escevar snored, facedown on the opposite bench. Vox listened to a pair of sisterly singers who'd mounted a tiny stage. Growing morose from his friends' rejections, Tamlin guzzled stout and sulked while the two girls sang sweet and high:
I forbid you maidens all,
Who wear gold in your hair,
For to go to Stillstone Hall,
For young Tam Lin is there.
Tamlin's ears perked. The song was "Tam Lin," a tune old as the hills, and his namesake. Muzzily he followed the words, often heard but never considered. Tam Lin, the handsome knight, fallen from his horse in a hunting accident. Caught by the fairy queen, so enslaved. Forced to serve in her midnight court, which only joined this world under a full moon. Primed for sacrifice to a bloody-handed god. Until a maiden Lyndelle, pluckier than most, entered the sacred hall to meet the ethereal Tam Lin. His only hope of freedom, he told her, was if she caught him falling from a horse. And so they arranged it, Lyndelle lunging into a chaotic raid on a hellish night to catch her new-found lover. And so Tam Lin was freed, the young pair united, and the song ended.
"Still, evil omens. What if she'd missed him? Good luck and good times can't last forever…" Mumbling to himself, Tamlin shivered. Filtered through an alcoholic fog, the sinister song droned in his brain like a dirge. Fairy curses, a young lord snared by ill luck and fate, a ghostly un-life and sentence of sacrifice-and Tamlin himself a young lord banished from home. Was his only hope an innocent maiden's rescue? No one in Selgaunt was innocent "Milord Uskevren?"
Jumping at his name, Tamlin pulled his nose from a flagon to see a girl thin and pale as an elf. Under a threadbare cape, really a blanket, she wore only a cambric smock painted down the front, and battered clogs on her feet. Under her arm bulged a sheaf of parchments tied with a faded ribbon. Her big eyes were red from cold or weeping.
Rattled by his own superstition, Tamlin babbled, "Uh, yes, I'm Lord Uskevren, or I shall be some day, if my father ever dies and I don't, perhaps, unless he really carries out his threat, which he might, which I doubt, or I hope… Uh, where was I?"
"Milord." The girl licked chapped lips and launched into a speech. "I wonder, sir, if you'd like your portrait painted. My name is Symbaline-"
"Symbaline!" Tamlin burst out. "Like the girl in the song! Another omen! Oh, no, wait. Her name was Lyndelle-"
"S-sir?" The girl hadn't heard the lyrics, so she plowed on, "I'm one of the finest artists in the city. I can show you samples. The smartest nobles agree they're lovely. Every lord and lady should have their portrait painted, and since you're so dashing and handsome-"
"No, no, no. No thank you." Tamlin slugged stout to calm his nerves. "I don't need a portrait. No one wants my face hanging on the wall, though my father'd like my carcass hung from a lamppost. I can't believe he's chucked me out like garbage…"
He stopped babbling because the girl cried. She tried to stifle her grief, but tears spilled down her wan cheeks. Shuddering, sobbing, she couldn't stop. Tamlin gawped, embarrassed. Even Vox, who habitually watched elsewhere, stared.
A barkeep bustled to the table with a billy club dangling from his wrist by a thong. He snagged the girl's pipestem arm. "Here now, you snippet, don't be harryin' the patrons! I'm sorry, milord, I'll pitch the sauce out-"
"No!" Tamlin shook his head in a futile effort to clear it. "Too many people have been tossed out in the cold! We're… bargaining. Sit her there. Girl, sit."
Symbaline sat, slowly, as if she'd break. Her stomach rumbled. Tamlin squinted. "What was that?"
Glowering in disgust, Vox flicked Tamlin's flagon off the table so stout splashed on the floor. Snapping his fingers, he mimed to the barkeep for food, enough to cover the table. Soon, a barmaid set down a tray of venison pasties, pickled eggs, ducks' breasts, watermelon rind, black-and-white bread, fresh butter, green and white cheese, figs, raisins, and a cold shoulder of pork. Gruff Vox signaled the bony girl, who tore into the food.
"Oh, she's hungry." Tamlin looked at her thin, worn clothing. "She's poor, too."
Vox's hard hand cuffed Tamlin's head, though the lordling hardly felt it. Gesturing, the swordmaster crooked fingers over his eyebrows and frowned, then swiped his hand down his face, and mimicked someone painting.
"My father. His face. Painted." Tamlin struggled to think. "No, he wouldn't like that. Mother paints her face, but women like-" Dodging another biff cleared Tamlin's head. "Oh, yes, I see! Girl, what's your name? Symbaline? Let me see your samples, if you'd be so kind."
The artist gobbled with one hand and untied the ribbon with the other. Tamlin flipped through sketches of Selgaunt's lords and ladies, then watercolored landscapes. "Lovely, glowing. Full of-colors and things. Yes, I'll hire you to paint a portrait of my father. It's been a while since he had one, and he shan't live forever, if I'm lucky. I'll give it to him as a present for the new year, if he'll let me in the door. And we'll paint one of Mother for the Moon Festival. And Tazi, if we can slap that sneer off her face. And Tal too. We'll hang his picture on the gate to scare away beggars-ha!"
"Thank you, milord, thank you!" Symbaline wiped her mouth with a napkin and wept anew. "I'm sorry I cry, milord, but it's been a hard winter. I had a commission to paint Lord and Lady Soargyl, and I sketched for days to find a pose they'd like, but then Lord Soargyl changed his mind and shoved me out the gate, and I was never paid a penny for all my hard work-"
"Don't fret, dear. We are not the sorry Soargyls. The Uskevren always keep their promises. No matter what. We'll install you in the main house as our court painter. You can sleep there too: we could barrack an army in our guest rooms. And you can eat in the kitchen, if the cook's budget will sustain it, the way you eat."
"Oh, thank you, milord!" gulped the girl. "And I can paint more than just portraits! I'd really love to paint landscapes and seascapes-"
"Ah? That's admirable, I suppose. You can decorate the main hall with a mural. It needs a little color, the gloomy old dump. Or we'll send you up to the north tower to paint a picture of the harbor, then the hills to the west…"
"You're so kind, sir." Symbaline fought to still her tears. "Everyone says you're the most considerate and generous young lord in Selgaunt, and now I see it's true. That's why I approached you. You were my last chance, really. You saved my life. I had no place to spend the night nor any hope for the future-"
"Stop, dear, no need. This way I rescue an innocent maiden, not the other way around, and so banish some omeny beasties lurking about." That confused the girl, so Tamlin covered her cold hand with surprising gentleness. "Anyway, it wasn't I who thought of it, but Vox here. He looks fit to eat babies, but he's really the best companion one could want. With Vox at my side, I'm not afraid to venture anywh
ere in Selgaunt. He's the finest fighter along the Sea of Fallen Stars!"
Tamlin made to raise his glass, then recalled his bodyguard had cut him off. "Ah. Vox, might I have a tiny drop of something just to toast your health? I'd really appreciate-"
For answer, the swordmaster innocently offered Tamlin a pickled egg and a cold duck's breast.
The lordling's stomach urped as his face drained pale. Tamlin squeaked, "Pardon me a moment," and lurched for the door.
Eventually Tamlin staggered back to the table, wiping his mouth. Symbaline continued to plow through the food like an orc army. "Milord, I hate to beseech, but I need a few coins to buy paints and canvas…"
"Easy enough." Frowning at Escevar placidly sleeping on a bench, Tamlin hooked his boot and dumped his friend crashing to the filthy floor. "Escevar, give her some money!"
Roused, Escevar crawled back to the table. "I tol' you, Deuce, we're skint. All this's on credit."
With a sigh of disgust, Vox reached down his shirt, pulled out a squirrel-hide purse, and dumped coins on the table. Tamlin slid silver coins toward Symbaline, counting out seven for good luck.
Escevar's slim hand slapped down on the lot. Tamlin objected, "Es, this is no time to be greedy!"
"No, look!" Shaking off sleep, Escevar became all business. He held up a big silver coin, worn and shiny and stamped with strange sigils. The coin was round but punched at the center with a triangle. "I've never seen triangle-cut coins before. And there are, um, sixteen here. Where'd you get them, Vox?"
Vox mimed a whistle, then cutting a throat. Tamlin translated, "The purse from the dead whistler, the gnasher-handler!"
"Wait, now." Escevar wrinkled his brow. "If the hillmen brought these coins from their country… and they spend them in pubs or stores… Wherever we found a batch of these coins, we might find the hillmen's hideout nearby!"
"Why find the hillmen?" asked Tamlin. "They tried to kill us. Shouldn't we avoid them?"
"Don't try to think when you're potted, Deuce," sniped Escevar. "We don't really want the hillmen, but they did try to kidnap or kill you and Zarrin. Maybe they know where Zarrin is. Trained dogs, or gnashers, can sniff people out, you know."
Fuddled, puzzled, Tamlin replied, "You're just making this up to look good for the girl."
"What girl?" demanded Escevar. "Oh, her. No! Would you think a moment, for the love of Selune? All you've done tonight is waste money, and get us thrown out of the house-"
Vox mimed bending over and heaving.
"-and puked in the street," added Escevar. "Hardly the hallmarks of a hero."
"Oh, so? I-I-" Indignant but stumped, Tamlin shut up.
Symbaline interjected, "I know how you can find more coins."
"You do?" asked both men. "How?"
"Magic."
*****
"Hoy, Lord Tamlin! A word, if you please!"
"Guts of the gods!" growled Escevar. "Why doesn't someone squash that bloodsucking leech?"
Halting in the wintry windblown street, Tamlin, Escevar, and Vox hunted for the voice. It came from above. The Blue Coot was a three-story tavern of stone and timber. Stepped balconies tilted alarmingly over the street. In summer, whores, male and female, lolled above and called to potential customers. In winter, the balconies were rimed with ice. Padrig the Palmer leaned from a second-floor balcony, pudgy and tall in his fur coat and floppy hat. Before, begging money, he'd worn a syncophant's smile, but now his grin curled like a fox's. Beside Padrig stood an unsavory youth and older man, both fit to cut a cripple's throat for a penny. Third-floor balconies were dark and unoccupied.
"Master Tamlin, your plan proceeds apace!" Padrig bowed theatrically. "Before long you'll sit the tallest chair in Stormweather Towers!"
"What?" Down in the street, Tamlin leaned back and almost toppled, for liquor still gripped him. "Did-Did I miss something, Paddy? What do you gibber about?"
"Your thirty ravens, sir, were invested just in time! All the city knows your allowance is cut off! Ratigan the Green manufactures poison, and now you've engaged a portrait painter to approach your father! You can't enter Stormweather, but she shall! So while you stay the night in Lantern Alley, your minions will do your dirty work!"
Behind Tamlin, Vox tugged his bearskin cape aside to free his war axe. The fightmaster pointed to the Coot's doors and mimed chopping. Tamlin restrained him, asking both companions, "What's this about? Who's Ratigan? How does he know about the girl? I thought she was innocent! And my tallhouse in Lantern Alley? Wait! If the girl's part of some Soargyl plot-"
"Stop, Deuce! It's claptrap!" Escevar spat in the street. "It's another of his blackmail scams, spinning gossamer out of gossip! He's framing you for some cocked-eyed assassination attempt on your father!"
"Someone plans to assassinate my father?" Tamlin gaped in horror, wishing dearly he weren't drunk. "I mean, it's been tried before, but I'm not involved! But what will Father think?"
"He'll think you masterminded the plot!" Safe on high, Padrig laughed. "I have witnesses and a receipt for thirty ravens! That money will hire enough assassins-I say, what-"
Standing in the street, looking up, Vox suddenly yanked Tamlin back while Escevar bulled him from the front, yelling, "Move!"
On the second-story balcony, Padrig gaped upward, bleated, and dived into the tavern, as did the veteran thug. The young tough lingered too long. Tipped from the third-floor balcony, a massive chest of drawers plummeted and smashed to kindling on the second balcony. The young rogue was pulped as the balcony was torn clean off the building. Wood, oak, ice, and a crushed corpse crashed in the street.
Tamlin and friends peeked from the shelter of a doorway opposite. Patrons spilled from the Blue Coot to gawk at the bloody wreckage. Above, Padrig was nowhere to be seen. But on the third balcony…
"Tamlin, you owe us!" Grinning from the high rail were Garth the Gimble, called the "Snake of Selgaunt" for his green scaly tunic, and the Flame, always in red. Notorious denizens of Selgaunt's shady underground, they'd shared a drink or two with Tamlin in the past. Garth called, "Pay no attention to Padrig! He seines the wind! Hey, what would you pay for his head, or some other part?"
"Uh…" Having said too much tonight, Tamlin curbed his tongue. "Uh, that's not necessary. But thank you, Garth, Flame! I do owe you-something."
With mock salutes, the pair passed into the dark third floor, vanishing like spirits at dawn.
Events rolled by too fast for Tamlin to grasp, but at least his head had cleared. Staring at the shattered balcony in the street, he mused, "I wonder who got squashed."
"A cockroach, if he hangs with Padrig." Wrapped in his cloak, Escevar nodded up the street. "Come on. We've got to gain the Wizards' Guild. They go to bed at dawn, like vampires."
*****
"You have some strange coins and want to find a larger hoard?"
"I guess so," replied Tamlin, still muzzy on details. Then Vox prodded his kidney, and he said, "Yes, that's exactly it. If you please."
Helara was a striking tall woman with a cascading mane of blonde hair she fluffed up repeatedly, as if posing. Her crimson robe was girded by a triple chain of gold hung with charms of all shapes and sizes. The Wizards' Guild was a rambling shamble tucked in the southeast corner of Selgaunt. The upper stories would overlook the city wall and the sea. The gloomy parlor was tricked out with odd-shaped furniture and glittery gewgaws, and reeked of chemicals and ashes and incense. A ten-year-old page waited by the wall and bit down yawns.
"I wish someone would bring us a challenge," Helara rattled. She talked fast yet idly, preoccupied with as many schemes as Padrig the Palmer, except hers usually succeeded. "That's too simple a spell. 'Like attracts like,' whether it's money or love. Prospectors, dwarves, practice it all the time in the mountains: A compass arrow of silver points to silver, with a little coaxing."
"So Symbaline said," Tamlin explained, "though how an artist knows magic I don't get. Can you conjure it tonight? We need to locate these hillmen."
"Eh?" Tamlin blinked. Stuffy smoky air made his head bloat. Too, the guild hall was quiet as a library. Wizards were usually a rowdy lot, but perhaps stayed discreet at home. "I can't really say-"
"When we find the hillmen," interjected Escevar, "and if we can avoid their bloody, gnarly-toothed dogs, we may learn why they tried to snatch Deuce and whether they've seen Zarrin."
"Zarrin Foxmantle?" The mage's blonde eyebrows wigwagged. "She's missing?"
Vox poked Tamlin to stifle an answer. Escevar hedged, "We haven't seen her lately, but Selgaunt's a big city. These whistling hillmen and their gnasher-dogs are a pest. Can you find them?"
"Can you pay?" returned Helara. "Talk on the street says Tamlin's allowance has been cut off."
"That rumor ran on fast legs," groused Tamlin. "Hasn't anyone better things to gossip about than my pocket money?"
"We can pay later," said Escevar. "Draw up a promissary note and he'll sign it."
Helara pouted rouged lips, but agreed. "Give me the odd coins."
"Summon Magdon," she ordered the child page. "And wake Ophelia. We may need her."
All three men blinked when the summoned pair arrived. Sisters, though not twins, each had white hair and white skin and pink eyes. Otherwise, they were squat and chunky as farm girls, hearty enough to wrestle an ox. As the men gawped, Magdon spoke, "No, we're not cursed, merely albinos. What do you require?"
Magdon's blue robe was triply wrapped by a black belt, and her bone-white fingers were stained odd colors. Ophelia's yellow gown was unbelted but embroidered with flames at hem and sleeves. She yawned and sat on a bench and scratched her hair. Helara handed Magdon the silver triangle-cut coins and some instructions, and departed the parlor. Magdon told the men to wait and followed. Ophelia yawned and scratched. When Tamlin asked what she did, she replied only, "I have hidden talents."
With nothing to see or do, the guests slumped onto twisty-backed settles and slanted stools. Borrowing the page as a runner, Escevar gave her a coin and a message for Cale, the butler of Stormweather Towers, emphasizing she not bother Lord Uskevren. Less than an hour passed before three burly men arrived in Uskevren livery, blue with the gold badge of horsehead and anchor. The house-carls came with boar spears so tall they couldn't stand upright in the parlor.
The Halls of Stormweather s-1 Page 13
