Black Wolf

by David Gross

  Radu must have sensed something in Darrow’s meek attitude. “You have refreshed the wards,” he said. It was not quite a question.

  “Yes, O my brother,” said Stannis. At first Darrow thought he was mocking Radu, but the peculiar formality did not seem to irritate the swordsman.

  “Alarm spells at the perimeter of the courtyard.”

  “As you wish, O my brother.”

  Radu looked from Stannis to Darrow in one last moment of consideration. “I will decide how we deal with Rusk. No arguments.”

  “But I need him for my plan to …” He saw the resolve in Radu’s eyes and sighed heavily enough to move the golden links of his veil. “Alas, I shall miss him. Still, it is good enough that Talbot Uskevren is cursed as he is. With any luck, he will lose his temper and kill Thamalon. Or perhaps the older brother. Maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll murder the whole wretched clan.”

  “Perhaps,” said Radu, “but you will do nothing to endanger our family.”

  “Yes, O my brother,” said Stannis. Darrow could almost hear him smile beneath the golden veil.

  CHAPTER 4

  PERIVEL’S SWORD

  Alturiak, 1371 DR

  In the pre-dawn darkness, Tal pushed through the bedroom window as quietly as he could. It was much harder than when he was a slim boy and could find his way into any nook of the great mansion. At nineteen, his broad frame was bigger than the narrow aperture, and he had to squeeze his shoulders as tight as he could bear to force his way through. The wooden panes creaked, and Tal paused to listen. Hearing no sound of approaching guards, he pressed his way through.

  When he twisted around to brace his hands on the floor, his arm brushed against the toilet table, setting the porcelain washbowl into a looping dance.

  From the sleigh bed across the room came the sounds of a sleeper stirring from troubled dreams. Tal froze again, but no sound came from beyond the bedroom door. When the occupant of the bed turned and lay still once more, Tal wriggled the rest of the way through the window, wincing at the pain the effort caused. His recent wounds were still tender, despite the healing he’d received.

  He crouched beside the open window, then leaned out carefully to wave thanks to his accomplice below. The other, smaller man waved back, then vanished into the hedges. The Stormweather house guards were alert and efficient, but Tal knew his friend was clever enough to escape them. Together, they had years of practice evading guards and dogs alike.

  Tal carefully closed the window and turned back to the room, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. It was different from how he’d remembered it, though he hadn’t been there in years. The room seemed more suited to their mother than to Thazienne. Solid furniture was decorated with fine lace and silk coverings, while the rough walls were painted in delicate but confident pastel patterns suggesting an unsullied seacoast at sunset.

  The dolls were missing, he noticed, probably packed away in the attic. Not that Tazi had much use for dolls, even when the Uskevren children were so young. She preferred to run with the boys her age, climbing trees and rooftops, swimming and shouting and scrapping with the best of them. She was faster than either of her brothers, and more full of life.

  Yet now she lay near death in her childhood bedroom.

  Tal sat quietly on the chair left beside the bed. It still felt warm. Who had sat there so recently? he wondered. Probably it was his mother, Shamur, who always tried so hard to mold Tazi into her own image, the very model of a Sembian lady. Or perhaps it was Thamalon, his father, who tried so clumsily to do the same with Talbot and his brother, Tamlin. If half of what Tal had heard this evening was true, both Uskevren parents were likely exhausted and sleeping in their separate bedchambers. More likely, the chair had been left by one of the servants, perhaps the chief of them, Erevis Cale. In many ways, the tall, gaunt butler looked on the Uskevren children as his own offspring. He wasn’t nearly old enough for the part, though his bald pate and gaunt appearance made him seem much older than he was.

  Tal watched his sister. She seemed small and fragile under the heavy woolen blanket. Her skin was unusually pale in the half-light, especially in contrast to her black hair, cut short in the latest Cormyrian fashion. Tal wondered how much blood she had lost in the monstrous attack on Stormweather Towers, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt that he had not been present to help defend his home. At about the time Tazi had been hurt, he had been bleeding to death on the stage of the Wide Realms playhouse. Only the intercession of a pair of clerics of Selûne, the goddess of the moon, had saved his life. While he was grateful for his life, he now cursed those same women for preventing the news of Tazi’s injury from reaching him sooner.

  “Who’s there?” Tazi blinked weakly. Tal knew just how she felt, for he had woken from a medicated stupor only a few tendays earlier, disoriented and confused. Again, those clerics had earned his resentment.

  He took her hand. It seemed tiny in his big, gentle grip. “It’s me,” he said quietly.

  “My big little brother,” she murmured. “C’mere.”

  Tal leaned close, and she slipped her hand from his to tousle his hair. She grabbed a handful to tug his head playfully, but her grip was weak.

  “What’s Eckert putting in your hair?” she asked. Tal’s man served as his butler, valet, cook, and barber.

  “Nothing,” he whispered back. “Why?”

  “It feels thicker.”

  “Must be my winter coat,” he smiled, then frowned at his own joke, which he couldn’t explain to Tazi. Not yet.

  “Why are we whispering?” she asked.

  “I want to avoid—”

  “Father,” said Tazi with a knowing smile. “Don’t worry. He and mother are probably both asleep. They took turns sitting up with me.”

  That was a relief. Slipping back out of Stormweather without another lecture might be easier than Tal had expected. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Not bad, considering the alternative.”

  “I would have come sooner.”

  “I figured you were doing the town with Chaney.”

  “No,” he said, “I was … tied up for a few days.”

  “The jail again, was it? Not another brawl, I hope,” said Tazi. “Not everyone’s willing to leave it to fists, you know. You really should carry a sword.”

  “That’s what Thamalon keeps saying.”

  “It’s hard to believe, but sometimes Father knows what he’s talking about.”

  “You’re right,” said Tal. “That is hard to believe.”

  They both chuckled, then they both winced at the pain. When they’d recovered, Thazienne said, “I heard you two had a ‘discussion’ about fraternizing with the help.”

  “Larajin …” said Tal, realizing that he hadn’t returned to explain his odd behavior to the young housemaid.

  Larajin had asked for Tal’s help on a peculiar task that reminded him of the games they’d played as children. Unfortunately, their jaunt took them down into the steaming sewers of Selgaunt, and Tal began to fear he had misjudged the daylight. When he felt the first pangs of his affliction, Tal fled in a panic rather than risk hurting his friend, for whom he felt an abiding and—recently—confusing love.

  Later, he tried to apologize and explain his odd behavior to Larajin when his father interrupted them. Mistaking the situation, as the Old Owl always did when it came to Tal, Thamalon led Tal off to hear a scolding lecture on the responsibilities of the upper class to their servants. At the time, Tal failed to recognize his father’s exceptional anger for anything other than his usual self-righteousness. As Tazi reminded him of the cause of his father’s lecture, Tal’s face grew hot with a new realization.

  Thamalon was keeping Larajin as his mistress.

  There was no better explanation. Suddenly, all the years of cool civility between Tal’s parents made sense, not to mention Thamalon’s harsh separation of Tal and Larajin as the children grew into adults.

  “Tal?” asked Tazi, snapping him out of his rev
erie. “It wasn’t as bad as all that, was it?”

  Tal blinked, then forced a smile. It might have convinced an audience at the playhouse, but he knew Tazi would see through it. “Sorry. I’m just a little tense being here. If I stay too long, someone’s bound to spot me and summon Thamalon.”

  “You know,” said Tazi, “he’d probably prefer it if you called him ‘Father.’ ”

  “Oh, I know,” said Tal, his smile turning wicked.

  “Tamlin irritates Father because he just doesn’t care,” said Tazi, “but you seem to go out of your way to make him angry.”

  “I’m not trying …” began Tal. It was pointless to lie to Tazi. She knew him better than anyone else, except perhaps Chaney. “Well, maybe sometimes. I just hate hearing all the things he thinks I ought to be doing, all the things he thinks I ought to be.”

  “So, what do you want to be?”

  “That’s not the point,” said Tal, more loudly than he’d intended.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Tazi pointed out.

  “You really are starting to sound just like him,” he said. She poked him in the ribs. “Ow!” he winced, only half-jokingly.

  “Sorry,” said Tazi. “You don’t look so hurt. What happened, exactly?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” said Tal. The wounds from his recent ordeal had healed, but his second transformation had left his ribs and joints aching. Perhaps the wolf had thrown itself against the cage the night before, or maybe changing shape left him tender. Either way, Tal couldn’t think of a way to explain it without making Tazi afraid for—or of—him.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Tal thought about it for a moment, then decided, “Maybe later.”

  “You’ve got Chaney watching your back, I hope.” Tazi glanced at the window. “He’s out there playing lookout, isn’t he?”

  “Actually, I told him to slip away as soon as I got in. I don’t want him to get into the habit of loitering beneath your bedchamber. He’s still sweet on you.”

  “I know,” said Tazi with a sigh, “but I’d hoped you’d put that notion out of his head. He’s a disgusting braggart about women, and so fickle!”

  “He’s not a bad fellow,” said Tal, “and I thought you’d fancy him, since Mother so obviously disapproves of him.”

  “Maybe I fancy someone else,” she replied. She glanced away mysteriously.

  “Aha! So that’s how it is. Want to talk about it?’

  “Maybe later,” she said. Now they were even.

  “Fair enough,” said Tal, patting her hand gently. “I’d better get out of here before someone tells Thamalon I’m here.”

  “Visit me again soon.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise I’ll try,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.

  He walked to the door. Before he could touch the handle, however, it opened so quickly that he had no time to hide. A dark figure whipped into the room to stand between Tal and the bed. Tal tensed for an attack as the intruder crouched with hands curled at his sides, ready to strike. The morning light showed the clean silhouette of his shaved head but left a shadow across his face.

  “Cale?” said Tal. He had never seen his father’s butler move with such speed, nor appear so dangerous.

  “Master Talbot,” replied the tall, gangly man, relaxing slightly.

  Even as the light revealed his face, a peculiarity in the shadows left a brief domino across his eyes. Tal had always thought of Cale as dangerous but not in the physical sense. Something about the recent attack on Stormweather had changed him. Tal considered what that might be as Cale remained protectively beside Tazi’s bed.

  “It is good to see you’ve finally arrived.”

  “Finally” sounded like a reprimand, and Tal bristled. He realized he was clenching his fists and released them with an effort.

  “Tal came as soon as he could,” said Tazi.

  “Of course,” said the butler. “Scaling the wall must have required a considerable delay.”

  “Erevis!” said Tazi, plucking at his loose sleeve.

  Tal raised an eyebrow at her use of Cale’s first name. Only recently, the Uskevren siblings referred to the gaunt butler as “Mister Pale” when they were sure he wasn’t within hearing.

  “I mean only to point out that your brother’s undetected entry points to a failing in house security. No doubt Lord Uskevren will want to discuss it personally with Master Talbot.”

  “That’s my cue,” said Tal, heading toward the door.

  “Your father left strict instructions,” said Cale, “that you were not to leave the house without a blade and an escort. It was clear that he wished to speak with you as well.”

  “I brought my own escort,” said Tal. “He’s waiting outside.”

  “Foxmantle?” Cale frowned. “Your father would not approve.”

  “My father can kiss my—”

  “Tal!” said Tazi. She sat up with an effort. “Both of you, be nice. Tal, you take a sword from the armory before you go. Cale, you wait until Father wakes before telling him Tal was here.”

  Both men stared at the young woman.

  “Understood?”

  “Yes, Tazi,” they said in unison.

  Tal arched an eyebrow at the servant’s use of his sister’s familiar name. If Cale noticed, he pretended otherwise.

  Tal and Chaney stood with Cale within the Stormweather armory and dueling circle, where Tal had his earliest fencing lessons. Set in the floor were concentric rings of alternately light and dark hardwood forming the dueling circle. A mute row of practice dummies stood at attention beside a rack of wood and bone practice weapons. Wicker fencing masks hung on a tree nearby, along with worn suits of padded armor. On the opposite wall hung real weapons, mostly long swords and spears.

  “You have ten minutes before I wake your father,” said Cale. His attitude had softened since the encounter in Tazi’s bedroom, but he still seemed different from the servant Tal had come to know over the past seven years.

  “Sorry about the window,” said Tal. “Since we were children, none of us ever thought of someone else breaking in that way.”

  “No,” said Cale, his voice tinged with bitter recrimination, “but I should have.”

  Tal let the comment sink in for a moment. Cale’s duty was the administration of the house, not its defense, but Tal knew that Cale felt more than an employee’s responsibility to Thamalon Uskevren. He never understood the bond between the two men, but only a fool would fail to see it.

  Thinking of his father reminded Tal of their last confrontation. Thamalon had warned Tal to stay away from Larajin, intimating quite strongly that there was to be no impropriety between the family and their lesser. Tal never thought of the servants as anything other than family—with the possible exception of Larajin, whose friendship was even more important to him. Thamalon had never cautioned Tal about being familiar with any of the other servants, and Tal finally realized why he had been warned away from Larajin. His father was keeping her as a concubine.

  Thinking of Thamalon’s hypocrisy, Tal muttered an obscenity.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Cale. Chaney did his best impression of a second coat of paint. He was always quiet around Cale.

  “Not you,” said Tal. “Sorry. I was thinking of someone else.”

  Cale looked straight ahead. “There are more swords in the armory, but the dueling room contains the better blades.”

  “Thanks, Cale.”

  The gaunt man merely nodded.

  “So,” said Tal, trying to lighten the tone, “can you make that twenty minutes before waking the Old Owl?”

  Was that the shadow of a smile on Cale’s lips? Tal decided he would think so.

  “The kitchen staff could use a visit,” the butler allowed. “It might take as long as half an hour.”

  “Thanks, Erevis,” said Tal. He held his breath while awaiting a reaction.

  Fortunately, Cale di
d not object to the use of his familiar name, though his eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Good day, Master Talbot,” he said. Then he was gone.

  Chaney waited until the gaunt man was out of sight. “Erevis, is it? Whatever happened to ‘Mister Pale’?”

  “Shut up, Chane,” said Tal. “He might hear you.”

  Tal walked along the wall of blades with a purpose. While there were dozens from which to choose, only one held any interest to him.

  When he was ten, Tal worshiped his uncle Perivel, whom he had never met. Thamalon’s older brother had perished the night the Uskevren’s rivals tore down the original Stormweather Towers. He died defending the house against other members of the Old Chauncel, who had come to punish Aldimar Uskevren for trafficking with pirates. In a nation of powerful merchants, there was no greater form of treason than to steal from your neighbors.

  Among his other youthful glories, Perivel had ridden out after bandits in his day. After one foray, he returned with the head and sword of a notorious ogre chieftain whose forces had virtually halted commerce from the Dalelands. He often carried the monstrous blade for show, but it was too big for even the Great Bear to employ.

  Two thick iron bolts held the big sword up on the dueling hall’s southern wall. At its broadest, the blade was wider than Tal’s hand was long. The dull gray metal never rusted nor did it gleam with an ever bright enchantment. It had a place of honor, away from the other swords. To each side, big kite shields bearing the horse at anchor guarded its flanks.

  “You can’t be serious,” said Chaney when he saw where Tal’s eyes came to rest. “Thamalon will kill you.”

  “Nobody else uses it,” said Tal.

  “Nobody else can lift the damned thing.”

  Ignoring his friend, Tal took the huge weapon into his hands. It was every bit as heavy as it looked. He liked the feeling. Its grip was too short for a bastard sword, at least for someone with Tal’s big hands, yet it was much heavier than any long sword he’d ever held.