Lord of Stormweather

by David Gross

  He wouldn’t trust her until he knew more.

  Tamlin had more confidence in the communion of High Songmaster Ansril Ammhaddan, at least if it was true that one received the value for which one paid. The services of the clerics of Milil didn’t come cheap, but their services were praised as much for their efficacy as for their artistry. Ceremonies of Milil always included music, and the answers from their god came in the form of song.

  “Look not for the owl in the forest night,” sang Ammhaddan. “For far from this land has he taken flight.”

  There had been more, but most of it consisted of praise to Milil and his master Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge.

  “What about Mother and Mister Cale?” Tamlin had asked.

  The cleric’s acolytes shushed him. The High Songmaster was not to be interrupted during a performance. Tamlin understood the unspoken meaning also. More questions would require more offerings. Under ordinary circumstances, Tamlin wouldn’t have hesitated to pay. Until he had full legal control of the Uskevren House treasury, though, his resources were limited in the extreme.

  In the meantime, the question of his father’s disappearance continued to gnaw at him. He hoped to find some clue among Thamalon’s letters.

  There were none upon the table, nor anything extraordinary within the nooks and cubbyholes of the library desk. Tamlin checked the lower drawers but found they were locked. He also noticed a few fresh scratches near the keyhole.

  Someone had been trying to pick the lock.

  Tamlin immediately thought of his sister, but just as quickly dispelled the notion. If she had tried to pick the lock, he decided, there would be no such obvious signs.

  He unlocked the drawer and opened it. Inside he found a sheaf of virgin vellum, a stoppered inkpot, a box of sealing wax, and a tiny jar of sand.

  He removed all of these, sorted through the leaves of vellum, and found nothing unusual among them.

  “Well, dark,” he cursed.

  If there had been any clue to his father’s disappearance inside, then the anonymous lock picker had already stolen it.

  Unless …

  Tamlin felt around the bottom of the drawer, and ran his fingers along the seams.

  Nothing.

  Just as he was about to withdraw his hand, he noticed the distance between the drawer and the desktop was much greater than necessary. He felt around the top of the drawer cavity until his fingers found a niche.

  “Aha!”

  He pried open the false top and felt a bundle of pages slide out into his hand. They were letters, perhaps eighteen of them, each sealed with the crest of a noble family. Beneath them was a single sheet of folded vellum.

  Tamlin opened it and saw familiar characters forming unintelligible words in a column, like a guest list or a shipping manifest.

  “Some sort of code,” muttered Tamlin.

  He brightened at the intrigue, for he loved puzzles—at least, he once did. As a child he could spend happy hours pondering a clever problem posed by one of his tutors. As he grew older, he’d become less patient with such things, though he continued to find the idea charming.

  He folded the list and slipped it into his boot before opening the first of the letters.

  “Well, well, my darling,” he said, “what tale will you tell me?”

  “I’ve come to warn you I’m about to strangle your henchman,” replied a deep voice, “and don’t call me darling.”

  Tamlin dropped all of the letters except the one he was holding into the open drawer.

  If there was one thing Tamlin disliked about his brother—and there were in fact dozens of things—it was that Talbot had been absurdly taller than his older siblings ever since puberty. Back then it had been fun to call him “the bastard child of a rampaging ogre,” at least until Mister Cale had Escevar thrashed for the young master’s offense. While that hadn’t stopped Tamlin from taunting his “big little brother,” as Tazi liked to call him, he abandoned that particular jibe after report of his offense reached his mother, and he saw displeasure crease her elegant brows.

  For Tamlin, Shamur’s disappointment had always been the worst possible punishment.

  Tamlin smiled indulgently at his brother’s jest, then he slipped the letter casually into his boot, snug against his thigh beside the vellum sheet.

  “I suppose you’re here to talk me out of the ceremony?”

  “In fact, no,” said Talbot.

  He leaned forward to see what Tamlin was hiding behind the desk, but Tamlin shut the drawer with his knee to conceal the letters.

  Tamlin had expected his brother to oppose his inheritance, especially since it required the legal declaration of their parent’s demise. Surprisingly, Talbot had endorsed the decision on the grounds that it would make the search for their missing parents far easier once Tamlin could officially deploy the family resources. Once Thamalon returned, he could resume his former authority.

  “I’ve come to discuss another matter.”

  “Oh?”

  “Two things were missing from this room when I returned that night,” he said. “One of them was a large sum of coin that belonged—”

  “Yes, Escevar told me,” said Tamlin, trying to keep suspicion out of his voice. “Are you quite sure the gold was here? It seems inconceivable that Father would fail to give you—”

  “Don’t you dare cheat me,” growled Talbot. “We aren’t children anymore, and this is a serious—”

  “Then stop behaving like a child,” said Tamlin. “What’s important now is that we find out what happened to Mother and Father.”

  “You …” Talbot leaned across the desk, and for a moment Tamlin deeply regretted slipping away from Vox. Instead of grabbing him by the throat, however, Talbot struck the desk. “You’re right,” he said, “for once.”

  “It has been known to happen.”

  Tamlin smiled. On any of his friends, on any noble of Selgaunt, his smile was a balm to any quarrel. Talbot, unfortunately, was somehow immune to his charm.

  “We will take this up again.”

  “Assuredly.”

  “And not through Escevar. Your whipping boy acts as if he runs this place,” said Talbot. “He thinks he’s Mister Cale.”

  “An hour from now, for all intents and purposes, he will be.”

  “That does not give him the right to talk to me as if—”

  “Never mind him,” said Tamlin. He tried to sound genuinely conciliatory. While he didn’t particularly like or trust his brother, he knew he would need Talbot’s support in the days to come. “Listen, no one wants Father back more than I do. You don’t seriously believe I want all this … bother, do you?”

  Talbot looked unconvinced, and he’d not forgotten about the other missing object.

  “What do you suppose became of that painting of yours?”

  Tamlin sighed. No matter how hard he tried to mend bridges, Talbot always found a way to tear them down again.

  “I told you before,” said Tamlin, “that painting was nothing more than a gift.”

  “One of those obscenities from Pietro Malveen? Hardly the way to impress the Old Owl.”

  “What do you have against the Malveens? They aren’t the only House with a tainted past. In fact, Grandfather was the one who financed their earliest excursions.”

  Talbot glared at him and said, “How can you be so foolish?”

  His gray eyes, which normally looked cool and bland, smoldered with hatred. Tamlin hoped it was all reserved for the Malveens.

  “Pietro’s a bit eccentric,” Tamlin granted. “I’ll be the first to admit that, but where’s the harm in it?”

  “He’s barking mad,” said Talbot. “Just like his brother.”

  Tamlin began to frame a joke about barking, then thought better of it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Laskar is as honest as bread pudding, and twice as boring, if you ask me. Despite his talent at fencing, Radu was every bit as dull … before he disappeared. That added a bit of mystery to him
at least.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Talbot.

  “Then enlighten me,” said Tamlin. “We’re brothers, after all. Even if that bond embarrasses us both, we should trust each other.”

  Even as he said the words, Tamlin felt a twinge of guilt at his hypocrisy. He was asking Talbot to do what he would not.

  “You already know my secret,” said Talbot.

  He held up a fist the size of a quart bottle and squeezed it tight. The hairs on the back of his fingers multiplied and grew thick. When he opened his hand, black claws jutted from his monstrous digits, each almost twice as long as before. The thick fur grew sparser along his forearm, and by his elbow the arm looked almost wholly human, as did the rest of his big body.

  “That must come in handy when—”

  “Shut up!” thundered Talbot.

  Tamlin saw fierce canines protruding from his brother’s snarling lips, and he clenched his jaw to prevent himself from flinching. It wouldn’t do to show his fear. Instead, Tamlin stood his ground and returned Talbot’s angry gaze with a steady stare. For long seconds they stood that way, locked eye-to-eye.

  Talbot broke first. As he calmed himself, his face returned to its normal, human visage.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You sounded just like Chaney for a second. That was the kind of stupid pun he’d have made.”

  At last, Tamlin realized that his brother’s recent brooding wasn’t solely the result of sibling rivalry. Mangy gutterkin though he was, Chaney Foxmantle was as close a friend to Talbot as Vox and Escevar were to Tamlin. Perhaps Chaney and Talbot had been even closer. They’d been friends since childhood, and both of Tamlin’s henchmen had joined the household as servants.

  “No, I am the one who should apologize,” said Tamlin. “If I have been short with you, it is because I resent the insinuation that I would do anything to hurt Mother and Father.”

  Talbot gaped at the uncharacteristic apology, and Tamlin remembered yet again why so many considered Talbot slowwitted. With his mouth open like that, he looked the perfect oaf.

  “That’s not what I was saying,” said Talbot. “Pietro could have been using you—”

  Tamlin held up a palm to stop Talbot and finished for him, “—as a dupe. I understand. I should resent that insinuation too, you know. I simply don’t believe it. Pietro is utterly harmless.”

  “Tell that to Chaney.”

  “Are you suggesting the Malveens had something to do with his death?”

  “We can’t prove it,” said Talbot. “Not without revealing what they did to me.”

  He shook his monstrous hand as if trying to fling some foul slime from it. In the blink of an eye it returned to its human form.

  “I can’t believe Pietro could kill anyone.”

  “He wasn’t there at the time,” Talbot said. “It was the other two, Radu and Stannis.”

  “But Stannis has been dead for—”

  “Undead,” corrected Talbot. “Vampire.”

  Now it was Tamlin’s turn to stare agape.

  “Oh, please,” he said. “Werewolf … vampire …? Isn’t it all a bit much? Next thing, you’ll be leading us through the graveyards with torches and stakes, searching for the long-dead Stannis Malveen.”

  “He’s already dead—again, I mean. Radu destroyed him to stop him from confessing.”

  “What happened to Radu?”

  “If we’re lucky, he died when House Malveen burned.”

  “And if we’re not lucky?”

  Talbot just looked back at him, letting Tamlin draw his own conclusions.

  “We Uskevren certainly have no shortage of enemies,” said Tamlin. He offered his hand to his brother. “It’s up to you, me, and Tazi to ensure that those enemies all come from outside the family.”

  Talbot’s eyes narrowed at the overture. Tamlin could hardly blame his brother for being suspicious, and he knew it would take far more than a handshake to mend their mutual distrust. What he wanted to learn was whether his younger brother would honestly rebuff him or play along at friendship until he had an advantage. Either way, Talbot would bear watching.

  Before Talbot could respond, the library door opened, and Escevar cleared his throat. Tamlin’s long blue cape was folded neatly over his arm. Vox stood beside Escevar, glowering at his master.

  “It’s time, Master Tamlin,” said Escevar. “Your guests are waiting.”

  CHAPTER 13

  IT IS FORBIDDEN

  To call Castle Stormweather large was a preposterous understatement. Thamalon had visited smaller cities. One could put the Hulorn’s Palace and all its attendant buildings within the stronghold and still have room to cram in half the warehouses on the waterfront—and that was just the ground level.

  The castle soared even higher than it sprawled wide, and Thamalon couldn’t conceive of the miracles of engineering required to keep the place from collapsing. Once or twice in the past three days, he’d seen dwarves wearing the Sorcerer’s crimson livery, so he supposed that the fabled craftsmanship of their people had much to do with the marvel. Still, he had to believe that the Sorcerer’s magic helped sustain the titanic structure.

  Since the castle’s lord had granted him the full freedom of his abode, Thamalon had spent the past few days exploring the place. Walking was still mildly painful, but he thought it good to keep his injured hip limber. More importantly, Thamalon hoped to find some clues to the relationship between this Stormweather and his own—as well as to the uncanny likeness between the Sorcerer and his eldest son. He might have accepted the name of the place as coincidence, but the similarity between the Sorcerer and Tamlin wasn’t just striking, it was utter and complete. They could be twins.

  The thought of twins reminded Thamalon of his half-elf bastards, Larajin and Leifander. Briefly he wondered whether this Sorcerer could be another illegitimate offspring, but that made no sense. Only womb-brothers could look so much alike, and Thamalon had been present at Tamlin’s birth.

  Thamalon considered other possibilities that could be wrought only by magic. If the Sorcerer was an enemy, he could have enchanted himself to appear as Thamalon’s son. He could be a magical construct shaped in the form of Tamlin. He could be a doppelganger employed by foes of the Uskevren.

  Thamalon even entertained the fancy that the Sorcerer was Tamlin’s wicked half, somehow separated years before from his gentler, weaker self.

  Ridiculous, Thamalon told himself. Almost as ridiculous as being transported to this bizarre land through a painting in my own library.

  He’d been certain that Tamlin had been an unwitting accessory of some hidden enemy. Thamalon had to consider the possibility that Tamlin and the Sorcerer were one and the same, and that his son was playing some inscrutable cat-and-mouse game with him. Even if Tamlin had successfully masked his hatred for his father over the years, could the careless dilettante actually manage to perpetrate such a scheme? Even if that was possible, Thamalon couldn’t understand what Tamlin would have to gain by pretending to be a stranger to him.

  That was the point at which all theories failed. No matter what the nature of the Sorcerer’s resemblance to Tamlin, the real question was his motive. Why bring Thamalon there for some elaborate charade?

  Thamalon couldn’t question the Sorcerer even if he dared approach the matter bluntly. Since his audience with the Lord of Stormweather, Thamalon couldn’t find the man even in his great hall. Instead, the Sorcerer’s chamberlain assumed the seat beneath his lord’s throne and dispensed petty justice, while all great matters awaited the Sorcerer’s leisure.

  Thamalon inquired of the servants and learned that their lord had gone hunting. They pronounced the word with a reverence unusual in a sport so common among the nobility Thamalon knew. Either it was a rare thing in those lands or else the Sorcerer’s hunts were somehow exceptional.

  His host’s absence was as much an opportunity as a frustration for Thamalon. While waiting his chance to speak with the man, he could enjoy th
e hospitality the Sorcerer had offered. Perhaps he would learn something of the man by exploring his castle.

  Soon he realized that that was a far greater quest than he’d imagined.

  By the third day of his explorations, Thamalon had acquired a rough understanding of the main floor, with its great hall surrounded by guest quarters, shops, taverns, playhouses, and craft halls.

  Since the rain had only increased since his arrival, Thamalon found the halls crowded with what seemed like thousands of people. Those who weren’t hurrying to business were friendly and curious about the newcomer. Thamalon avoided those who seemed too inquisitive while seeking out gossips and tavern philosophers—those who would talk for hours with little prompting. From them he hoped to learn more about his host and the surrounding area.

  Unfortunately, most of the talk concerned the politics of life within Castle Stormweather. Most of the lesser merchants chatted about improving their trade advantages, and Thamalon might have found those conversations more interesting in Sembia, where such matters affected his family. Members of the wealthier class were less inclined to associate with an unknown traveler, but Thamalon overheard enough of their buzzing to recognize the gossip of social adventure, petty and great. Count so-and-so had taken a second mistress but failed to keep that secret from his first; an old duchess had announced she was dividing her holdings among her three grandchildren, shocking the rest of her family who feared dissolution of the House; a sly merchant, hopeful of advancement in the court, had finally managed to place his comely daughter under the chamberlain’s lecherous eye.…

  Thamalon had heard it all, and none of it helped solve the mystery of his location or the coincidence of Stormweather and the Sorcerer’s appearance. He retired to a tavern and sat a while sipping a strange, sweet mulled wine. There he met a man who smoked a long pipe and waxed poetical about the local wine and the Sorcerer’s famous cellars.

  That caught Thamalon’s interest. Touring the Sorcerer’s art galleries, his armory, and the water gardens had been acts of practiced civility. The prospect of inspecting his wine cellars was genuinely enticing.