The Halls of Stormweather s-1

by Philip Athans

  Back in Westgate, though, he had had no friends, no home, no loyalties, nothing to keep him from turning tail. Now, he had a family, he had a friend, people he loved.

  I'm through running, he resolved. Fortified, he strode downstairs to look for Lord Uskevren.

  He found him seated amidst the book-lined walls of the first floor library, his lord's typical nighttime haunt. Thamalon sat in his favorite chair-a plain high back fashioned from Archendale walnut-and considered an unfinished chess match that sat on the low table before him. A pair of silver goblets and an open bottle of Storm Ruby rested on the floor beside his chair, the wine nearly half gone. The glow of the blazing hearth fire highlighted the tense lines of Thamalon's face.

  Cale stood silently in the doorway, suddenly unwilling to disturb his lord. Taking in the wine and incomplete chess match, he knew that another game between Talbot and Thamalon had ended in shouting. Perhaps now was not the best time "Erevis!" Thamalon caught sight of him and gave a tired smile. "It's good to see you back. How went the business with your cousin?"

  Cale winced inwardly. Years ago, when it had become clear to him that information about the goings-on in Selgaunt's underworld would be useful to Thamalon, he had concocted a fictional cousin, a disreputable man who moved in the darker circles and with whom Cale remained in reluctant contact. While the information Cale provided under the guise of this cousin had repeatedly proven useful to Thamalon in sniffing out this or that plot by a rival house, mention of it only served to remind Cale that his life was a lie.

  "The business went well, my lord. It took an unexpected turn, but all is well. Or will be. The affair is yet incomplete, and I must ask a favor."

  "Of course." Thamalon gestured at the cushioned chair on the other side of the chessboard. "Come in and sit down, old friend."

  Cale strode slowly across the hardwood floor and sat rigidly in the chair.

  "Wine?" Thamalon asked as he refilled his own goblet.

  "No thank you, my lord."

  "Care to finish? " Thamalon gestured at the chessboard, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  Cale returned the smile halfheartedly and studied

  Talbot's jade pieces. Thamalon always played ivory. After a few moments he shook his head. "My lord seeks to entrap me. Ivory checkmates in four moves."

  Laughing aloud in his deep voice, Thamalon raised his goblet in a mock toast. It pleased Cale to see his lord's spirits lightened. "Excellent, Erevis, excellent. How is it that we've never played?"

  Cale smiled softly. "Because I have no desire to challenge my lord's skills. A wise man knows better."

  Thamalon dismissed the flattery with a tired wave. "If that were true, old friend, then one would be forced to conclude that Selgaunt is filled with fools, for I find challenges at every turn. Without your aid…" He trailed off and bowed his head in fatigue. When he looked up, he again wore a tired smile. "I forget myself. You spoke of a favor?"

  At that instant, Cale came within a bladewidth of confessing everything. Seeing his lord refuse to bow under the weight of disappointing sons, an aloof wife, and constant plots by rival houses, he found himself overcome with admiration. How could he keep secrets from this man who confided everything to him?

  His past rushed up his throat, the story eager to be told. It would be so easy…

  No! he thought. Not even Thamalon could forgive such a lie.

  With a conscious effort of will, he swallowed the temptation and instead said, "Yes, Lord. Forgive my presumption, but my cousin remains in some minor difficulty. I wonder if I might have leave to use one of the old carriages and the tallhouse on Lurvin Street for the next two days."

  At that, Thamalon sat forward, eyes intent, his bushy brows narrowed in thought. "This must be a serious matter for you to put yourself out so, Erevis. Perhaps I can be of some help."

  "No, Lord," Cale quickly replied, even while loving Thamalon for the offer. "I must do this alone. I cannot risk the Uskevren reputation by having the doings of my cousin associated with the family. This is a matter to be kept between him and me."

  "Hmm." Cale saw discernment in Thamalon's gaze and knew the Owl suspected the story to be false. Yet his lord respected his privacy and probed no further. Cale loved him all the more for that.

  "Very well then, Erevis. The carriage is yours, as is the tallhouse."

  "Thank you, Lord." Cale unfolded his tall frame from the chair and rose. "Lord Uskevren, I do not know how this business will play out, but-"

  "Erevis," Thamalon cut him off, eyes aglow with worry, "will you not let me help? I see that you are distressed. You of all people need keep no secrets from me. I have trusted you utterly for years. Will you not trust me with this?"

  Cale choked on the bitter taste of his own lies. He lowered his head to hide his suddenly welling eyes. I have trusted you utterly. He did not even trust himself enough to reply.

  After an uncomfortably long silence, Thamalon sighed and nodded. "I understand. We all have our secrets. Take care of yourself then, Erevis."

  "Yes, Lord," Cale managed to mutter, and hurried from the library.

  Overcome with guilt, he stumbled to his quarters. After lighting a candle on the night table he collapsed into his reading chair and held his head in his hands. He sat that way a long while, inhaling the smell of his deceptions. It had been his idea to plant a guild spy within House Uskevren. It was he who had arranged for the previous butler to die in a street robbery. His doing, all of it.

  That was before I knew them, he rationalized, before I changed He had left his door open, and a soft knock on the door-jamb snapped his head up.

  Framed in the soft glow of the candlelight, Thazienne's beauty stole his breath. Tight-fitting leather breeches and a laced jerkin highlighted the sleek curves of her figure. She wore her raven hair cut short, Cormyrean fashion, accenting a smooth complexion and shining green eyes. She somehow managed to look both naive and self-possessed all at the same time. That beauty-that fearless innocence-drew Cale to her like a lodestone to iron.

  "I heard you come in," she said with a playful smile, "and saw that your door was open-" When she saw his face, her smile vanished into a look of worried concern. "Erevis, what's wrong?" She rushed across the room and sat on the arm of his chair. Her light touch on his forearm sent his heart spinning. Her smell, of lavender and rose oil, intoxicated him.

  She is beyond you, fool, he reprimanded himself. Ten years your younger and the daughter of your lord. What would she have to do with a fraud and liar like you?

  His internal protestations melted in the warmth that came off her body.

  "Erevis, what is it? Has something happened?"

  He got a firm grip on himself before looking into her eyes. "Are you going out?" He made a gesture that took in her thieving leathers.

  She shot him a look that would have done her mother proud. "Do not change the subject, Erevis Cale. I asked you if something has happened." Despite her stern tone, her soft eyes glowed with concern. Cale wilted.

  "Yes, Thazienne. Something has happened. Something… terrible. I have to go away for a while. I hope… I hope to come back soon."

  She sat bolt upright. "Hope? What do you mean? Where are you going?"

  He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Thazienne-"

  "Is this some task my father set you on? If he is putting you in danger…" She jumped to her feet and looked as though she might storm off to find Thamalon on the instant.

  "No, no, it's nothing like that." He brushed his fingers across her arm to turn her around. Her skin was so smooth. "It's nothing like that," he said again, the feel of her flesh still tingling on his fingertips. "It's personal business."

  "Personal? Then tell me what it is. Maybe I can help." She pulled back her jerkin to reveal a dagger at her belt and Cale caught a tantalizing flash of skin. "You know I'm no amateur to our kind of work."

  Our kind of work. Thazienne knew that he could handle himself in the shadows but nothing
more about his past. He had played down his skills and explained them as the result of a wild youth.

  "No," he conceded, "I know you're no amateur." He studied her eyes, seeking her soul. She stared back for only a moment before turning shyly away. Despite her "wilding," he was confident that her hands remained free of real bloodshed. He wanted them to stay that way. "This is a different kind of work."

  "You think I can't handle it?" Her stance and the hard set of her jaw told him only one answer was acceptable.

  "No, it's not that. I have to do it alone."

  "Why?"

  "Damn it, Tazi, I can't tell you why!"

  She gave a start at that. He never called her Tazi, only Mistress Uskevren in the presence of others, or Thazienne when they were alone. She shook her surprise off quickly and said, "You mean you won't tell me why."

  He hung his head, frustrated but unwilling to give in to anger. Not when this might be the last time he ever saw her. "I just can't, Thazienne. Please? I can't."

  She huffed and considered him coolly for a long moment. "Very well then, Erevis Cale. Have it your way." She spun on her heel and stomped for the hall. Her steps slowed as she crossed the room, as though with each step she took her anger dissipated fractionally. When she reached the doorway she stopped, quivering, her back to him. "You be careful, Erevis," she said without turning. "Whatever this is, be careful. You take care of this the same way you take care of everything, all right? Then… come back."

  Cale could hear the tears in her voice, but before he could say a word, she pulled the door shut and hurried down the hall.

  "Goodbye, Tazi," he whispered through welling eyes.

  A fitful sleep came with difficulty and he rose before dawn.

  *****

  The red wax dripped like blood onto the parchment, sealing the letter, likely sealing his fate. Cale had written it earlier in the morning, his light script an ironic counterpoint to the weight in his soul. Tonight, the letter read. Tenth hour. Drover's Square. Minimal Guard. A simple letter with a message that would be meaningful only to Riven-but its delivery would change Cale's life. Or end it. This letter would set everything into motion, and make his choice irrevocable.

  All choices are irrevocable, he chided himself. That's why you're in this fix in the first place.

  He had made most of the necessary preparations before dawn, while the Uskevren still slept. He thought it best to act quickly so that Riven would have minimal time to assemble the hit team. Without explanation, he had informed the staff of his upcoming absence and set the household affairs in order. He had personally readied the carriage and loaded it with a locked wooden trunk taken from his quarters.

  Like a coffin holding a long dead corpse, that trunk entombed the trappings of his past life: enchanted leather armor taken from the bloody body of a rival, Selbrin Del, on a wharf in Westgate; the still keen-edged blades, both long and short, with which he did his work; and the deadly, magical necklace and the potion of healing given him by Amaunt Corelin, a grateful mage. He had hoped to leave that trunk locked forever, the contents never to be exhumed, but circumstances had made that impossible. The old Cale had to be resurrected.

  Smiling mirthlessly, he rose from the walnut desk and strode across the parlor to the orange uniformed messenger boy standing in the doorway.

  "Take this to the Black Stag," he said, handing over the letter. The boy abruptly cut his bored yawn short, and his eyes grew to the size of coins. Cale suppressed a smile. "You know it?"

  "Yes, sir," the boy said, not quite able to hide a nervous quaver.

  "Good. Hand deliver this to the barkeep there. His name is Jelkins. Tell him this is for Riven. Do you understand?"

  "Jelkins, the barkeep at the Black Stag. For Riven. Yes, sir."

  Cale pulled a shining fivestar from his vest pocket and pressed the gold coin into the nervous messenger's hand. The boy gasped; messengers usually received only a silver raven.

  "Thank you, sir!"

  "You're welcome. That will be all."

  "Good day then, sir." Grinning, the boy buttoned his coat against the chill, pulled on a pair of wool mittens, and hurried out. Cale figured the grin would last only until the boy forgot the shining coin and remembered his dark destination. He needn't have been afraid, though. The Stag wasn't dangerous by day. The animals only came out at night.

  *****

  Cale glided through the darkness like a ghost. Stalking through the shadowy streets of the warehouse district with long sword and dagger at his belt, he felt surprisingly-and horribly-right. Though he normally suppressed his dark side, tonight he consciously gave it the reins. If he were to succeed, he would need the old Cale: Cale the assassin and thief, not the reborn butler. He just hoped he could separate the two again when the night was done.

  He approached Drover's Square from the south, stopped a block short, and ducked into the shadows of a wheelwright's workshop. Before him loomed the tall brick warehouses typical of the district. The wide streets that he would use as his approach sat empty but for the occasional whirlwind of snow whipped up by the bitter wind. He frowned thoughtfully at that. While the cold month of Nightal was hardly the height of caravan season, it was still unusual for the streets to be so empty. Trade never stopped entirely in Selgaunt, even in the height of winter, even at this hour. The strangely forlorn streets made him uneasy.

  Calm down, he ordered himself. There's no one here because those guards who weren't driven off by the cold were paid off by Riven. Standard Knives practice on a hit.

  Still, Cale had not survived years in the underworlds of Westgate and Selgaunt by acting incautiously. He silently watched the approach to the square for another few minutes, wary. Still no one. His keen hearing picked up no sounds. Even the ubiquitous rumble of carts along Rauncel's Ride was swallowed by the howl of the wind. Satisfied at last, he prowled through the shadows toward the three-story warehouse that was his first target.

  He had only a bit more than a quarter of an hour to do his work-a narrow margin. When the bells of the Temple of Song sounded the tenth hour, a disguised Jak would drive the carriage in from the west, then all the Nine Hells would break loose.

  Cale knew what to expect from the Night Knives hit team. Since his letter to Riven had specified only a light guard, he anticipated no more than twelve men. The Righteous Man could spare no more; after all, the guild numbered only thirty or forty men in total. Six or seven of Riven's team would be stationed on the ground of the square, armed with nets and mancatchers. Another four or six slingers will be stationed on the rooftops, he thought grimly, as he flattened himself against the rear of the warehouse and gazed up its towering brick face. To provide cover if something goes wrong.

  They would be the first to die.

  Pleased with how easily his skills and killer's mindset had returned to him, he gave a hard smile. He had moved soundlessly from shadow to shadow. He wore his leather armor more easily than he did his butler's doublet. His longsword and daggers hung comfortably from his belt. The Night Knives were about to die.

  This is who you are, a voice whispered in his mind, an uncomfortable thought to which he hurriedly added, at least for tonight.

  He ran his hands over the wall. The bricks were uneven, weathered, craggy. An easy climb, even in his leather gloves. He began to ascend.

  Within minutes he had scaled the forty feet to the roof. Still he heard nothing, and still he saw no one on the street below. Slowly, he peeked over the edge, careful to keep his mouth below the lip of the roof so the cloud of his breath would not give him away.

  He spotted them fifty feet away on the opposite side of the rooftop, two Knives assassins holding slings stood silhouetted by Selune's pale light. They were leaning over the far edge of the building to look down on the square, their backs to Cale, their cloaks whipping in the wind. Without a sound, he slipped over the low safety wall and crouched in the darkness. No response from the Night Knives. Slowly, he withdrew his long sword from its oiled scabbard,
his eyes on the assassins all the while. Still no movement. He allowed himself a cool, satisfied smile.

  His approach would have to be flawless. Except for a large wooden rain vat and some unused crates, the rooftop provided no cover. Undeterred, he stalked forward, hugging the shadows near the roof's edge, staying out of the moonlight. When he was within five paces, he closed his eyes for a moment, steeled himself, and rushed forward.

  Before he had taken three strides, he slipped in a pool of fluid. His feet flew skyward and his back slammed down on the roof-hard.

  "Ooomph." The impact blew the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he struggled to rise and bring his blade to bear, knowing two Night Knives were rushing him, knowing he had only seconds to live.

  Nothing happened.

  Still gasping, he sat up and reoriented himself. Inexplicably, the assassins had not moved. The fluid he had slipped in, the sticky, still-warm fluid that now soaked his cloak Blood. The ground near the assassins was covered in it. He stared dumbly at his blood-covered fingers while a nervous shudder raced up his spine. He jumped to his feet and pulled both Knives back from the edge. Slit throat and a stab through the chest. Both had been bled out and put back at their posts. Professional work.

  "Dark," he softly cursed.

  He looked down on the square and saw nothing. What in the Hells?

  The bells of the House of Song began to sound the tenth hour. Jak would be coming.

  A terrible thought took shape in his mind. He raced to the eastern edge of the rooftop and looked across the alley to the adjacent warehouse. He could see nothing in the darkness. Without hesitation, he leaped across the eight-foot void and hit the adjacent roof in a roll. He leaped to his feet, caution thrown to the bitter wind, and sped to the edge overlooking the square. Two more corpses lay in a bloody pool, their unused slings at their feet.

  The bells ceased tolling and the sudden silence felt ominous. Still nothing in the square. "Dark and Empty," Cale muttered. "Jak is driving into an ambush."