Shadow witness

CHAPTER THREE

The vast Uskevren feasthall overflowed.with the glittering grandeur of Selgaunt's assembled Old Chauncel. Having completed the five-course feast, the guests, in accordance with Sembia's social custom, now stood or sat about the feasthall in small groups, laughing, drinking, smoking, and talking.

Cale despised their perceived self-importance. To him, the room seemed an ocean of arrogant faces and empty-headed chatter. He strived to keep the contempt from his expression as he maneuvered through the thick crowd and dutifully refilled wine chalices.

A bewildering array of silk gowns, jewelry, and silver-laced stomachers-the latest fashion among the city's noblewomen-shimmered in the soft, aromatic candlelight. Though he recognized the faces of many of the nobles in attendance, many more were strangers to him. It seemed his lord had invited half the city to celebrate Perivel's birthday. This, despite the fact that Perivel Uskevren is forty years dead, he thought.

Every year on the thirtieth of Hammer, Thamalon held a birthday ball to honor his lost older brother, Perivel Uskevren. Cale had never known Perivel, of course, but based on what he had heard of the elder Uskevren over the years, he thought he would have liked him. Perivel had died plying steel against three foes while the former Uskevren manse, Storl Oak, had burned down around him.

Though he would have done the family a service by leaving behind a recognizable body, Cale thought.

After the inferno, the ruins had been carefully searched and the bodies of the dead dutifully removed, but there had been no way to tell if any of the charred corpses pulled from the ruins had been Perivel. Rumors persisted to this day that he had survived.

So it seemed that at least once every few years, a man claiming to be Perivel Uskevren showed up at Stonnweather's doors and asserted the rights to primogeniture. Invariably, Thamalon and Cale exposed such claimants as imposters sponsored by rival families and turned them away. Still, the problem never seemed to go away entirely.

Nevertheless, despite the problems that it created by reawakening rumors of Perivel's return, Thamalon kept his brother's memory alive with an annual celebration, a feast and ball that had become a fixture in Selgaunt's social calendar. That the invitees did business in the process seemed only natural. For such is Selgaunt, Cale thought with a smile.

Though held in Perivel's name, the birthday ball had long ago become as much about making deals as it was about honoring the elder Uskevren. Thamalon used the fine wine, excellent food, and general good feeling as a platform to discuss trade alliances and business deals with the rest of the Old Chauncel patriarchs. Cale felt certain that Perivel would approve.

Making his rounds with a bottle of Storm Ruby, he spotted his lord seated in a sequestered corner of the feasthall engaged in earnest conversation with Nuldrevyn Talendar. Cale could guess the topic of their discussion: a contract to arrange shipment of Uskevren wine to the southern lands of Faerun. House Talendar dealt in fine furniture and frequently shipped to the kingdoms of the far South-Amn, Calimshan, and Tethyr, where the demand for Archendale walnut and Sembian mahogany seemed infinite. Thamalon thought the Uskevren house wines would also sell briskly in the south-particularly the full-bodied Storm Ruby-and had long sought an economical way to move bottles. Renting space on a Talendar caravan would be ideal.

Seeing the opportunity Thamalon had instructed him to watch for, Cale maneuvered through the crowd and walked toward the two men. Like the other noblemen in attendance, both wore finely tailored attire -Thamalon's fit frame covered in a twelve button doublet of crimson with black under-sleeves; Lord Talendar's ample belly draped in a doublet of purple with silver under-sleeves and a lace collar. As well, both wore fitted hose and polished Sembian high boots. Neither wore visible steel. As was his custom, Thamalon had forbidden weapons at Perivel's ball-even dress blades. The agenda was business, not blood, though the two frequently crossed paths in Selgaunt.

As he approached, Cale plucked uncomfortably at his own black butler's doublet and pants. Despite his best efforts, he had never been able to retain a tailor competent to fit his towering frame. If his clothing was too short, it exposed his ankles and made him look an imbecile. If it was too large, he looked like a pale scarecrow swimming in a sea of black cloth. With only those two options, he had finally surrendered to the god of the ill-fit and decided on too large rather than too small, and resigned himself to the mediocrity of his tailor.

He had not worn his leather and steel for over a month-since his would-be ambush of a Night Knives' kidnapping team had turned instead into a Zhentarim ambush of he and his friend Jak-and Gale had never longed for them more than now. He felt more than just uncomfortable in his ill-fitting attire; he felt false, as if he wore a lie for all to see. That night in Drover's Square a month ago had resurrected the old Gale, and Erevis the butler had not been able to put him fully back in the grave. The feigned civility of Selgaunt's nobility only reminded him of his own facade.

They wear a mask and hide behind a veneer, he thought, and so do I. When not serving drinks, he killed people. When not laughing at.one another's jokes and complimenting the wine, they stabbed each other in the back like common street thieves. Except for Thamalon, of course.

Gale knew his lord to be honest, at least by Selgaunt's standards, and fair by anybody's standards. An uncommon man in this city, he thought. Honesty was rare in Selgaunt. Gale himself embodied the point, and the bitter taste of his own lies rankled him.

He stopped a discreet distance from Thamalon and Nuldrevyn so as not to intrude on their conversation. Music and the drone of conversation sounded all about him but he focused his hearing on only Thamalon and Lord Talendar.

Nuldrevyn Talendar, a tall, overweight man with heavy-lidded eyes, spoke in his deep voice. "An interesting proposition Thamalon. We should pursue it further."

Thamalon leaned forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the table, crossed his hands before his face, and smiled his deal-nearly-done smile. "Indeed we should, Nuldrevyn. Of course, there will be a small commission for House Talendar on every bottle."

"Of course." Lord Talendar raised his glass in a toast and Thamalon reciprocated. Gale, having waited dutifully for a pause, took that moment to interject, a timely interruption planned by he and Thamalon days before.

"May I refill my Lords' goblets?"

"Ah, Erevis. Excellent."Thamalon made a show of scrutinizing the bottle that Gale held forth. He feigned surprise. "Why, this is the very Storm Ruby of which we were speaking, Nuldrevyn. I insist you sample it."

Nuldrevyn looked receptive so Gale added, "This is the 1352 vintage, Lord Talendar. The very best in the household."

From under his bushy brows, Thamalon shot him a sidelong glance of approval that only long familiarity allowed Gale to notice.

"Well, in that case," Lord Talendar gulped down the last of the wine currently in his goblet and held it out to Gale. "I believe I will."

"Excellent, Lord." Gale refilled his goblet and looked to Thamalon. "Will there be anything else, Lord?"

Thamalon smiled. "No, thank you, Erevis."

Gale bowed to Thamalon, nodded to Lord Talendar, and walked away. With Nuldrevyn in such high spirits, favorable contract terms seemed assured.

"This is most excellent, Thamalon," Cale heard as he walked away. "You say you press the grapes where…"

Having done his duty for his lord, Cale refocused on his primary concern-the security of the family. Though Jander Orvist and the rest of the Uskevren household guards watched with ready crossbows from the second floor balconies that overlooked the feasthall, Gale preferred to rely on his own trained eye. He acknowledged that an assassination attempt on Thamalon was unlikely, but he did not entirely rule it out. The Uskevren rivals in the Old Chauncel would like nothing more than to see the Old Owl dead, for then Tamlin would inherit the Uskevren holdings.

And Master Tamlin is too much a dilettante to manage even a whorehouse well, Cale thought. Much less a noble house. Guards or no, Cale would personally see to the safety of his lord, just as he had for the past nine years.'

Originally, he had come to Stormweather as a spy for the Night Knives, the thieves' guild he had joined soon after coming to Selgaunt from Westgate. Though the Knives had been able to place spies as servants in most of the other noble houses, the guild had not been able to place an operative in Stormweather.

Because Cale had been formally educated-by tutors hired by a thieves' guild in Westgate'-and knew the etiquette appropriate to upper society, he had sought to win favor with the Righteous Man and gain status in the guild by proposing a plan. He would eliminate t?e then current Uskevren butler and take the position himself. Thinking about it now made his stomach roil.

I had an innocent man killed so that I could put myself in a position to blackmail the influential Uskevren patriarch, he thought accusingly. It shamed him that he could not even remember the previous butler's name. I didn't want to know his name, he realized. And I still don't.

He hated himself for what he had been, for what he had done.

But I'm different now, he thought, with only a tinge of desperation. I'm different.

The plan had been perfect in its conception, but flawed in its execution. Gale quickly had come to respect Thamalon as the father he had never known, the Uskevren as the family he had never had/He replaced membership in a long series of guilds and shadowy organizations with the love of a real family. It had not taken him long to realize that he could not betray them.

Neither could he confide to them his background that he had been trained as a killer and thief by the Night Masks in Westgate, that he had been taught nine languages so as to better impersonate, forge, and decipher, that he had come to their home as a spy. He knew that Thamalon, an otherwise gracious man, would not forgive the betrayal. So he had decided to live a lie rather than give up what he had come to love.

Over the years, he had fed the Righteous Man harmless information about Thamalon and the Uskevren, occasionally threw in a useful tidbit about some other noble family, and in the meantime aided his lordship in running the household. His supervision of the servants was incidental. His true value to Thamalon was his knowledge of Selgaunt's underworld-an underworld intricately intertwined with the plots of the Old Chauncel. He explained his illicit knowledge as derived from a disreputable cousin who moved in underworld circles. He had never been, and still wasn't, sure that Thamalon believed in this fictional cousin, but his lord had always respected Gate's privacy.

Lie upon lie upon lie, he chided. But I've got no other options. If Thazienne ever learned what I was…

He feared putting a name to the feelings he had for the Uskevren daughter. He had watched her blossom from a precocious teen to the most stunning and vivacious young woman he had ever seen. Hie light from her innocent spirit lit the dark places in his soul like a bonfire. Without her.

He shook hisiead, suddenly tired. He did not want to think about the kind of man that he would have been if he hadn't met her.

Almost involuntarily, his eyes sought her out. Towering head and shoulders over most of the men in attendance, he could see from one end of the feasthall to the other. Groups of guests thronged the room. Chalices and goblets clinked, laughter roared, music played, and Selgaunt's nobility glittered like a dragon's hoard. On the side of the hall nearest Cale stood the long feast tables, the dishes from the last course even now being cleared by Larajin and Ryton. They noticed him watching and picked up the pace of their efforts, Larajin fumbling with a serving platter in the process. At that, she looked up nervously, saw Gale's frown, and wilted like a dying flower. He could see her slight body trembling.

Have to do something about that girl, he thought. He strived to be fair with the staff, but tolerated few mistakes. Larajin seemed all thumbs. He would have let her go months ago but Thamalon insisted he be patient with her. Cale did not want to know why his lord was so protective of the willowy girl and so did not inquire further,

Larajin and Ryton worked around a few smokers who still lingered at the feast tables. The noblemen talked softly amongst themselves through a haze of pipe smoke. The pipes reminded Cale of Jak Fleet, his friend. He smiled, and wondered how the little man fared. Probably loaded with coin, cards, and fine tobacco, he thought, and chuckled aloud.

Still desiring to catch sight of Thazienne, he peered across the hardwood dance floor-currently unoccupied. Even though Selgaunt's Old Chauncel rarely danced, it was mandatory to have a dance floor. Cale continued scanning the opposite side of the hall.

A quartet of musicians sat upon a raised, carpeted dais and played softly. A fat, balding man pounding a slow beat on a hand drum played next to a nondescript but exceedingly skillful harpist. Next to them Cale saw a blonde, attractive woman playing the longhom and beside her a stocky, black-bearded man playing the shawm. Thamalon had imported the musicians all the way from Daerlun for the celebration. The unusual combination of strings, woodwinds, and subtle percussion was an innovation from Cormyr that had found popularity in the neighboring cities of Sembia. Cale listened to the quartet for the first time and found that he rather enjoyed the sound. The gentle tones of the instruments and the low murmur of the assembled guests combined to create a sleepy, melodic drone. He allowed himself to drift peacefully on the chords as he continued his search for Thazienne.

He finally spotted her standing near the wall, to the right of the musicians' dais, and she stole his breath. The music and crowd noise fell away. He heard only his heartbeat, be saw only her, and she glittered like a jewel.

Dressed in a jade gown laced with silver thread and a bejeweled silver stomacher, her beauty outshone that of the other women in attendance the way silver

Selune outshone the glowing tears that trailed her orbit through the night sky. A crowd of noble sons surrounded her, talking, smiling, eager to impress.

Even from this distance, Gate recognized the frustrated set of her strong jaw. She hated noble fops and dress balls even more than he, but her mother had insisted she attend. As he watched, she smiled halfheartedly at a young noble's joke and glanced about as though seeking an excuse to escape. Their eyes met. She gave him a quick wave and smiled at him-a smile of genuine happiness. The men around her turned to shoot him envious glares. He bit back his jealousy, returned her wave, and smiled softly in return.

He dared not watch her too long for fear that his feelings would become plain on his face. Shooting her a final longing glance, he returned to his business and tried to locate the rest of the Uskevren family in the hall.

Lady Shamur, glamorous as always hi a long sleeved blue gown with a gold stomacher, sat nearby in lighthearted conversation with Dolera and Meena Foxmantle. To Gale's perceptive eyes, she looked scarcely more comfortable than her daughter-her smiles seemed forced and her slim body looked coiled-but she masked her feelings well. Dutifully, Gale walked over and refreshed the three ladies' wine glasses.

Thank you, Erevis," said Shamur. She flashed a grateful smile for the interruption and the severity that usually masked her finely chiseled features fell away for a moment. In that instant, Gale caught a rare glimpse of his ladyship's sophisticated beauty. Small wonder that Thazienne had turned out as gorgeous as she had; they could have been sisters.

"Do you require anything else, Lady?"

"No, Erevis. That will be all."

He bowed, first to Shamur, then to the Foxmantles. "Lady. Ladies."

"My," observed Dolera in her singsong voice as he walked away. "He is so very tall."

Gale hurried off without looking back. He would be hard-pressed to keep the impatience out of his voice if the empty-headed Dolera Foxmantle spoke to him. No wonder Lady Uskevren has to force her smiles, he thought with an inner grin.

He spotted Tamlin near the double doors that led to the forehall. The Uskevren heir stood with a half-empty wine bottle in his hand, a smile on his handsome face, and a crowd of young men and women clustered around him. Mostly women, Gale saw. At the edge of that sea of chattering femininity stood Tamlin's huge bodyguard, Vox, watchful and alert as always. The big man's crossed arms rippled with muscle, and even without weapons in evidence he radiated dangerous-ness. Gale watched Tamlin throw back his head in laughter and sprinkle the floor with wine. He frowned at Tamlin's carelessness.

While Gale envied Tamlin's easy grace with women, he despised the young man's lack of discipline. As he saw it, the sole weakness of the household was the Uskevren hen*. Tamlin lacked maturity, lacked judgment, and worst of all, lacked focus. He stuck his hands in whatever took his fancy from day to day, but never took the time to master anything. He needed to learn discipline. Gale would have been willing to teach h?ri-very willing-but he suspected that Tamlin would not enjoy the lessons. Everything had been handed to the young man since boyhood. He had never had to work for anything. If Tamlin was ever forced to fend for himself, he was as likely to survive as an ore in a dwarf hold. Unless something changed, Gale knew, the preeminence of House Uskevren would last only through Thamalon's lifetime.

At that moment, Tamlin looked across the hall 'and met Gale's eyes, caught Cale's disapproving frown, and momentarily lost his own ready smile. Gale looked away quickly, toying to keep the disdain in his expression hidden. As he did so, he caught a dark stare from Vox. The big man was apparently displeased that Gale had so discomfited Tamlin with only a look.

Gale returned that dull-eyed stare unflinchingly and didn't bother to hide his contempt. He knew Vox to be a professional mercenary and no doubt a skilled combatant, but Tymora would take him before he gave ground in his own house. Any time, big man, he thought, any time.

Vox looked away after a final glare, his thick-lipped mouth moving as though muttering to himself, though Gale knew him to be a mute.

Without thinking, Gale began to search the crowd for Talbot, but then remembered that the youngest Uskevren had begged off the celebration and remained at his tallhouse on Alasper Lane. He bit his lip thoughtfully, worried for the boy. He's been begging off a lot of things lately, Gale realized. All since that hunting accident.

Boyhood pranks gone awry were the previous extent of Talbot's troubles-Gale had typically resolved those without even informing Thamalon and Shamur-but the boy was getting old enough now that he might be attracting grown-up sized troubles. Gale knew that if he was in some kind of scrape, he would be afraid to tell anyone-especially his parents.

Ill have to look into that, he resolved. He made a mental scribe to contact Jak and ask the little man to quietly monitor the boy for a lew days.

Satisfied at last that all was in order with the family, he returned his mind to his butler's duties and made one final inspection of the floor staff. Everything seemed in good order, though he tensed when he spotted Larajin wobbling under a tray of empty wine bottles and dishes. His eyes bored nervous holes into her back as she walked unsteadily toward the forehall, but she managed to make it through the doors without incident. Gale followed her across the feasthall and stuck his head into the forehall to assure himself that she had made it to the kitchen without breaking something. She had.

The silence coming from down the hall-rather than the rattle of pans and Brilla the kitchen mistress's shouts-indicated to him that the exhausted cooking staff must have finally settled in to take their own dinner. Cale's growling stomach reminded him that the floor staff, himself included, would eat only after all the guests had gone.

Spotting a nearby wine valet, he walked over and replaced his near empty bottle of Storm Ruby with a fresh bottle of Usk Fine Old-a light, pear wine suitable for late evening-and prepared for what often proved to be his most interesting work during celebrations- information gathering.

Eavesdropping, he chided with a smile. At least call it what it is.

Surveying the hall, he noted the locations of the Old Chauncel patriarchs and planned a route from one to the other. In his time at Stormweather, he had learned that Lord Uskevren's food and drink tended to loosen otherwise tightly reined noble tongues. Especially in t?e presence of a mere servant. With his keen hearing, Gale had overheard innumerable incriminating facts while casually refilling after-dinner drinks. Over the years, he had been able to keep the Righteous Man satisfied with such information-information embarrassing to this or that noble family, but harmless to the Uskevren.

Generally meticulous about his posture, he deliberately slouched when making his rounds. He had found that guests went silent if the keen-eyed, towering butler approached, but did not seem to notice him at all if he shrank in on himself and softened his habitually hard expression.

The best servants are like old furniture, he thought, recalling an old Sembian adage, there when you need them,* but otherwise not to be noticed.

Wearing his best furniture disguise, he wove his way through the crowd. He refilled drinks as he went, casually spoke the praises of Usk Fine Old, and kept his keen ears attuned to nearby conversations. As expected, most was simply the mundane, after-dinner chatter of silly nobles.

"… hear Lady Baerent had taken an interest in the work of a young artist, if you take my meaning," said Lord Colvith with a laugh.

"… the Boaters sure are a strange lot," Lord Relen-dar was saying to a plump young woman Gale did not recognize. "I hear they sacrifice…"

Gale moved along, smiling, filling drinks, listening for anything that might be of use to the Righteous Man or to Thamalon.

In a quiet corner he noticed Thildar Foxmantle- partially drunk as usual-engaged in an earnest conversation with Owyl Thisvin, a fat mage-merchant who worked primarily in the neighboring city of Saer-loon. Thildar's heavy mustache and the dim light made lip-reading impossible, so Gale approached them, wine bottle in hand. They fell silent as he drew near, further piquing his interest.

"My Lords?" Gale held the wine bottle aloft.

"None for me, butler," Owyl replied dismissively.

Gale swallowed the urge to punch the smugness from Owyl's blotchy visage and instead turned to Thildar, who acknowledged him only by holding forth a silver goblet. Deferentially, Gale refilled it, walked a discreet distance away, and pretended to observe the crowd. Only then did Thildar and Owyl renew their conversation.

This must be interesting, Gale thought.

He tuned out the crowd noise and focused his hearing on the two men. When he heard them speaking Elvish, he had to contain his surprise. No doubt they felt secure in speaking the language of the elves-few Selgauntans had ever even seen one of the fair folk, much less understood their tongue. Gale silently thanked them for their arrogance. He had learned the expressive, intricate language of the elves at nineteen. A long tune ago, when he had been a very different man.

"Body sucked as dry as a Chondathan raisin," said Thildar, drunk and too loud. "My man in the household guard tells me a shadow streaked out the window just as the guards burst in."

At Thildar's overloud tone, Owyl glanced about in irritable nervousness. The mage-merchant's eyes fell on Gale but passed over and by him as though he didn't exist. Unnoticed furniture, Gale thought with a smile.

Owyl slipped back into the common tongue. "Did you say a shadow?"

"Yes," replied Thildar, again hi Elvish. "Or at least so he tells it." He waved a hand dismissively and gulped from his goblet. "But you know servants. In any case, that is neither here nor there, as they say. The important thing is this: with Boarim Soargyl and the Lady dead, you'll need someone else to move your wares across the Inner Sea. I can help with that. No doubt we can reach an amicable agreement…"

Gale ignored the rest of the conversation, mere commercial negotiations of no interest to him. He found the news about Lord and Lady Soargyl only mildly surprising. The Soargyls had not made a public appearance in over a tenday, a rarity for them, and rumors had been flying. Through his own sources, Cale had heard a story of murder in Sarntrumpet Towers, though nothing about a shadow. He would have to relate this news to Thamalon. With Boarim Soargyl dead and his untested son Rorsin heading the family, the rest of the Old Chauncel families would scramble to take over any vulnerable Soargyl interests.

Like vultures, he thought, eyeing Thildar with contempt. Perhaps Thamalon could offer Rorsin an alliance? Cale could not hide a grim smile at the thought. Boarim would spin in his casket. The Uskevren and Soargyl lords had long been bitter enemies. But times change, thought Cale, and so do men. Despite the acrimonious history, he had no doubt that Thamalon would offer Rorsin an alliance, if it was in the Uskevren's interest.

Thildar's description of the bodies stuck in Cale's mind and sounded alarm bells in his head: Sucked dry as a Chondathan raisin, tie had heard disquieting rumors recently that some of Selgaunt's underworld leaders had died similarly-three Zhentarim fished out of Selgaunt Bay, their bodies pruned by more than immersion in the sea. Zalen Quickblade, former leader of the Redcowls, found dead in an alley with his body collapsed in on itself. Too many similarities for a coincidence and too well targeted for a random predator. A new player looking to establish himself? he wondered. Or an old one grown bold?

He knew that murder within the walls of Sarntrumpet Towers would make things difficult for everyone. Such a daring attack on a noble's home indicated recklessness, stupidity, or fearlessness. Selgaunt's Scepters- the city's watchmen-would be prowling the streets for the culprit, and they wouldn't be overly careful about who got caught in the melee.

He would have to warn Jak so that the little man would know to lie low. Independent rogues always suffered the most when the Scepters went on a purge, Guilds could bribe Watch Captains and buy safety; independents had to hide or hang. Cale would also have to leave word with Riven to arrange a meeting with the Righteous Man. The Night Knife guildmaster might know more about what was going onHis stream of thought abruptly stopped. Disbelieving, his gaze followed a blond haired, handsome young man moving casually through the crowd. Dressed in a finely cut tan doublet with green under-sleeves, black hose, and high boots, the man looked much the same as every other young noble in attendance. Except that he was casing the attendees. He moved among the young noblewomen, flashed a smile, laughed, and no doubt commented on the beauty of their jewelry.

He was picking his marks! Cale could not believe it. Professionally, he had to admit that the would-be thief had skills. Only Cale's long experience and trained eye allowed him to notice anything amiss.

Spotting Larajin nearby again clearing dishes, he hurried over to her.

"Larajin-"

She jumped as though he had poked her with a pin. The tray of chalices she bore shook alarmingly. %›h! Oh." When she turned and saw him, her voice quavered. "Yes, Mister Cale?"

"Give me one of those." He nodded absently at the tray, his eyes still on the young thief

"Mister Cale?"

"A chalice, girl," he snapped. "Give me a damned chalice."

She recoiled, green eyes wide, and he felt a swift pang of guilt. She was just a girl, after all, and she was trying. He softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Larajin. Something else is on my mind. Here." He removed a chalice from the trembling tray and filled it from the bottle he held. "And you take this." He placed the wine bottle on the tray. "Remove it all to the kitchen and take your dinner."

"But-"

He turned on his heel and walked across the hall toward the thief. Waiting until the boy stood alone, Cale approached with the chalice. "A drink, young sir-oops." Feigning a stumble, he bumped into the boy, quickly felt him for steel-one buckleknife beneath his belt-and dumped the wine over the boy's doublet.

"Oh, forgive me, young sir." He pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and daubed at the stain. "Forgive me, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," replied the blushing thief, looking about in embarrassment and trying to push Cale away. A few heads turned their way, curious, but quickly turned back to their own conversations. That the boy had not exploded at Cale for such clumsiness-as any of Selgaunt's nobility would have-only confirmed his suspicions.

Cale continued to apologize and daub awkwardly at the stain while the boy continued trying to push him away. "It's aH right, butler. You can go-"

Cale looked up abruptly as though struck with an idea. "Young sir… that is, if the young sir will be gracious enough to allow me to escort him to the kitchens,

Brilla the cook will see to the stain. I'm sure she will be able to remove it entirely."

"That won't be necessary-"

"Please young master, I insist you allow me to correct my clumsiness. Please?"

The boy looked down at his stained doublet, hesitated, then gave a shrug. "Very well then, butler. But let's be quick."

"Follow me, young master. The kitchens are this way."

Cale led him through the double doors into the fore-hall, but rather than turning right to go through the parlor and into the kitchen he turned left and strode toward an unoccupied receiving room.

The thief looked about absently as they walked, no doubt noting portable valuables. "How far are the kitchens, butleaaggh-"

Without warning, Cale whirled on him, gripped him by the throat, and pinned him against the wood paneled receiving room wall. The boy kicked and gagged but Cale held him fast. He stared into the boy's wide brown eyes and slowly lifted him from his feet. Desperate wheezes squeaked from the thief'sthroat. His red face began rapidly to turn blue.

"I know exactly what you are and what you're doing here," Cale hissed into his face. The boy feebly shook his head in the negative so Cale squeezed harder. The wheezes stopped altogether. The boy thrashed but Gale's iron grip could not be broken. "Don't deny it. I can always spot an amateur."

Indignant at first, the asphyxiating thief at last nodded. Satisfied, Cale eased his grip, but only slightly. The wheezes returned while the thief'sblue face faded back to flush red. Cale stared straight into his frightened eyes. "Boy, if your left hand moves one inch closer to that buckleknife in your belt, I promise you that you've already taken your last breath."

The boy went wide-eyed and let his hand, which had been inching surreptitiously toward his belt, dangle limply.

"Here's how it's going to be," said Gale. "You listening?"

The boy nodded, but looked on the verge of passing out.

"I don't know who you work for and I don't care, but after tonight this house is off limits. Understand?"

Another desperate nod.

Gale gave a final, meaningful glare, and released him. The would-be thief collapsed to the floor, gasping.

"Collect yourself. I'm going to show you out."

"But my coat," the boy protested. "It's cold." He realized immediately that he should not have opened his mouth.

Gale stared at. him The boy's eyes found the floor. "Forget it," he muttered.

He climbed slowly to his feet and Gate led him through the receiving room to a side door that opened onto the patio. He pulled the door open and the blast of cold, Deepwinter air set the boy's teeth to chattering.

"Through the gardens, left to Sam Street. Don't let me see you again."

The boy nodded, crossed his arms against the cold, and hurried out.

After closing the door and securing the deadbolt, Gale congratulated himself for solving a problem without bloodshed. Ten years ago, he'd have taken the boy into the gardens and put him down, just to be thorough. I have changed, he realized with a soft smile. Thazienne would be proud.

•(c)• •(c)• •(c)• •(c)• -(r)

Crouching amidst the tall shrubbery, Araniskeel hungrily eyed the two humans. The tall one said some- thing and shoved the smaller one out of the door of the great house. Light, sound, and life spilled from the open door like blood from a wound. Araniskeel growled, low and dangerous, and a soft chorus of snarls sounded behind him in answer. The power of the two humans' souls glowed in his eyes, tempting him, whetting his appetite to feed. The tall human's soul shone with power, hah0 of it white, half of it shadow, as though it fought a war with itself. The smaller human's soul, though a mere gray spark in comparison, elicited an anticipatory purr from the demon..

The fifteen former humans hidden in the gardens with him sensed his pleasure and shifted eagerly. "Feed us," they whispered. "Feed us."

Araniskeel turned to face them. Silence, he thought to them, and they fell on their faces to the dirty snow, abject. He regarded them with contempt, as he did all humans. Araniskeel's master Yrsillar had possessed the leader of these humans-these Night Knives-and named himself the avatar of their god. Now these ignorant fools literally fell over themselves in their frenzy to serve. Yrsillar had taken their zeal and used it- used it to twist their bodies, warp their minds, and pollute their souls until they had become tools suitable to his purposes. Now, not even Araniskeel would feed upon the twisted, black things that served as the corrupted humans' souls.

The door to the house slammed closed. The sound jerked him back around. The tall human had retreated within, but the short one remained outside. Silence, he projected again to the corrupted humans. As always, they obeyed. They soundlessly rocked back and forth, hungry for flesh, their daws alternately clenching and unclenching fistfuls of frozen earth.

Patience, he thought. Soon you will feed.

The small human, his arms crossed against a cold Araniskeel did not feel in this form, muttered to himself and walked from the house toward them. Araniskeel allowed his hunger to build, savored the growing anticipation that would soon be sated. The small human neared and walked past unsuspecting. Araniskeel stepped from the shrubs and reached for him.

The human's startled gasp ended almost as soon as it began. Araniskeel flashed a claw and opened the human's throat. His wings beat in ecstasy as the paltry soul pulsed screaming from the wound and into his being. Araniskeel's black form swallowed and utterly devoured the small human's life-force.

"For Mask," the corrupted humans chanted into the dirt. "For Mask."

Finished with the feeding, Araniskeel let the dried body fall to the pavement. Feed, he ordered.

Growling eagerly, the corrupted humans leaped to their feet, dragged the corpse into the bushes, and began to feast on the dried flesh. Their mindless gob-bung delighted Araniskeel, so he allowed their frenzy to continue until only the tattered clothing remained of the corpse.

As the corrupted humans fed, he savored the lingering sweetness of the human's soul. In all the world, only humans had such a complex, delicious life-force capable of sating the perpetual hunger of his kind. Yrsillar, Araniskeel, and Greeve would turn this city of humans into a slaughterhouse. Tonight's feeding would be the first of many.

More souls resided within the house, he knew. Many more. He could sense them through the walls even at this distance. He sensed their essence on the winter wind. Araniskeel did not know why his master had chosen this house as a target and did not care. There was food within. That was enough.

Come, he said to the corrupted humans. There is more food within.

Their long, purple tongues lolled over gray lips and needle-sharp fangs. He took pleasure in their anticipatory slavering. "Food," they hissed. "Food."