The Halls of Stormweather s-1

by Philip Athans

  "So you say," replied Riven. "But you've been 'working on it' for years. The Righteous Man is growing impatient, and so am I. No one is that clean, Cale. Your inability to come up with some dirt makes a man wonder."

  Cale leaned forward in his chair with narrowed eyes. That comment hit too close to the mark. "Wonder about what?" Under the table, his left hand fingered a dagger hilt.

  Riven returned his cold stare, unflinching. "About where your loyalties lie."

  Cale sniffed derisively and leaned back in his chair as though unconcerned. "It's no wonder you're a lackey. You don't see the value of having a Night Knives agent in the Uskevren household? I've proved my worth to the Righteous Man ten times over, but I can't find something that doesn't exist. We'll have to use someone else."

  Riven laughed, a sound like a hacking cough, and said, "It's already been decided. We're using Uskevren. He's got the most influential voice among the Old Chauncel. Since you've been unable to come up with anything, I've convinced the Righteous Man to address matters more directly."

  At the words "more directly," a pit formed in Cale's stomach. The Old Chauncel was a common name for the small set of wealthy families that comprised the money-and power-elite of the city of Selgaunt. Few were nearly as "clean" as the Uskevren, but fewer still deserved the attention of the Night Knives. The Uskevren had Thamalon at its head, and Thamalon commanded respect. Cale knew what was coming next.

  Riven went on with a grin, "It's like this: You're going to arrange the kidnapping of his youngest son. What's his name… Talbot? While we're holding the little bastard, his father will do exactly what we say. If not, I'll split little Talbot from gut to gullet and move on to the next son."

  With difficulty, Cale contained the storm that exploded in his soul and managed to maintain a calm facade. Talbot to be kidnapped! The boy had only recently returned to Selgaunt after being involved in a hunting accident in the forests outside the city. He wasn't even living at Stormweather Towers, the family's city estate. Since the accident, he had been residing in one of the tallhouses the Uskevren had scattered around the city. Where he's an easy target, Cale thought. Riven obviously knew none of that or Talbot would have been taken already, without Cale's involvement.

  Cale took a deep breath and tried to craft an excuse on the fly. "Kidnapping the boy is unwise," he said. "Thamalon will retaliate afterward. All the Scepters in the city will come down on the guild." Selgaunt's Scepters could make business difficult if a noble like Thamalon forced them into action. Cale shook his head. "No, it's definitely unwise. Tell the Righteous Man it can't be done."

  "I'm not telling him anything," Riven spat and slammed his fist down on the table. "You'll do exactly what you're told. The Righteous Man understands the risks. You figure out a time when the boy is vulnerable and leave word for me here, with Jelkins." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the skinny barkeep. "I'll assemble the team. You've got two days."

  Somehow, despite his numbness, Cale managed a nod. He pushed back his chair and stood on legs gone weak. Two days! A mere two days! He must betray Thamalon, disobey the Righteous Man, or confess his past and lose everything that mattered. Either way, nothing would stay the same. If he betrayed his lord, he could not live with himself. If he disobeyed the Righteous Man, he would be dead within a tenday. If he confessed his past, Thamalon would dismiss him and Thazienne would hate him. He could not bear that.

  In a flash of desperate inspiration, he saw a way out-plunge his blade into Riven's throat right now. No one in the Stag would bat an eye, and he could concoct an explanation for the Righteous Man afterward. Hells, he had been doing exactly that, concocting stories for the Righteous Man, for the past nine years. Everything could go on as it had.

  His hand drifted to his dagger hilt. Riven hunched over the table, finishing his ale, unsuspecting. Cale stared at the back of the assassin's neck, the exposed flesh visible, beckoning. One thrust through the throat, a gurgle, then it would be over, just as with the man back in the alley.

  "Unwise," Riven said without looking up. "That, Cale, would be unwise."

  Cale heard the smile, and the challenge, in the assassin's words. Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the Stag. He needed to think.

  *****

  When he reached the street, he nearly collapsed. The hopelessness of his situation weighed on him like a hundredweight. He bitterly recalled a concept from dwarven philosophy and mouthed it like a curse. "Korvikoum," he hissed. Linguists often translated the term as "fate" or "destiny," but Cale knew its meaning to be subtly different-something more like "the necessary consequence of previous choices."

  In that instant, he hated dwarven philosophy. "Fate" put responsibility on a cosmic force with designs of its own. Korvikoum put responsibility squarely on his own shoulders.

  "I will not betray the Uskevren," he vowed to the night. "I will not. I'll die before I see Talbot hurt." He found the explicitness of the resolution unexpectedly liberating. "I will die first," he vowed to himself again, this time with a grim smile.

  He took a great breath of cool winter air, tasted the salt tang of the wind blowing off Selgaunt Bay, and began to walk. And think. He had to find another way out.

  The well-tended streets he trod fairly reeked of wealth. Shop after shop lined the broad avenues, and even the most common sported at least a colorful awning and fresh paint on the shutters. Many had custom stonework on the rainspouts or carved windowsills made from exotic wood. Sculptures of the oddest creatures-centaurs, chimeras, and even satyrs-stood in nearly every public square, the artisans no doubt commissioned by the city's ridiculous ruler, the Hulorn. Cale found Selgaunt laughable. The city tried hard to look the center of sophistication and gentility but only managed to look like a street whore in full makeup. The veneer of wealth obscured a city full of decadent, back-stabbing nobles little better than well-educated guttersnipes. Except for his own lord, of course.

  Since taking his position at Stormweather Towers, Cale had come to respect Thamalon Uskevren as fair, honest, and self-made-a rare man indeed among the jaded nobility that made up Selgaunt's Old Chauncel. Cale admired the Old Owl's mettle. Over the years he and Thamalon had become friends of sorts, colleagues even, and if Cale wanted to maintain that relationship he had to thwart Talbot's kidnapping without revealing that he was a spy for the Night Knives-Selgaunt's guild of assassins and thieves. Only one option seemed open to him, and it was desperate. And dangerous.

  He had nothing else.

  He thought through the rudiments of a plan as he walked, then turned east and headed for the gambling dens along the wharf. If his plan were to succeed, he would need help. He could trust only one, very short person.

  *****

  He sought Jak in three gaming houses before he finally spotted the halfling seated at a card table in the Scarlet Knave. A disreputable establishment with a mediocre bar and eatery attached, the Knave had of late become popular among Selgaunt's lesser nobles. The place drew bored second sons eager to gamble away their families' fivestars like a sugar-ice street vendor drew children. Nobles, however, made up only a fraction of the thick crowd. Everyone from itinerant adventurers and legitimate merchants to rogues and pimps thronged the gaming tables and pleasure rooms. In places like the Knave, Cale observed, Selgaunt's true nature bobbed to the surface-the otherwise clear lines of social hierarchy gave way to the universal brotherhood of vice.

  Before approaching Jak's table, Cale wove through the crowd and flashed enough fivestars at the barkeep to secure one of the many private meeting rooms upstairs. Typically, the rooms were used for exclusive games, secret business deals, or illicit liaisons. Cale wanted one for a more mundane purpose-what he had to tell Jak was for their ears alone.

  After watching the door for a time to be sure Riven had not followed him, he casually worked his way across the carpeted floor until he stood opposite Jak's table, perhaps seven paces away. Through the shifting crowd, he glimpsed a sea of coins glittering on
the table before the trim, three-and-a-half foot-tall halfling. The little man's mop of red hair bobbed up and down as he chattered good-naturedly with the six disgruntled nobles who shared his table but not his good fortune. They were playing Blades and Scales, a card game that required skill and luck in equal parts. Cale knew Jak Fleet to have plenty of both, despite the fact that he looked as much like an adolescent human boy as a professional gambler. The fops hadn't a chance.

  With his suede cap, embroidered blue doublet, and Sembian high boots, Jak looked every bit a miniature fop himself. Only his long, pointed sideburns and shrewd green eyes indicated his maturity. In truth, the little man was both a priest of Brandobaris, the halfling god of thieves, and a rogue of no small skill. He was also Cale's only friend in Selgaunt.

  After a few minutes, Cale caught Jak's eye. The little man's expression of happy surprise vanished in an instant when Cale surreptitiously shook his head to indicate caution. Instantly, Jak returned his attention to the game and only occasionally cast a guarded glance toward Cale.

  Though Jak operated as an independent in Selgaunt's gang-dominated underworld-a situation Cale thought of as akin to swimming the shark-infested Inner Sea with only a table knife for protection-the little man still knew guild hand-cant. So while Jak seemingly paid full attention to the card game, Cale used a series of subtle hand gestures to communicate a message: "Upstairs. Number seven. Urgent."

  Jak gave a slight nod while laughing at a noble's joke, and Cale made his way upstairs. The halfling would come as soon as he could.

  Cale did not have to wait long. Within a quarter-hour, the meeting room door opened and Jak strolled in, teeth shining and purse chinking.

  "This must be important for you to interrupt that run of Tymora's favor," he observed, invoking the name of the goddess of fortune. "What's going on, Cale? Have I stepped on the Righteous Man's toes again?" Jak often inadvertently interfered with the Night Knives' operations. The fact that he was still alive showed he did indeed have the favor of Tymora.

  "No, no, it's nothing like that." Cale blew out a sigh and ran a hand over his head. "I have a problem, Jak. I need help."

  Jak's face grew serious. He slid into the chair across from Cale and rested his small hands on the table. "Go on."

  "The Knives want me to arrange the kidnapping of Talbot Uskevren." He did not need to explain the dilemma further. Jak knew all about Cale's position with the Knives and that for the past several years he had been secretly shielding the Uskevren from the Righteous Man, rather than exposing the family's vulnerabilities.

  The little man eased back in his chair and blew out a soft whistle. "That does bring the boil to a head now doesn't it? Dark, Cale! I told you to get out of the Night Knives years ago."

  Cale smiled tiredly. "Easier said than done, my friend. The Righteous Man isn't going to let me walk away. I'm too valuable to him. If I tried, he'd either kill me or tip my past to Thamalon, and…" He shook his head, unwilling to voice the thought aloud.

  "And that would be that," Jak finished. His green eyes flashed angrily. "The Righteous Man indeed! He's a murderous priest of Mask, by the Trickster's hairy toes." He drummed his hairy-knuckled fingers on the tabletop and stared earnestly at Cale. "What are you going to do?"

  Cale steepled his fingers before his face and looked Jak in the eye. He had already decided not to mince words. "I'm going to ambush the hit team and kill every one of them. Afterward, I'll tell the Righteous Man that a rival gang ambushed us and only I escaped."

  Cale had expected Jak to tell him he was mad, but to the halfling's credit, he merely nodded. "That could work, assuming no one escapes. Who's leading the team?"

  "Drasek Riven."

  "Riven," Jak softly hissed. "That figures." He sat back in his chair and stroked his chin, considering. Cale waited silently, unwilling to press. He was asking a lot of the little man.

  To his surprise, Jak took only a few moments before flashing a grim smile. "We've been friends a long time, Erevis," the halfling said. "If you need me, I'm in."

  Cale stared solemnly at his friend. Though grateful for Jak's offer, he could not yet accept it. Not before he told the little man everything. Cale could not ask Jak to risk his life without knowing the kind of man he had agreed to help.

  "Jak, I need…" He stopped, cleared his throat, and started over. "You don't know much about me, about my past I mean, before I came to Selgaunt."

  Jak held up a small palm and shook his head. "That's true enough, but that's your business, Cale. You don't owe me any explanations."

  "I know that, but under the circumstances… I think you should know who you're helping."

  Jak studied him carefully, trying to read his face. At last, the halfling blew out a sigh and sank into his chair. After crossing his arms over his chest, he looked like a man bracing for a storm. "All right. If you insist."

  Cale hesitated, suddenly unsure of where to begin. He longed to get the secret off his soul, but feared Jak's response. If the little man balked, he had no one else to whom he could turn. He forced himself to begin. "You know that I came to Selgaunt from Westgate?"

  Jak nodded. Westgate straddled the trade route between the Inner Sea and the Sword Coast; a large, rich city brimming with merchants and thieves, pirates and assassins.

  "I came here because I was running."

  Jak leaned forward at that, his green eyes curiously intense. "From what?"

  Cale looked at his hands while he spoke, embarrassed by his past. "When I was just a boy, I was recruited by the Night Masks."

  Jak gave a low whistle at the mention of Westgate's infamous, but now defunct, thieves' guild. "Dark," he softly cursed.

  Cale ignored him and continued: "I received all the standard training…" He hesitated at Jak's raised eyebrows. The halfling obviously had some idea of what Night Mask "standard training" entailed. Cale hurried on. "… but got moved to letters work pretty quick."

  Jak gave a start. "You? A letters man? Translations and such?" He chuckled softly at Cale's nod. "I always knew you were too damned smart for your own good, Cale. How many languages do you speak?"

  "Nine."

  "Nine!"

  Cale sighed in exasperation. "If you'll stop interrupting," he snapped, "maybe I can tell you the rest before dawn."

  Jak started to say something, thought better of it, and closed his mouth with pop. He sank into his chair, sulking.

  Cale suppressed a smile. The little man looked like a petulant child ordered into a corner. Cale spoke his next words in a soft, tense voice. "For a lot of years, I did what Mask guildsmen did-steal, kill, intimidate. I got tired of it, even doing letters work, so I started skimming coin. When it got too hot, I ran-here." He gestured expansively and gave Jak a slight smile. "You know the rest."

  Jak sat silently for a moment, staring at Cale as though wondering whether or not it was all right to speak. When Cale gave a nod, Jak sat up in his chair and adopted an overly serious mien. "Indeed, I do know the rest of your sorry tale, my bald friend. It goes something like this: Despite the advice of your intrepid and fearless halfling friend, Jak Fleet, you foolishly fell in with the Righteous Man and his gang of thugs. The guild being otherwise filled with incompetents, you rose quickly through its ranks. Ultimately, you developed this harebrained scheme to place guild operatives in the noble houses." He looked up with a straight face, his green eyes all innocence. "So far, so good?"

  Cale smiled despite himself. Jak grinned and went on.

  "Unfortunately for you, you came to actually like Thamalon Uskevren and to care for his daughter even more. You protected them over the years by feeding the Righteous Man harmless information. Oh, you occasionally dropped some juicy bit that hurt this or that noble family but never anything that seriously compromised the Uskevren. Now that very scheme has turned around and bitten you in the tail."

  Korvikoum, Cale thought.

  "And now your pigeons have come home to roost."

  Cale nodded.

 
"And now-"

  "I get the point," Cale snapped.

  "Good." Jak sat silently for a moment. He shook his head and his face grew serious. "That's a tangled web, my friend, and a lot for one man to carry around. I don't know how you've done it."

  Cale held his tongue. He suddenly felt very tired.

  "Erevis Cale isn't even your real name, is it?" The halfling spoke softly. "Can you tell me?"

  Cale shook his head. "You don't want to know."

  Jak accepted that with a slow nod. "I guess what I call you doesn't really matter anyway. I already know what makes up the man." Thoughtful, the halfling reached into his belt pouch and pulled out his ivory-bowled pipe. Cale watched silently while his friend tamped the pipeweed and lit. His entire life turned on Jak's next words. After a time, Jak spoke.

  "This doesn't change anything, Cale. I'm still your friend and I'm still in." He blew out a cloud of aromatic smoke.

  Cale merely nodded, overcome, too grateful for words. He had a chance.

  "Plan?" Jak asked from around his pipe.

  Cale smiled. "Ever drive a nobleman's carriage?"

  *****

  Near midnight, Cale returned to the brooding turrets of Stormweather Towers and found the household dark. He quietly entered via the servant's entrance and padded up the spiral staircase to the spartan suite that served as his quarters. Needing to speak to Thamalon right away, he changed into his butler's attire-ill-fitting black pants, white shirt, purple-and-black laced doublet-and silently made the rounds of the great house for what might be the last time.

  After tomorrow night, he thought sadly, I may never set foot here again.

  The plan to ambush the Night Knives hit team presented tremendous risk. He and Jak would need Tymora's own luck to get out alive.

  I've got no choice, he reminded himself. Telling Thamalon the truth would cost him everything. The Owl would not trust him again, and Thazienne would never forgive the betrayal. He could run away, of course, as he had from Westgate.