The Halls of Stormweather s-1

by Philip Athans

  "It's called Sune's Kisses," he said. "There's also an elvish name for it, which I won't even try to pronounce. The flowers bloom only in the depths of winter, and the leaves are flecked with gold. The name's poetic: the plant is said to have sprouted after the goddess kissed the barren ground in the depths of an especially cold winter. The flowers have an exquisite fragrance. The plant is extremely rare, but the Hulorn is said to have a specimen or two in his garden. That is, if he hasn't trampled them under his horse's hooves while out hunting or let weeds strangle them."

  "Better that someone who appreciates the plant should have it," Larajin agreed, "and that they should turn it into a beautiful perfume, worthy of Sune herself."

  "Indeed," Kremlar said reverently. He looked up at her. "Our usual arrangement, then?"

  Larajin handed the dwarf her shopping list and the knotted kerchief of silver ravens that Mister Cale had given her. "Done," she said. "If Sune's Kisses are in the Hunting Garden, you'll have them by eventime."

  *****

  Larajin rubbed grease into the hinges of the grate, waited a moment, then carefully pushed it up. The metal was cold enough to stick to her bare fingers, and a light snow had started to fall. Snow meant footprints: she'd have to stay in the deepest parts of the garden, lest someone see her tracks.

  She climbed out of the sewer grate into the fountain that was the garden's centerpiece. It had been drained for the winter. The hideous collection of leering sirens at its center, carved from pink marble, were no longer squirting water from their breasts.

  Larajin stepped out of the fountain and made her way into the Hunting Garden. When it had first been laid out, more than a century ago, the garden had contained beds of flowers and only a scattering of trees, but now it had a more natural, forested appearance. Trees arched overhead, and the ground was covered with soft, springy moss. Not so long ago, when the Hulorn's father ruled Selgaunt, the garden had been carefully tended. But Andeth Ilchammar had neglected it for more than a decade, preferring to spend his fivestars on lavish clothes and parties. Meanwhile the gravel paths sprouted grass, and the flowers and shrubs outgrew their weed-choked beds.

  Larajin found the Hunting Garden beautiful even in winter, with the flowers gone to seed and the leaves blown away. Frost sparkled on bare tree branches, and winter berries added spots of ice-bright blue to the underbrush. The garden called to her as no other place in the city did-not even the temple of Sune. Its silences and dappled shadows spoke to a part of her that yearned for the beauty of the wilderness. Already she could feel the knot of tension between her shoulders beginning to unravel.

  Larajin kept her eye on the ground as she walked, diligently searching for specks of red. The dusting of snow would make Sune's Kisses easier to spot. She stopped to straighten a shrub whose branch had been broken by someone's careless footstep and heard a small animal rustling through the bushes. A squirrel? She clucked her tongue, but there was no response.

  Her eye fell on a neat line of footprints in the snow. She recognized them by the size of the oval pads and the lack of claw scuffs as having been made by a house cat, probably one of the Hulorn's many pets.

  The tracks were as fresh as her own. They had a curious drag mark beside them. Had the cat become tangled in something?

  Larajin rubbed her fingers together. "Here, kitt-cat," she said. "Come, kitt."

  The bushes to her left rustled, and Larajin saw a flash of color. Her breath caught in her throat.

  It was no ordinary cat that slunk cautiously out of the undergrowth, but a tressym: a cat with large, feathery wings. The creature had sleek blue-gray fur and wing feathers as colorful as a peacock's, with spots of brilliant turquoise, rich red, and vibrant yellow, all edged in tabby-stripe black.

  One of the wings was folded neatly against the creature's back. The other dragged in the snow, its feathers wet and bedraggled. Larajin could not only see that the wing was broken, but she could also see the cause. Someone- probably the Hulorn's spoiled children-had tried to force an infant-sized shirt over it. The shirt hung in tatters from the broken wing, and the cat mewled in pain and stopped abruptly as it snagged against a branch.

  Larajin clenched her fists in anger. Tressym were magical creatures, sacred to Sune. How dare the Hulorn give one to his children as a plaything!

  Slowly, murmuring her reassurance, she let the winged cat sniff her fingers. "There, little blessed one," she said. "Let me help you."

  The tressym growled softly and lashed its tail as Larajin's fingertips touched its wing. It tried to move away, but the shirt was caught fast on the branch. Hissing, the cat swiped at it with its claws. Larajin heard a soft crack, as something inside the wing splintered further. The tressym's hiss rose to a howl.

  Worse yet, Larajin could hear someone approaching through the woods. It wouldn't be one of the few remaining groundskeepers. They did little enough in summer and ignored the garden completely in winter. It had to be a member of the Hulorn's family, or one of his invited guests. Whoever it was, if Larajin were discovered in the garden, she'd be in big trouble. However, she couldn't leave the tressym to suffer.

  As the footsteps approached through the wood, Larajin prayed to Sune. As she whispered, the cat fell silent. It looked up at Larajin with luminous yellow eyes, as if suddenly understanding what she meant to do. This time, when she reached down to gently tug the shirt away from its wing, its only protest was a soft growl. It remained utterly still until the instant Larajin pulled the scrap of cloth free, then bounded away into the woods, its broken wing trailing behind it.

  Larajin suddenly smelled a sweet fragrance. Looking down, she saw that she was kneeling beside a plant with tiny red flowers and leaves flecked with gold: Sune's Kisses! She was certain the plant hadn't been there a moment ago, but perhaps her knee had brushed away the snow that had covered it. Wherever it had come from, there was no time to dig it up now. Larajin scrambled behind the trunk of a wide tree, just as the source of the footsteps strode into view.

  She was just in time. The walker in the woods was none other than the Hulorn himself. Larajin recognized him at once by the insignia on the breast of his black velvet doublet and his carefully coifed, raven-black hair. He wore hose and a codpiece of royal purple and had an ermine-skin cape wrapped around his broad shoulders. Snow had settled upon it like downy white feathers. He muttered to himself as he walked, his fingers twisting a heavy gold ring on the forefinger of his left hand.

  As the Hulorn passed, Larajin saw that his left hand ended not in fingers, but in clawed, birdlike talons. His face was even more horrible. The side of it turned toward Larajin was covered with glossy black scales, and the bulging eye that stared out of it was slitted like a reptile's.

  For the second time that afternoon, Larajin gasped. So the rumors were true! The Hulorn had altered his body with foul magics.

  The Hulorn slowed his stride. Larajin froze in terror, convinced he had heard her or seen her footprints in the snow. His mismatched eyes searched the forest as if he were looking for something. After a moment he turned and strode away. As he left he stepped on Sune's Kisses, crushing its tiny red flowers underfoot.

  When the sound of footsteps faded, Larajin emerged from hiding and carefully dug the crushed plant from the ground. She looked around for the tressym. She wanted to take it to the Temple of Sune, to ask the priests there to heal its wing, but the tressym's footprints ended at a tree, which it seemed to have climbed. Larajin scanned the branches overhead but couldn't see any sign of the creature.

  It was nearly dusk. She'd never find the tressym now. She'd have to come back tomorrow and look for it then.

  *****

  It was dark by the time Larajin changed her clothes at Kremlar's and picked up the basket of purchases he'd made on her behalf. The dwarf hadn't been happy with the condition of the plant she'd handed him, but after hearing how she'd nearly been caught-by the Hulorn, no less-he'd given her ten ravens, just the same. He didn't seem particularly surprised when he heard o
f the Hulorn's strange appearance, but he did have a word of advice.

  "You'd best keep that to yourself, Larajin. The rich and powerful don't like it when the common folk know their secrets."

  Larajin hurried back through the streets, past the street lanterns, which tindermen were lighting with long, candle-tipped poles. The snow was to the top of her sodden slippers now, and her feet were numb with cold.

  Engrossed in her thoughts, it took her several moments to realize that someone was following her, dogging her shadow. The figure darted from one shade to the next, silent as falling snow. Was he a cutpurse-or worse? Only when he passed briefly through the pool of light cast by a street light did she catch a better look.

  He was a slight man with a narrow face, clad in an unfashionable forest-green cloak whose hood was pulled up over his head. His hair hung to one side in a long braid tied with a feather, and his feet were clad in high soft boots. Noticing that Larajin had spotted him, he stepped quickly into the shadow-but not before she had seen his almond-shaped eyes. Below them, his face was patterned with strange marks.

  Now Larajin was scared. The fellow was an elf. Not only that, but one of the wild elves of the lands north of Sembia. Master Thamalon the Elder might see the wild elves as noble savages, but to Larajin-to most Sembians-they were one step removed from animals, reportedly incapable of compassion or pity. What was one doing in the city?

  For a heartbeat or two, Larajin froze, uncertain what to do. If she took her usual route back to Stormweather Towers, her pursuer would catch her within a block. No members of the city guard were in sight. She was on her own.

  She darted suddenly into a narrow alley that was a shortcut and broke into a run. Her sudden doubling back caught her pursuer by surprise, but the fellow was as fast as a tiger. He ran up behind her and caught her wrist in his hand. As she tried to jerk away, his cloak fell open. Larajin saw the bone-handled dagger at his hip, hanging beside a pouch.

  Larajin dropped the basket, which fell to the snow beside her. She opened her mouth to scream, but the elf clasped his free hand over her mouth. His fingers were long and slender, as brown and hard as tree roots. They smelled of leather and earth.

  He whispered fiercely at her in a foreign language as sibilant as the whispering of tree leaves. Then he drew her close. She tried to pull away, but his narrow arms were as strong as tree roots. He lifted the hand that had been holding her mouth a finger's breadth away from her lips.

  Larajin's heart pounded in her ears. Should she scream? The snow fell thickly, muffling all sound. Her lips began to move in a whispered prayer for mercy.

  "Please," she begged. "Please don't…"

  Larajin suddenly smelled flowers. The elf's nostrils quivered. He sniffed-then his eyes widened.

  The elf's hand clamped back over her mouth. His other hand fell to his waist, to the spot where his knife was sheathed. Suddenly realizing that he could draw it and slit her throat in an instant, Larajin threw herself backwards as hard as she could and wrenched her head to the side.

  "Leave me alone!" she screamed. Then, "Help! Guard!"

  Strangely, the fragrance of Sune's Kisses was even stronger now, as if Larajin were standing on a crushed field of flowers, instead of on snow. Stranger still, the elf released his hold on her wrist. His body stiffened, and his brow furrowed as if he were fighting against some inner demon. Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, his soft leather boots padding on the snow.

  Larajin sagged back against a wall, trembling with relief as she saw a member of the Selgaunt Guard round the corner at a run. By the time he reached her, the elf was gone, swallowed by the shadowy streets. The only assistance the guard could offer was to help her scoop her soggy loaf of bread out of the snow, then escort her home to Stormweather Towers.

  *****

  "Are you sure it was the Hulorn?"

  Tal's voice echoed out of the darkness behind Larajin. He splashed through the sewer behind her, just at the edge of the pool of yellow light cast by the lantern in her hand. As soon as he'd spoken, he clamped the perfumed handkerchief that Kremlar had given him back over his mouth and nose. The tunnels reeked, even at low water when the retreating tide had carried most of the effluent away.

  "Don't you believe me?" Larajin asked.

  "I believe you," Tal said.

  He probably meant it. At nineteen, Tal was four years younger than Larajin. He'd always listened respectfully to whatever she had to say, even though she was just a servant and he the second son of the noble Uskevren House that Larajin served.

  Last night, when Larajin had told him about the Hulorn and how she used the sewers to sneak into the Hunting Garden, Tal had insisted on accompanying her when she went back. He tried to talk her into waiting a day or two, saying that he needed time to memorize his role in Mistress Quickley's new play, but Larajin insisted on rescuing the injured tressym as soon as possible. Tal at last gave in after being assured they'd be back well before dark.

  "The person you saw in the Hunting Garden may have been someone who just looked like the Hulorn," Tal continued. "Or if it was the Hulorn, perhaps he was wearing part of a costume. I heard that the Hulorn's face and hand were injured when a lantern spilled flaming oil on him. Maybe he's wearing a mask and glove to cover his burns. Theatrical devices can be quite realistic-"

  "The scales and talons were part of his body," Larajin asserted. "It was magic-I'm sure of it. Now hush, or we'll be discovered."

  They were approaching one of the street gratings. Pale morning sunlight poured in from up above, together with the sounds of street vendors hawking their wares. The skies had cleared since yesterday, and a trickle of meltwater dripped off the long icicles that hung from the grate. The clouds were breaking up. Larajin could see the full moon in one of the patches of blue sky.

  They passed under the grate and turned down a side tunnel, then down another. Tal's splashes were uneven now, and Larajin paused to wait for him. When he caught up to her again, his face looked gaunt. Then she saw it was only a growth of beard, giving his normally clean-shaven face a shadowed appearance. Odd, that it had grown so quickly. He was sweating, despite the fact that the air in the tunnel was cold enough for Larajin to see her breath.

  "Are you all right, Tal?" she asked.

  "How close are we?" he asked.

  Larajin studied the tunnel. They'd reached a point where it was reinforced; the high stone walls surrounding the Hunting Garden must have been directly above. "Almost there," she answered.

  Tal nodded and waved Larajin on.

  She continued up the tunnel for a few paces more but paused when she saw a pair of small bright eyes glinting at her out of the darkness ahead. After a moment, their owner scurried into view along one of the raised ledges: a large brown rat.

  Larajin stepped to the opposite side of the tunnel to let it pass. She froze in mid-step as it crawled into the light. That was no ordinary rat. It fumbled along the ledge, crawling with one front leg that was a feathered wing and another covered in thick white fur. Its rear legs clicked against the brickwork like tiny hooves. Its face…

  Larajin raised the lantern. "By all that's unholy, Tal, you won't believe this," she said in a trembling whisper. "This rat has a human face."

  In that same moment, Tal-who once more was well back of the lantern light-turned and fled. His feet splashed rapid echoes around the corner the tunnel.

  "Tal!" Larajin shouted. "Where are you going?"

  She turned to follow Tal-and the movement of her swinging lantern illuminated dozens of pairs of eyes, up on the ledge. The tunnel filled with the whispering, clicking, dragging sound of dozens of malformed legs scurrying. With soft splashes, the rats began dropping from the ledge. They swam toward Larajin, their malformed bodies leaving rippling wakes through the murky water.

  One of the rats clawed its way up Larajin's leg. She felt a sharp, stinging pain in her thigh and the hot trickle of blood. She slapped at the writhing creature, knocking it from her, then felt
another rat land on her shoulder. It had the beak of a bird and pecked her ear. Screaming, she whirled around, only to lose her grip on the lantern. It plunged into the sewage, and the light snuffed out with a loud, hot hiss.

  Larajin could feel rats everywhere on her now. Their teeth tore into her skin; their feet plucked like human hands at the fabric of her shirt. She slapped at them furiously, knocking more than one off her body, but others replaced them. One twined itself into her hair.

  Larajin turned and ran. Though the tunnel was in near-total darkness, she knew every step of this sewer. Her eyes were keener than most, especially in dim light-she could just make out the dim reddish-brown blurs of the rats that covered her body. She turned right, then left, back the way they'd come, shedding rats with each step. Several still clung to her, rending her flesh with their teeth.

  Praying she wouldn't slip and plunge face-first into the sewage and be eaten alive by rats as she floundered helplessly in the stink, Larajin ran on. She nearly cried when at last she saw the patch of light looming ahead. When she was under it she jumped-and her flailing hands snapped off one of the icicles. She caught it on the way down, landed miraculously on her feet, and used the pick-sharp icicle to stab at the half dozen rats that still clung to her body.

  She punctured her own skin by accident once, and after killing just two of the rats, the icicle broke. She leaped again-missed and splashed down into the sewage-then leaped a third time and managed to snap off another icicle. Holding it with cold-numbed fingers, she continued stabbing furiously. One by one the rats dropped from her and either floated or swam away.

  Larajin stood panting in the barred patch of sunlight. A dead rat with the lolling, forked tongue of a snake floated in the water at her feet. Above the grate, carts rumbled past, their drivers oblivious to the battle that had just taken place in the sewer below.