Lord of Stormweather

by David Gross

  Radu crept lightly across the roof, holding his scabbard up off the shingles with his hardened right hand. The assassin knelt beside the garret window. Despite the chill air, the shutters were open, and a long white curtain waved out like a flag. Inside, a pair of voices rose above a noisy fire.

  Chaney looked past Radu’s shoulder, into the tallhouse garret.

  The unfinished room was filled with paintings. There were paintings on easels, paintings on the walls, paintings in stacks ten deep on the floor. Most of them were horrid, abstract landscapes. A few were barely recognizable as human nudes with black blots for eyes and raw scratches where mouths should be.

  In one dark corner lurked a quartet of unfinished sculptures, abandoned on their pedestals. Crusty jars of dried clay rested beneath them, along with boxes of sculpting tools.

  Frazzled brushes sprung like dead flowers from paint-stained vases in shelves to one side of a low fireplace. Palettes and paint pots, jars of gray water, trowels, knives, rags, bottles of linseed oil, charcoal sticks, and ragged sheaves of sketch paper littered the room. A sheet-draped stool and a low fainting couch crowded a small canvas stage.

  On the other side of the fireplace was a messy nest of a bed smothered in dirty laundry, books, lithographs, and drawings. Next to the bed, a huge water pipe squatted on a low table. Upon its cap was a lascivious depiction of divine Sune, her nude body entwined with that of a constrictor snake. Around the brass sheath of the pipe cavorted naked princes and virgins, while within its glass chamber steamed orange chunks of enchanted ice.

  Chaney focused on the two men inside the room. With their high cheekbones, fair skin, and striking black hair and eyes, they were unmistakably Malveens.

  Chaney barely knew Laskar. The man was almost as old as Chaney’s father, and he’d been lord and master of House Malveen for as long as Chaney remembered. Twenty years past, that title meant power and influence. In the Year of Rogue Dragons, it meant nothing, and the sadness of that knowledge showed in Laskar’s heavy eyes as he sat on the edge of the model’s stage.

  Pietro stood between a wet canvas and a pair of tall iron candelabra. He was the youngest, and as far as Selgaunt knew, the only other surviving Malveen male. Barely older than Chaney, he had already cultivated a reputation for degeneracy usually reserved for syphilis-ridden septuagenarians. Pietro stood a hand’s width shorter than Laskar and Radu. His skin had an unhealthy sheen in the candlelight, and his teeth were stained from pipe smoke.

  “At least consider the girls,” said Laskar. He ran his ink-stained fingers through his thinning black hair, leaving a smudge on his temple. “Their prospects depend solely on the family reputation.”

  Pietro smiled at the blot on his brother’s forehead but didn’t point it out. Instead, he dabbed a richer shade of yolk on a jaundiced landscape.

  “Your fat wife’s the only one who complains that darling Gellie’s unmarried. I doubt the girl minds much. She has no shortage of callers, even if none of the boys’ fathers will consent to marriage. If you took your own sow to bed more often, she might squeal a little less about—”

  In two long strides, Laskar crossed the distance between them and slapped Pietro’s face. The shock of the blow sent the paintbrush tumbling through the air. It landed with a fat yellow skid mark on the bare floor.

  Chaney heard the faint creak of leather as Radu tensed beside him. He wondered what emotions stirred beneath the killer’s porcelain mask as he observed the confrontation between his brothers. Considering what happened the last time Radu quarreled with a sibling, Chaney fancied that he might just witness the end of the Malveen line then and there.

  Two cheerful thoughts in one night, Chaney thought. How can I complain about this ghostly existence?

  “I—I am sorry,” said Laskar. He stared at his hand, still flush from the blow.

  “You would never dare strike me when our brother was alive,” Pietro said as he tenderly probed his mouth.

  “I wish you were the one—!” Laskar choked off his retort.

  “What? That I was the one who was dead?” Pietro laughed, showing his bloodstained teeth. “What a coward! You can’t even say it aloud.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Laskar. He turned away from Pietro to stare at the fire. “I simply cannot bear your vulgar mouth. You may be my brother, but sometimes I could just …”

  “We both know you will never cast me out,” said Pietro. He retrieved his brush and swirled it in a dingy jar.

  “I do not like these obscene … things. I like your selling them to Mad Andy even less.”

  “But you do not mind the commission they bring, yes?” Pietro said. He filled his brush with crimson pigment and slashed at the canvas. “Without Radu to help you squeeze the books, you need me—and my art.”

  “Andeth Ilchammar is dangerous, Pietro.”

  “You simply do not understand him. Your simple coin-counter’s mind is incapable of real imagination. You know nothing.”

  “I know when I’m out of my depth,” said Laskar, “and I know enough to stay clear of the Old Chauncel when they’re spinning their webs.”

  They stood a while in silence, Laskar brooding, Pietro painting. Twice, Laskar’s head rose as if he were about to speak, but each time the thought died silently in his closed mouth.

  At last, Pietro said, “Why’re you still here?”

  Laskar squeezed a fist and bowed his head over it, but he kept his silence as he left the room.

  As his brother’s footsteps receded down the stairway, Pietro muttered, “Idiot.” His eyes glistened as he stabbed again at his painting. “Weakling.”

  Radu was in the room before Chaney realized he had moved. His shadow fell across his brother’s painting.

  As Pietro turned, Radu plucked the brush from his hand and cast it into the fireplace. The flames leaped and popped as they devoured the paint.

  “You shame us all,” hissed Radu.

  Pietro stepped backward, into his painting. The wet paint stuck to the back of his shirt, and he opened his mouth to call for help.

  Radu’s left hand clamped the artist’s jaws shut.

  “Quietly, little brother.”

  Radu watched as Pietro’s expression shifted from terror to wonder. He released his grip.

  “Radu?”

  The mask rose and fell in a curt nod.

  “But how …?”

  “Just listen, and obey. Laskar is the master of House Malveen.”

  “What, this shack? This tenement? House Malveen died with the fire—”

  “Never say that,” said Radu. “Obey Laskar. Help him. Together, you must rebuild the family’s wealth, and its honor.”

  “Impossible! No one deals with him on fair terms. The Old Chauncel take advantage at every turn, claiming they risk their reputations by dealing with the untrustworthy House Malveen, children of the great pirate queen. And Laskar, he smiles and bows and lets them have their way. He is weak, Radu. Not like you and Stannis.” Pietro knit his brows as a thought unfolded in his mind. “I have not heard from Stannis since you disappeared.”

  “Forget him,” said Radu. “He died long ago. Those were dreams you had, nothing more.”

  “No, he lived!” insisted Pietro. “He gave those glorious visions to me. They inspired all of this, all of my art.”

  “They draw too much attention,” said Radu. “The wrong kind of attention. They hurt the family, Pietro. Get rid of them.”

  “Radu, you know I would do anything you say, but my patron—”

  “He is using you,” said Radu. “He is dangerous. Laskar is right.”

  “Even he agrees we need the gold. Since you left, I have had to help support the family.”

  Pietro lifted his chin in a haughty gesture that reminded Chaney of Radu before his disfigurement.

  “Here.” Radu put a pouch in Pietro’s hand and said, “I am your patron now. Exclusively.”

  Pietro’s eyes widened as he inspected the pouch.

  “How
did you—no, I know better—but how can I sell so many diamonds without drawing attention?”

  “Cloak yourself and go to the Green Gauntlet,” said Radu. “A man called Rilmark will find and instruct you.”

  “You do it,” said Pietro, offering the pouch back to Radu. “You always took care of these matters before.”

  “I must not be seen,” said Radu, drawing slightly away from his brother. “After the fire …”

  “Nothing was proven!” protested Pietro. “The Uskevren met with the sage probiter, no doubt to bribe him, but nothing came of it.”

  “Only so long as they think me dead,” said Radu.

  “Why must we be the ones to crawl? If not for old Aldimar, mother would never have been captured. Stannis told me everything.” A sly smile curled one side of Pietro’s thin lips. “Once he even showed me how to hire an assassin to kill one of Thamalon’s brood. It would have worked, too, if not for …”

  “Stay away from the Uskevren,” hissed Radu. “Revenge is for fools and weaklings. You and Laskar need allies, not enemies.”

  “But why? Why’re we the ones who must hold out our cups like beggars? Stannis said—”

  “Stannis is dead.”

  “How can you know that? I am the one he chose to receive his visions, not you.”

  “Those visions are gone,” said Radu, “and they will never come again.”

  “How can you know?” cried Pietro. His defiant expression melted as understanding formed in his mind. “What did you do?”

  “I protected the family.”

  Briefly, two bright blushing spots upon Pietro’s cheeks gave him the appearance of a clown, then rage suffused his whole face. For a moment, Chaney hoped Pietro would strike Radu. He wondered happily how that might turn out.

  Flecks of spittle flew from his purple lips as he hissed in rage, “The brother I knew would never hurt one of his own. How do I even know you are Radu behind that mask?”

  Chaney could tell by his expression that Pietro immediately regretted the challenge. The blood fled his countenance as quickly as it had come. The brothers stared at each other for a moment, and Radu calmly flicked at a clasp to either side of his mask. He slowly lifted it away from his face.

  Chaney had seen what lay beneath the blank white porcelain, so he wasn’t surprised to see Pietro’s face turn fish-belly pale at the sight.

  Pietro uttered a weak yelp and stumbled backward, away from the horrible visage. He tripped over his paint box and scuttled crablike on elbows and heels as Radu came closer.

  “This was the price of my failure,” whispered Radu. He overtook his cowering sibling and knelt beside him. He grabbed his shirt and pulled Pietro’s face close to his own. “If you fail Laskar, I will be the price of yours.”

  Before he donned his mask and slipped out the window, Radu slashed every painting and cast the brushes into the fireplace. He left Pietro whimpering in the corner.

  “It warms the heart to see such fraternal love,” said Chaney.

  “Silence,” said Radu.

  He ran lightly across the rooftop and leaped to the next tallhouse. Chaney ran after him, enjoying the brief flight between the tallhouse roofs. He’d experienced some limited success with directed flight, but he still preferred the comfortable feeling of walking on his own feet. The other phantoms flew after him in a dark cloud, their obscure faces hiding whatever emotions they still felt.

  “That’s the beauty of my situation,” said Chaney. “I can say anything I want, and there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it.”

  “You are mistaken,” said Radu. “Believe me.”

  Chaney laughed and said, “Believe you? The way Stannis believed you? Believe a murderer who just threatened to kill his own broth—What?”

  Radu stopped at the building’s edge. He looked down past the yellow lamps of Larawkan Lane. Only a few hearty souls braved the bitter night air.

  A couple of middle years strolled arm-in-arm down the avenue, while a trio of Scepters passed going the other direction. The lamplight glittered on the silver highlights of their boiled leather armor. The guardsmen saluted casually to the man, who touched his chest in acknowledgment.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Chaney.

  Radu didn’t answer. His eyes continued to scan the pedestrians.

  Behind the couple followed a sulking teenage boy hunched low in his fur collar. He lingered behind just far enough to annoy his mother.

  Radu stepped to the side and dropped to the alley the boy was about to pass. The three-story fall barely bent his knees, but it dragged Chaney through the stone roof and wall, leaving him squeamish and dizzy when he landed on the cobblestones.

  Radu moved toward the alley’s mouth.

  “No!” shouted Chaney.

  Behind him, the dark shades of Radu’s other victims began to moan, low and anxious. They sensed even better than Chaney what was about to happen.

  Radu reached out and grabbed the boy by the throat as he passed. He pulled him into the shadows and thrust him against the alley wall, squeezing tighter.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Chaney. “I’ll shut up now. I believe you.”

  Radu continued pressing the boy’s throat, squeezing harder and harder until Chaney heard a sickening crunch. Still Radu held the lifeless body against the wall. After long moments, the corpse crumbled to ash, and its spirit rushed into Radu’s trembling body.

  Chaney wept tearlessly, cursing himself for taunting the monster. He dared not turn around to look for the ninth dark specter standing forlorn and confused behind him.

  “Now you believe,” said Radu.

  He leaped up, the new surge of infernal strength propelling him back to the rooftop and dragging Chaney’s helpless ghost behind him.

  Radu looked down from his vantage atop the peaked roof of the Black Stag Inn. Chaney sat nearby, hugging his knees to quell the nausea he still felt after being dragged through two chimneys and an entire tallhouse—including a sleeping woman who suddenly sat up and clutched at her heart as the ghost passed through her.

  Since Radu’s demonstrative killing, Chaney was too stunned to keep up with the man’s blinding run across the rooftops of Selgaunt. It couldn’t have been only the stolen life energy that infused him with so much power. Chaney knew that something dangerous roiled beneath Radu’s cool exterior.

  The muted laughter of a hundred voices burbled up from the guest hall below. Were he not so preoccupied by his unwilling complicity in the boy’s death, Chaney might have tried drifting down through the roof so he could hear the bard who so entertained the crowd. Perhaps it was a bard he’d heard before. He must have listened to a hundred different minstrels and storytellers in the years he and Talbot had spent in taverns and festhalls.

  Instead, he sat silently as Radu held vigil over the spot where he’d agreed to meet Drakkar. More than an hour after the appointed time, he stirred at his post. Chaney rose to see what had happened in the street below.

  Drakkar emerged from a dark alley and stalked impatiently out toward Sarn Street. His hasty gait was enough to show that he was extremely irritated.

  Radu dropped to the ground and quietly followed the wizard. Chaney dived after him.

  Drakkar turned west on Rauncel’s Ride. Radu and Chaney followed him as he rounded the southwestern arc of the great encircling avenue. There they passed hundreds of houses “under the wall,” those lower-class dwellings that seemed so rude and pitiable to the nobles who lived deeper in the heart of Selgaunt. Chaney had claimed a room in one of those buildings for a few months, until the landlord finally leased it to new tenants, who were none to pleased to find a squatter in the house. A speedy escape through the upper window had saved Chaney from a few more tendays in a jail cell. Had Talbot not returned from a visit to Storl Oak, his family’s country estate, Chaney might have let the Scepters catch him. At least the city jails were heated in winter.

  Drakkar paused a few times to look behind him, but Radu never left t
he shadows. Soon Drakkar left the main avenue and plunged north into the Oxblood Quarter.

  Named for its slaughterhouses, the Oxblood Quarter was also home to other unsavory businesses. While there were festhalls throughout the city, those in the Oxblood Quarter were notorious for catering to the more demanding clients. The Scepters had recently closed one after the long-held rumors of slavery and torture were finally proven.

  Drakkar looked around one last time. Satisfied that no one was following him, he slipped inside the plain side entrance of a nameless festhall. The location of such establishments were open secrets, but the absence of a sign or a popular name allowed upright citizens to ignore their existence while their neighbors and business associates paid a visit to their “trade concerns” in the Oxblood Quarter, insulated from scandal.

  Radu leaped to the rooftop as nimbly as a cricket. Chaney had recovered enough from his earlier trauma that he anticipated the move and jumped just in time to ride his wake and avoid an unpleasant journey through the walls.

  “Go inside,” said Radu. “Tell me where he goes.”

  Chaney considered the consequences of refusing, but only for a second before he plunged through the roof.

  It was much more difficult to will himself down than through a wall, and he wished that he’d practiced it more often. Passing through the roof tiles felt like thrusting his foot into a bucket of cooling tar. After the initial resistance, however, it was purely a matter of willing himself to sink.

  Inside, Chaney found a small bedchamber lit dimly by the banked fires of a pair of cheap iron braziers. The light barely illuminated the cheap canvasses tacked to the walls. The paintings were crude renderings of improbably proportioned satyrs and nymphs at a feast to Sune, goddess of beauty and love. The profound lack of either beauty or love in the lustful eyes of the satyrs and the fearful faces of the nymphs made Chaney doubt the clerics of Sune would endorse the work.

  The door was ajar, its opening just wide enough for Chaney to slip into the hall without forcing himself through the heavy wood. Outside, the hallway floor was covered in thick, well-trodden carpets. Chaney imagined they smelled of pipeweed and spilled ale.