Shadowbred

CHAPTER NINE

29 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms

Mirabeta and Elyril sat across the table from Malkur Forrin. The rising sun cast blood-red light through the leaded glass windows of the small meeting chamber in Mirabeta's manse, Ravenholme. The mercenary's right eye drooped from an old wound and pale scars crisscrossed his muscular arms. He looked uncomfortable in his attire: the high-collared shirt and vest of a Sembian gentleman. Elyril imagined he would have preferred his mail and helm. He wore his graying hair in a helmcut. A broadsword, rather than a gentleman's rapier, hung from a battered scabbard at his belt.

"You sent for me, Overmistress?" Malkur said.

Mirabeta had employed Malkur's mercenary company, the Blades, often over the years, sometimes as escorts for the caravans of the Six Coffers Market Priakos, a trade consortium in which Mirabeta held controlling interest. Sometimes, she hired him for darker deeds. Malkur had proven his proficiency at bloodletting on several occasions. Elyril thought that he and Mirabeta possessed similar temperaments-ambition unrestrained by moral foibles.

Elyril also knew that her aunt and Malkur had occasional sexual relations. She thought it strange, since they did not appear to like each other much. She suspected the coupling was performed without sentiment. The mental image amused her and she had to swallow a smile.

"How many of the Blades are available at this moment?" Mirabeta asked.

Malkur rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand and pondered. "Three score are away on jobs. I have about a hundred men to hand. And all are eager. Most have been idle for nearly a month."

Elyril and Mirabeta shared a satisfied look. One hundred men would be enough. Elyril knew the Blades to be a diverse force. Most of them were former Sembian and Cormyrean soldiers with a taste for violence, but Malkur also commanded a few wizards, a cadre of warrior-priests in service to Talos the Thunderer, and a handful of highly skilled men who could act as scouts or assassins for the larger force.

Mirabeta said, "Malkur, I have some… delicate work that needs to be done. You have the stomach for it. Know that it is for the good of Sembia."

Malkur snorted derisively. "Sembia can sink into the Inner Sea for all I care. And I mean no offense, Countess. I am interested only in the payment."

Mirabeta smiled tightly. "I understand. Then have eighty of your men ride south along the Rauthauvyr's Road. Weerdon Kost has communicated with Lady Merelith already. The Saerloonian delegation to the moot is on its way north. They will skirt Selgaunt. I want your men to attack them."

Malkur did not flinch from the politically sensitive nature of the targets. Elyril thought he would have made a fine Sharran.

"All of them should die?"

Mirabeta shook her head. "No. Attack them from the south, in the guise of Saerbians and Selgauntans, as they move toward Ordulin. Through my house wizards, I will provide you with magical sendings telling you the exact day. Kill some and let the rest escape northward to me. I want them to bring me news of the attack."

Malkur stroked his whiskers, thoughtful. "You have the uniforms of Saerb and Selgaunt?"

Elyril shook her head. "Uniforms are too obvious."

Mirabeta nodded. "Your men should act in some way to convince the Saerloonians that their attackers are in service to Saerb and Selgaunt. I am sure you will think of something. After the attack, the men should return in small groups to Ordulin. It goes unsaid that none of your men should know of the nature of the attack until it happens."

"It also goes unsaid that none of them should be taken prisoner or left dead on the field," Elyril added.

Malkur looked at Elyril. "My men have never lost a battle, Mistress. Some nobles out of Saerloon and their ceremonial guard are not going to change that." He looked at Mirabeta and leaned forward in his chair. "The proffered payment, Overmistress?"

Mirabeta leaned back in her chair. "I will pay your men twice their normal fee. And you, Malkur, have my promise that when the time comes, you will be reinstated into Sembia's army and named my commander general."

Malkur tried to disguise it, but Elyril caught a flash of interest in his eyes. He had once been a general in Sembia's Helms, but Kendrick Selkirk had dismissed him from his post for excessive brutality in policing the roadways.

Malkur, pretending to ponder the offer, shrugged. "Promises are hard to spend, Overmistress."

"Triple the fee," Mirabeta said, and Malkur smiled. One of his front teeth was missing.

"Done, Overmistress," he said. "I will muster the men and await word from you."

Mirabeta said, "You cannot lead them, Malkur. I have a special task for you and a handpicked group of your men to perform."

Malkur's eyebrows rose in a question. The man fairly sweated greed. "Oh?"

"My informants have located Kendrick Selkirk's sons. They are in Scardale, preparing to journey to Ordulin."

Her words hung in the air, fat with implication.

Malkur's eyes narrowed and he said, "I would enjoy nothing more than seeing the sons of Kendrick Selkirk at the end of my blade."

"Here is your opportunity," Elyril said.

Malkur nodded and looked to Mirabeta. "Some of my Blades are skilled at what you require. And I have a diviner who may be able to locate them on the road. But Miklos Selkirk will be accompanied by his Silver Ravens. You will have a large battle to explain."

Elyril knew that Miklos commanded his own mercenary company called the Silver Ravens. They were less swords-for-hire than adventurers-for-hire. One of the Silver Ravens had been operating as a spy for Mirabeta for the better part of a year. He had informed them of Miklos and Kavin's whereabouts.

"No," Mirabeta said. "He is traveling in disguise, with only his brother. Few know he is coming. He hopes to arrive in Ordulin in secret and perform his own investigation of his father's death before revealing himself to the moot."

Malkur leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the table. "Miklos is well known, Overmistress. If word got out…"

"Word should not get out," Mirabeta said. "That would put us both in grave danger. That is why we can trust one another, Malkur."

Malkur nodded. "The Selkirk job will cost more. For the men, and for me."

Mirabeta smiled. "I would expect nothing less, dear Malkur. Quadruple the fees, then. A deal?"

Malkur looked pleased. He pushed back his chair and stood. "A deal, Overmistress. I can muster the men immediately."

Mirabeta stood and extended her hand to Malkur. He took it, kissed it, lingered over it.

"It is always a pleasure to be in your company," he said suggestively.

Mirabeta smiled, clucked her tongue, and waved Elyril from the chamber.

"Leave us, Elyril. We have… more business to discuss."

Elyril had no doubt. As she left her aunt and the mercenary leader to their lovemaking, she touched her invisible holy symbol and thanked Shar. The plan to employ the Blades to attack the Saerloonian delegation had been largely hers. With one stroke, they would invent a rebellion, make Saerloon a staunch ally, and eliminate Miklos Selkirk, a man who would have stood firmly against Mirabeta's appointment as war regent.

Sembia soon would explode as surely as a Gondsman's firebomb. Elyril chuckled when she considered how easily Sembia would descend into civil war. The tools had been in place for years. They had wanted only someone to wield them.

Daylight showed Selgaunt for the rouge-covered whore she had become. Cale was appalled by how much the city had changed over the last year.

Groups of destitute refugees crept out of the alleys and dark places of the city and sat listlessly on the walkways or streets until shopkeepers or the Scepters moved them along. Many begged alms and almost all of them looked hungry. Surreptitiously, to avoid being mobbed, Cale slipped a few silver ravens into the palms of the women and children he passed.

Selgaunt had been a wealthy city for so long that seeing so many poor on its streets shocked him. Cale guessed they must have come south from the upcountry, fleeing the drought, the Rage, the Rain of Fire, and the daemonfey.

He thought of Varras words: The world is too big to save everything. Looking into the dull eyes of the hungry, he thought she had been as much a prophet as Sephris.

The streets lacked the usual vendors hawking day old bread and browned fruit. The typical smells of breakfasts cooking did not fill the morning air. Instead, stick figures wandered the streets and the air smelled of dumped nightsoil and despair.

Shopkeepers tried to hold up the pretense that Selgaunt was still Selgaunt-sweeping their stoops, setting out their wares-but even they looked underfed. Selgaunt reminded him more of Skullport than anything else.

He made his way as best he could through the deprivation. He knew that he could pray to Mask for the power to cast spells that created food. He knew the priests of other faiths could do the same, and wondered why they had not. At least two score priests lived in the city who were capable of casting the spell.

Perhaps they were seeing only to the needs of the wealthy? Or perhaps they were casting the spells for the needy and the magic was not enough. It occurred to Cale that the famine was not simply a problem of feeding the refugee villagers. The villagers had been the ones to feed the city with their crops and livestock. The recent disasters had forced the farmers into the city, and not only did they need food, they were no longer producing food for Selgaunt. The problem would only get worse with time. It would take a small army of priests to feed a city the size of Selgaunt.

A disturbance in the street ahead drew his eye. A wave of people jumped to their feet and pushed toward the middle of the avenue, all racing away from Cale. Many shouted, raised their fists. Cale fought his way through the press to see.

A caravan of mule-drawn wagons from the outlying farms rumbled down the center of the city. Turnips, leeks, and sacks of grain lay piled in the wagon beds. Armed Scepters surrounded the caravan and held the press of people at bay with their shields. Two Scepters rode in the wagon, straddling the food as if it were gold.

"This food is going to the market!" one of the Scepters shouted. "Make your purchase there!"

"Purchase!" a man near Cale shouted. "We cannot afford to pay! A bag of turnips costs a fivestar! We are hungry here, guardsman!"

Many in the crowd shouted agreement and pressed closer.

The Scepters looked alarmed, as did the teamsters driving the wagons. Even the mules looked skittish. The Scepters pushed the press of bodies backward with their shields and brandished their blades. The people fell back and the carts moved onward toward the market, leaving crying children and despondent parents in their wake.

The crowd started to disperse, grumbling in their despair. Cale put a hand on the shoulder of the thin man who had shouted about the price of turnips.

"Did you say a fivestar for turnips?"

The man turned and regarded Cale with hollow eyes. "Aye. The price of food has left all but the rich scraping for dog scraps, unless you are willing to wait all day in a priest's food line and swear to the worship of his god. Where have you been living?"

Cale held his tongue and let the man go.

A year ago, a sack of turnips would have cost a copper, maybe two. But a fivestar! Half of Selgaunt would be unable to eat at those prices. There would be riots.

Cale immediately decided that the new Hulorn was incompetent. He picked up his pace. Perhaps Tamlin could get the Old Chauncel to act.

Halfway to the Noble District, on the sharply angled, shop-lined Adzer's Way, Cale caught sight of a mounted trio of Helms patrolling the streets. They sat atop warhorses and each wore the customary round steel cap and blue tabard emblazoned with Sembia's coat of arms, the raven and silver. Cale stared at them for a moment in disbelief. He had never before seen soldiers of the Sembian army patrolling city streets. Sembia's merchants had always shown a strong distaste for soldiers. The nation's army was small and decentralized and kept deliberately so. Sembia was positioned to conquer through the force of its trade, not through force of arms. The Helms' duties had always consisted of patrolling the trade roads and villages outside of Sembia's major cities.

Cale decided that the new Hulorn was not merely incompetent, he was an idiot. He had put soldiers on the street-not city guardsmen accustomed to peacefully resolving disputes among the citizens, but soldiers, accustomed to answering problems with steel.

Shaking his head, Cale steered wide of the Helms and hurried on. He had been isolated in his cottage for too long. He had not known things had deteriorated so far, so fast. He needed to see Tamlin; he needed to understand what had happened.

The sounds on the streets were strangely subdued, tired, pensive.

Cale moved through the street traffic, dodging thin horses, men pulling empty carts, pedestrians trying to pretend that life was normal. He followed a line of people that snaked almost an entire block until he reached a warehouse with its wagon doors thrown open. Inside, priests of Lathander and Tymora spooned porridge out of huge pots into whatever container the hungry carried. He imagined Temple Avenue must look much the same.

When he reached the Noble District he found the streets dotted with armed men. Patrols of Helms and Scepters walked the streets. The gatehouses of the Old Chauncel manses were manned, not by two or three armed house guards, but by five or six.

Cale endured the suspicious gazes of the soldiers and headed south, past the towering walls of the Old Chauncel manses, toward Stormweather Towers. A group of mail-armored Helms stood in the street before his old home, blocking the walkway that led to the gatehouse. Shields hung from their backs; crossbows dangled from shoulder slings. All bore broadswords at their belts. Cale gauged their number at about a score. The pedestrian traffic-there was little-steered clear of the soldiers. But not Cale. He walked toward them, keeping his hand clear of Weaveshear as he approached. With conscious effort, he kept shadows from sneaking free of his flesh. The Helms saw him coming and three of them detached from the rest and stepped forward to halt his advance.

"The Hulorn holds audiences only on the tenth of each month," said the oldest of the three, a thick-set warrior with a square jaw and hard eyes. "Leave your name with the clerk in the palace and you will be seen in due time."

At first Cale could not make sense of the words. "The hulorn? Why is the hulorn in Stormweather?"

The man's eyes never left Cale's face. The eyes of his two comrades never left Cale's blade hand. "Lord Uskevren resides-"

Cale took a step back, incredulous. "Tamlin Uskevren is the hulorn?"

The Helms looked agitated at his tone. "Calm down, goodsir. Of course Tamlin Uskevren is the hulorn-has been these four months past. You are new to the city?"

Cale could not believe that Tamlin had been stupid enough to fill the streets with soldiers. He shook his head.

"No, but I have been away for a time."

Too long, it appeared. He said, "I have business with the Hulorn. He is expecting me."

The Helm took in Cale's appearance and weapons and looked doubtful. "He has not sent word that we should expect a visitor. If you leave your name with the clerk at the palace-"

"I am leaving my name with you," Cale said, a bit more sternly than he'd intended. "Please inform the Hulorn that Erevis Cale is…"

Cale trailed off. Behind the Helms, he saw a familiar face emerge from Stormweather's gatehouse.

"That tone will get you a day in the gaol," the Helm said.

Cale ignored the Helm and shouted past him. "Ren! Ren! It's Mister Cale!" Cale raised a hand in greeting. "Here!"

Cale had saved Ren's life a year ago, when slaads had used the young man as a hostage and taken three of his fingers.

Ren, in the attire of an Uskevren house guard, heard Cale's shout and looked around. He saw Cale waving and furrowed his brow.

"Ren! It's me, Erevis Cale."

"Move along," said the Helm, and he put his hand on Cale's chest.

"Mister Cale?" Ren called.

Shadows emerged from Cale's flesh and wrapped the Helm's hand. The man exclaimed, recoiled in alarm, and drew his blade. The other Helms did the same. Cale's hand went instinctively to Weaveshear but he stopped himself before drawing.

"What in the Nine Hells are you?" the Helm said, pointing his blade at Cale.

Cale ignored him and spoke to Ren. "Yes, Ren! It's me!"

Ren wore the blue and gold Uskevren livery over his armor and shield. He hurried down the pathway and scowled at the Helms.

"Scabbard that steel," he said to the Helms. "Now."

To Cale's surprise, the Helms obeyed-reluctantly, and eyeing Cale all the while.

The leader of the Helms said, "This man-"

"Was serving the hulorn when you were still chasing brigands down Tildaryn's Road, Vol," Ren finished.

Vol's lips pursed, but he nodded tightly and held back whatever he might have wanted to say.

Ren regarded Cale, clasped his forearm. "Gods, it is you, Mister Cale. I did not recognize you with the hair." He cocked his head. "And there is something else different, too."

"Dark sorcery," muttered Vol, eyeing his hand where Cale's shadows had touched him.

Cale ignored the Helm. Ren did not.

The house guard held up his hand to show his missing fingers. "You are insulting the man who ensured that I lost only these rather than my life."

Vol looked away. The other two Helms eyed the road.

Cale thumped Ren on the shoulder. He had left Ren an uncertain young man. Now he seemed a senior leader in the house guard. He had grown a neatly-trimmed beard, and he'd put on some weight.

"It is good to see you," Cale said.

"And you," Ren said with a smile.

"My apologies, goodsir," Vol said to Cale.

"Accepted," Cale answered immediately.

Side by side, Cale and Ren walked up the paved walkway that led to the gatehouse. Four other members of the house guard stood at the gate, watching them approach. They were armed and armored like Ren.

Ren said, "The hulorn informed the house guard that if you appeared, you were to be allowed entry at any hour. He neglected to inform the Helms."

Cale did not recognize any of the house guards stationed at the gatehouse. Ren ordered one of them to inform Irwyl, Cale's replacement as Uskevren steward, that Mister Cale had arrived, and the young guard sped off. The other house guards eyed Cale with open admiration.

Ren made introductions and led Cale through the gate and onto the grounds. The estate appeared as Cale remembered it. Topiary, fountains, statuary, and well-tended gardens dotted the swath. The stables, servants' quarters, and other outbuildings crouched along the surrounding walls.

"I told the other guards what happened at the Twisted Elm," Ren explained. "Everyone here knows of it."

Cale nodded, mildly embarrassed.

Ren looked at him sidelong. "I wondered what happened to you after we parted. Were you in Selgaunt all that time?"

"No," Cale said, and left it at that.

Cale could see Ren wanted to speak his thoughts.

"Speak plainly, Ren."

Ren hesitated, but finally asked, "Mister Cale, what happened to the sons of whores that maimed me? I want them dead. Or hurt. Or… something."

Cale understood the feeling. He pulled Ren to a stop and looked the young man in the face. "All but one is dead. And I made that one suffer before he escaped. Well enough?"

Ren smiled grimly and nodded. "Well enough."

Cale said to him, "My advice? Leave it in the past."

Ren looked Cale in the face and nodded. "Good advice."

They started walking. Ren asked, "What happened to your hand, Mister Cale? Surely not the same bastards?"

"The same," Cale said, holding up the stump of his wrist. "But the one that took my hand was not the one that escaped."

Ren spat on the ground. "Good news, that. Who were they, Mister Cale?"

"Ask me again another time, Ren. That is a long tale."

Ren nodded and changed the subject. "Things look a bit different, don't they?"

"Stormweather? It looks nearly the same."

"No. The city, I mean."

"Ah," Cale answered, nodding. "Very different."

Ren gestured northward as they walked. "Upcountry was struck hard by the Rage and the Rain of Fire. I heard that wildfires and dragon attacks destroyed entire villages. Some villages were abandoned out of fear. In others, the soil just went bad. The harvest suffered. The villagers headed for the cities in droves but the cities had nothing to offer them. So here we all sit." He shook his head. "I hear Selgaunt is worse than most. I do not know what will happen."

Neither did Cale. He knew only that Sephris had prophesied a storm and he felt as if he were watching it unfold before his eyes. He moved the conversation to smaller matters.

"What are you, second or third in command of the guard? Who heads it? Still Orrin?"

"Second," Ren answered with a swell of pride. "The youngest in the history of Stormweather. And aye. Still Orrin."

Cale knew Orrin to be a good man and a good leader. He had done well to promote Ren. The young man had grown much in the last year. Cale hoped the same was true of Tamlin.

They walked for a time in silence and Cale noticed eyes on himself. Grooms, stable boys, grounds men, all paused in their work to watch him pass. He recognized many of them. They had been on his staff long ago. He nodded. They waved. Gossip trailed in his wake.

"The staff still gossips," Cale said with a smile.

"So do my guards, and neither will ever change," Ren answered, also smiling. "It's good to have you back, Mister Cale."

"Thank you, Ren."

Ahead, Cale saw the raised porch and double-doored main entryway to Stormweather Tower. Ivy climbed up the manse's curved walls. The Uskevren crest-the horse at anchor-hung over the doorway. Part of Cale's past lurked behind those doors.

Before they reached the porch, a squeal from Cale's left stopped him. He turned to see a bouncing mountain of flesh lumbering toward him-Brilla, the kitchen mistress. She wore a dress as large as a tent, a stained apron like a ship's sail, and a smile as wide as the Elzimmer River.

"Well met, Brilla," Cale said.

Brilla did not bother with words. She wrapped him in the folds of her ample body and gave him a squeeze so hard he was pleased his body had regenerated his broken ribs. Streamers of shadow coiled around her but she seemed not to notice.

"I told them all you would be back, I did. Said this place was in your veins. Said this family was your family. And here you are."

She pushed him away to arm's length. "Let us have a look. Look at this hair! You look so different, Mister Cale. I hardly recognize you."

"I have changed a bit," Cale acknowledged. "But not you, Brilla. You look as lovely as ever."

She turned away and blushed under her gray hair, pulled into a tight bun. "Now, Mister Cale…"

Cale smiled and said, "It is a true pleasure to see you, Brilla."

Brilla had always been a rock of sense among the staff. Chatty and stubborn, but always sensible. She beamed. "And you, Mister Cale."

"No need for the 'Mister,' Brilla."

"You will always be Mister Cale to me, Mister Cale."

Cale decided not to argue the point.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Your hand!"

Cale pulled his sleeve down over the stump. "It is nothing, Brilla."

"Nothing! How can you say such things?" She took his forearm in her hand, pushed up his sleeve, and examined the stump. There was no point in resisting her.

"It has healed well. How did it happen?"

"Another time, Brilla. Well enough?"

She let his arm go, frowning. "Well enough. Perhaps tonight? I have a torte that you will love, Mister Cale. Ingredients have been hard to come by of late, but I have improvised a little something with grapes from the Storl Oak vineyard and maple syrup. Will you be dining with Tamlin?"

Probably Brilla alone called the Hulorn by his given name.

"I am not certain," Cale said. He did not know exactly what Tamlin desired of him. "But if not, I will make a point to come to the kitchen."

Brilla accepted that with a smile. Most of her front teeth were rotten or missing. "It feels right to see you here again, Mister Cale."

"Thank you, Brilla."

She watched him, smiling all the while, as he and Ren entered Stormweather's double doors.

Irwyl awaited them in the arched foyer, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His short hair hung over a face as pointed as an arrowhead. He wore a prim look, a tailored vest, and linen pantaloons. He looked more a steward than Cale ever had. His eyes widened somewhat at Cale's appearance, but he masked his surprise well.

"You look well, Irwyl," Cale said.

"As do you, Mister Cale. Different, but well. That will be all, Ren."

Ren nodded, turned to Cale, and extended a hand. "For everything, my thanks."

Cale shook his hand. "Of course. I will be around for a while."

"Good to hear," Ren said. He nodded at the butler and took his leave.

"Do you require anything?" Irwyl asked Cale. "A refreshment? A… change of clothing?"

Cale smiled. "No, Irwyl."

"Very well. Follow me, then, Mister Cale," Irwyl said, and started for the parlor.

Before they reached it, Irwyl turned around and faced Cale.

"May I be candid, Mister Cale?"

Puzzled, Cale said, "Of course. What is it?"

"Do you intend to take your previous station? I would like to know if I need to seek a new situation. Times are difficult but I suspect the hulorn would be generous with severance."

Cale would have laughed aloud had he not seen how serious Irwyl was. He wiped the burgeoning smile from his face and said, "Of course not, Irwyl. My life has… gone in a different direction." He gave Irwyl a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Besides, I would be a poor substitute for you."

A relieved smile broke through Irwyl's stony exterior. "Very good, Mister Cale," he said, in a much softer tone. "Follow me, please."

Stormweather Towers had changed little. Cale felt as if he were walking back in time. Tapestry and art-bedecked halls and walls, carved wooden doors, arched ceilings. All of it seemed so far removed from Cale's life.

Irwyl led him into the parlor, the parlor where Cale often had played chess with Thamalon the Elder, or spent a long night discussing the plot of this or that rival of the Old Chauncel. The book-lined walls and reading chairs remained, as did the ivory and jade chessboard and pieces. Cale felt Thamalon's absence the same way he felt the absence of his severed hand.

"I have informed the hulorn of your arrival," Irwyl said. "He will see you shortly."

While he waited, Cale paced the parlor, examined the spines of the books, the suits of ceremonial armor that stood in the corners of the chamber, the sculptures small and large that dotted the room.

The parlor was still Thamalon's, even more than a year after his death. That pleased Cale. He stood over the chessboard, pondered, and advanced the queen's pawn.

"Your move, my lord," he murmured.

A cleared throat from over his shoulder turned him around.

Tamlin wore a long green jacket, a pale, stiff collared shirt, and the tailored breeches that seemed fashionable in Sembia that season. He wore a number of pouches on his belt-components for his spells, Cale figured. Some gray at his temples accented his otherwise dark hair. Shadows darkened the skin under his eyes, which widened at Cale's appearance.

A man of about the same age stood beside Tamlin. He wore a snugly fitted purple vest with a collared black shirt, and high boots rather than shoes. A rapier and dagger hung from his belt. A short beard masked a tight mouth and small eyes set closely together. He, too, looked surprised at Cale's appearance.

"Mister Cale?" asked Tamlin tentatively.

Cale bowed formally. "Lord Uskevren."

Tamlin approached him, mouth open, but arm outstretched. They clasped forearms.

"Gods, man!" Tamlin said, shaking his head and smiling. "You look so… different."

Cale nodded. "Many things have changed since our paths crossed last, my lord."

Tamlin studied his face. "So I heard, and so I see. Same man underneath, though. Yes?"

Cale hoped so. "Yes. You look a bit different, my lord."

Tamlin ran his fingers through the gray in his hair. "Ah, yes, this. Well, heavy is the head that wears the crown and all that, right?" He laughed, a forced sound, and gestured at the man who had accompanied him into the room.

"Do you remember Vees Talendar?"

"Talendar?" Cale paused to think. A rogue wizard of the Talendar family had once orchestrated an attack on the Uskevren. It culminated in a lengthy battle with summoned monsters atop the High Bridge.

Vees flushed. "No doubt you recall my Uncle Marance's unfortunate bout of madness and the consequences of the same."

"Our families have long since come to terms with those events," Tamlin said with a dismissive wave, and Cale was not certain if he was speaking to Cale or Vees. "The Talendar and Uskevren are fast friends now."

"That is something good that came of my uncle," Vees said.

"The past is the past," Cale said to Vees, nodding respectfully. "Lord Talendar."

Vees smiled, a polite gesture but nothing more. "Mister Cale," he said.

Tamlin gestured at Vees. "Vees's advice has been invaluable to me, Mister Cale. Due to him, I was elected Hulorn."

"Indeed?" Cale asked.

"Your own talent got you elected," Vees said, and Cale knew he was silver-tongued. Vees eyed Cale's leather armor, his weapons. "You do not look much like a steward."

"Mister Cale was always more than that," Tamlin said.

"A bodyguard, more like," Vees said. "At least from what I have heard."

Cale recalled that the Talendar family had sent Vees to Waterdeep for an education and he had returned a priest of Siamorphe. Cale thought it strange that he did not wear a holy symbol openly. He knew also that the Talendars had financed the building of a temple to Siamorphe on Temple Avenue.

"How is construction proceeding?" Cale asked, to change the subject.

Vees looked surprised that Cale knew of the temple.

"You mean the temple? Quite well, Mister Cale. The Lady's new home will be completed soon."

"Perhaps then you can give us a tour, at last," Tamlin said with a laugh. He looked to Cale and said, "The priests keep the place locked as tight as a Calishite Pasha's harem room."

Vees smiled and explained to Cale, "There are only two priests other than myself, and the sanctification rites require that the interior be open only to servants of Siamorphe until the process is complete. It is taking quite some time. You understand, I am sure."

Cale did not, but nodded anyway. His god had no temples other than alleys. His god had knife fights with his Chosen.

"Vees could tell us that the rites required nude virgins dancing in the moonlight and I would know no better. Who has ever heard of Siamorphe? You will be pressed for worshipers, my friend."

Vees only smiled. "Perhaps. But we go where we are called."

Irwyl entered with a bottle of Uskevren wine and three goblets.

"Ever timely," Tamlin said. Irwyl distributed the goblets and poured. Cale allowed a fill out of politeness, though he did not intend to drink. Irwyl left the bottle on a side table. He noticed that the pawn had been moved on the chessboard, frowned, and returned it to its original position.

Irwyl asked, "Will Mister Cale be staying in the manse?"

"Of course," Tamlin answered, without consulting Cale. "Mister Cale will serve as an advisor to the hulorn, if he so pleases."

Tamlin looked the question at Cale and Cale nodded. Tamlin said to Irwyl, "See to it that a room is prepared."

"Will your old quarters suffice, Mister Cale?" Irwyl asked.

"They are tiny!" Tamlin said. "I will not hear of it."

"I would prefer it, my lord," Cale said. "That would be fine, Irwyl."

"I will see to it," Irwyl said, and turned to Tamlin. "Will that be all, my lord?"

"Yes, Irwyl," Tamlin said, drinking his wine.

After Irwyl left, Cale decided to move directly to business. "Lord Uskevren, your message asked for my hurried return to the city."

Tamlin set down his goblet and his face grew serious, as serious as Cale had ever seen it. "Kendrick Selkirk is dead. Mirabeta Selkirk has been elected temporary overmistress. Endren Corrinthal of Saerb is accused of murdering Kendrick, but our contacts in Ordulin are not certain of the truth of it. There was some kind of fight in the High Council and Endren was arrested. Zerin Terb was killed."

Vees shook his head. "A shocking, shocking state of affairs."

Cale knew Terb's name. He had been Selgaunt's representative in the High Council for over a decade. Tamlin continued. "In any event, the council has called a moot to elect a new overmaster. I am traveling to Ordulin-"

"My lord?" Cale asked, surprised. The hulorn had always appointed an agent to represent Selgaunt in the High Council or a moot, but never attended personally.

"I cannot tell what is happening there from here," Tamlin said. "Some of our informants there say that Endren's son is raising an army to depose Mirabeta. Others believe that Mirabeta arranged all of this. I need to see it personally before I ask the entire Old Chauncel to journey to the capital for the moot. Something is afoot and I need someone I can trust at my side. You. I want you as my wallman, Mister Cale. What do you say?"

Cale answered immediately. "Of course, but…"

"But?" Tamlin asked.

"My lord, Selgaunt is… in difficulties. How will it appear if you leave it? Who will govern?"

"We will not be away for long. Two tendays, perhaps three. Vees will speak for me, if needed, but the bureaucracy runs itself. The Old Chauncel will operate by consensus in my absence. In truth, that is another reason that I want to go alone, despite the call for the moot. If the entire Old Chauncel left the city at once, it would be… ill perceived. Once I have a handle on events in Ordulin, I will send for the key members of the Chauncel."

"A wise course, Hulorn," Vees said.

Cale was not so sure. Selgaunt felt ready to erupt. Tamlin had called him an advisor, so Cale decided to start advising. He took care to frame his speech appropriately. He had been removed from the niceties of station for some time. The words did not come as easily to him as they once did.

"My lord, may I make a recommendation or two? Actions that you might take before leaving the city?"

Vees snorted into his goblet. "The man is returned for a day and already has suggestions."

Cale stared at Vees. Vees took another sip of his wine and averted his gaze.

"You are my advisor," Tamlin said with a tip of his goblet.

Cale nodded. "The city is overcrowded. The people are hungry."

"There is food in the market," Vees said.

"Little, and it is priced so high that none but the rich can afford to eat," Cale said, trying and failing to keep the coolness out of his voice.

Vees made an uncaring gesture. "Unfortunate, but true. But this is Sembia, Mister Cale. The market is what the market is."

Cale barely resisted the impulse to punch the noble twit in the face. Despite his best efforts, shadows leaked from his skin. The room dimmed.

Tamlin noticed and looked alarmed. So did Vees but he looked more puzzled than afraid.

"I will explain later, my lord," Cale said softly, and with an effort of will, caused the light to return and the shadows to subside.

Tamlin nodded slowly, eyes wide. Vees took another sip of his wine and studied Cale over the rim.

Cale said, "My lord, if your answer is the same as that of Lord Talendar, you will soon have riots. Hunger makes people desperate." Cale thought of Skullport and said, "I have seen it before."

Vees harrumphed. "That is why the Helms are on the streets."

Cale ignored Talendar and addressed Tamlin. He decided to be candid. "If I am going to be of service to you, this all must end right now."

Tamlin looked confused. "I do not understand, Mister Cale."

Cale gestured at the parlor, at Vees, at Tamlin. "This. All of this. The polite speech. The discussions over wine. The clothes. The city is in a crisis, my lord. From what you have told me, all of Sembia is in crisis. We are not discussing a contract for trade. May I be fully candid or not?"

"There is no need for panic," Vees said.

"No, but there is need for hard thinking and bold action," Cale said. "And I never panic, Talendar."

A few streamers of shadows rose from Cale's flesh and dissipated in the air. If Vees thought to rebuke Cale for neglecting the nobleman's honorific, he thought better of it.

"I take your point," Tamlin said thoughtfully. "Let's hear him out, Vees. Mister Cale brings an outsider's perspective on things. Go on, Mister Cale."

Cale plowed forward, eyeing Vees as he spoke. "Get the Helms off the street. They make you look frightened."

Vees said, "The Helms are helping keep order. And are you accusing the Hulorn of being afraid?"

Cale surmised that putting the Helms on the streets had been Vees's idea. "There are not enough of them to stop a riot, if it happened. In the meanwhile, they contribute to the perception that matters are not in hand, that the nobility is frightened." He looked to Tamlin. "My lord, get them off the street. They are tense, and ill-suited to the work you have asked them to do. They drew steel on me outside Stormweather."

"Perhaps justifiably," Vees mumbled.

Cale whirled on him. "I promise you that if another comment like that comes out of your mouth, your teeth will follow it."

Vees flushed, stuck out his jaw, and uttered not a word. Cale turned back to Tamlin. "Put the Helms back on the roads and waterways, where they belong, where people are used to seeing them. Order them to escort refugees into the city."

Tamlin looked startled. "Into the city?"

"Out, I should think," Vees said cautiously. "We are already overcrowded."

Cale kept his voice calm. "They are coming anyway, unless you plan to lock down the city. You do not, do you?"

Tamlin raised his eyebrows. "We considered it."

Cale blew out a breath. "Lord Thamalon, you must stop taking steps that suggest desperation. The first thing the people need from you is the sense that you are in control, that things will soon return to normal. You can earn some goodwill by getting the steel off the streets and using it to ensure that your citizens are safe."

"Unwise," Vees said, and hurriedly added, "and I mean no offense, Mister Cale. But the Noble District will be overrun by refugees the day the Helms exit the city."

"Nonsense," Cale said, and Vees stiffened. "Subsidize the cost of food during the crisis. Distribute it through the Scepters. Require the temples to direct their priests to use magic to make food and distribute it."

"They will not do it," Vees said dismissively.

"Some are already doing it," Cale answered. "This is just a matter of forcing the rest. You could lead by example, Talendar. You're a priest, no?"

Vees nodded tightly. "Construction occupies my time, Mister Cale."

Cale scoffed and continued. "Do not make an announcement and force a public fight with the faiths, my lord. Instead, let the high priests know through back channels that if they do not obey, the temples' taxes will increase markedly and you may revoke their charters. You have the tools, Lord Hulorn."

"The gods grant spells, Mister Cale," said Vees. "If the priests say the gods will not grant the spells to make food, then what? Would you have the hulorn hold a blade to the gods?"

Cale did not mention that he had done exactly that in an alley just hours before. Instead, he said, "The gods will not refuse. They need their priests as much as their priests need them."

Vees looked startled by Cale's statement, but Tamlin looked intrigued. "Interesting, Mister Cale. What do you think, Vees?" Tamlin asked.

The sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hall toward the parlor interrupted whatever Vees might have said. All three men turned to the doorway, and Tazi appeared, breathing heavily.

"Thazienne," Vees said, but she did not even glance at the nobleman. She had eyes, wide eyes, only for Cale.

"Erevis?"

Sweat pasted Tazi's dark hair to her face and she held a riding crop in her hand. She wore tight breeches and boots rather than the more decorous riding dress customary for Sembian noblewomen. The year since he'd seen her last had not changed her at all. She was as beautiful as ever. Her green eyes sparkled under the waves of her hair.

Cale had feared how seeing her might make him feel. To his surprise, he felt only fondness, not desire. He had left his love for her behind when he'd left Stormweather and it had died in the intervening year. He smiled at her.

"Well met, Mistress Uskevren."

She ran a hand through her sweaty hair. "1 was just on a morning ride when I heard you had returned. I ran right over." His words registered, and she asked, "Did you call me 'Mistress Uskevren'?"

"Thazienne," Cale corrected with a smile. "Tazi."

"That's more like it," she said with her own smile. She crossed the chamber to embrace him.

Tamlin said, "Tazi, I do not know-"

"What I am cannot harm her, my lord," Cale said, interrupting him and embracing her. She felt tiny in his arms and smelled, as always, of lavender. He kept the shadows from leaking out of his flesh.

Thazienne pulled back and looked from Cale to her brother. "What you are? What does that mean?"

"It means nothing," Cale said softly. "It is wonderful to see you."

"And you," she answered. She eyed his hair, his skin, cupped his cheek in her palm. "You feel cold. And you look so different. What happened to you? Where have you been? Ren told us what you did for him. It seems you have made a habit of saving the members of this household."

Cale felt his skin warm with embarrassment. He had once saved Thazienne from a demon attack within Stormweather's walls.

"Many things have happened," he said. "We can talk about it another time. You look the same as ever. But happier. That pleases me."

She smiled and he saw in her expression the ghost of the shy girl he had watched grow into a bold woman.

"Ahem," Tamlin said. "Tazi, perhaps you and Mister Cale could continue your reunion at a later time. We are discussing matters of state at the moment. Time is short."

She kept her dark eyes on Cale and smiled. "He has grown serious, don't you think? Not as serious as you, but serious enough. Father would be proud, I think."

Cale nodded, though he was not as sure.

"Talbot will want to see you," she said. "But he is away at Storl Oak. I will send word."

"We will speak later, Tazi. Well enough?"

She smiled wistfully. "Over a brandy in the butler's pantry?"

They often had stayed awake late into the night, talking over spirits in the pantry.

"Perhaps in the dining hall?" Cale said. "For a late breakfast? The pantry is no longer my domain. Irwyl is king there now."

"I will see you there," she said. "Brilla has a wonderful torte you should try."

"So I have heard," Cale said.

Tazi grinned, nodded, neglected to curtsy to either Tamlin or Vees, and took her leave.

Cale watched her go, pleased that his heart was steady, that his feelings for her had matured. His mind turned to Varra and he wondered how she was faring.

"As I was saying," Vees continued. "I do not agree with all of Mister Cale's suggestions. I believe he thinks too highly of the refugees and too little of the priesthoods. Do as you think best, Deuce," he said, using Tamlin's nickname.

Cale held his tongue while Tamlin sipped his wine and pondered. Silence hung heavy in the room.

Tamlin stared down at the chessboard for a time, then put down his goblet and said, "My father relied on your counsel for years, Erevis. I will not disregard it lightly. But I will not pull the Helms off the streets," he said, with a nod to Vees. "I will, however, order them to assist with food distribution. And I will send word to the high priests as you suggested. A more serious commitment on the part of the temples should keep people from starving."

Cale figured a partial victory was better than none at all.

"Well decided," Vees said, and Cale disliked the nobleman even more.

Cale asked Tamlin, "When will we leave for Ordulin, my lord?"

"I began preparations upon receiving word from the High Council. Things are taking longer than I had hoped, but we will be ready to leave in the next day or two."

Vees said, "Many other nobles have already left for Ordulin. We know that the Saerloonian delegation is en route already. They passed Selgaunt two days ago, though they skirted the city."

"Skirted the city?"

"Tension appears to be very high in the capital, Mister Cale," Tamlin said. "And it has spilled out into the countryside. The nobles are lining up behind Mirabeta Selkirk or Endren Corrinthal. The Saerloonians do not trust us, so they avoided Selgaunt altogether. Things are sharp at the moment."

Cale took in the words, feeling unsuited to the task of helping Tamlin. He had been solving problems with his spells and blades for so long that politics felt foreign to him.

Tamlin picked up his goblet and drained it. "But all that in due time. I apologize that we will depart so soon. The schedule does not leave you much time for settling in. And my day will be full since I need to sign the orders we've just discussed. We will dine this evening, however. My apologies."

"I will manage, Hulorn," Cale said. "I remember my way around."

"Of course," Tamlin said, and smiled. "I am interested in hearing your explanation about… the other events."

"Yes, my lord." Cale said. "My lord, where is Lady Uskevren? I would like to speak with her before we leave."

"She has been away upcountry with Talbot," Tamlin answered. "This city, and the manse, make her unhappy these days. We rebuilt the old upcountry manor house at Storl Oak. She seems to enjoy it there. But she is to return later this morning to see me off. Your presence will be a pleasant surprise."

Cale knew Shamur to be a former adventuress, and she knew him to be more than a steward. They had come to respect and admire each other over Cale's years at Stormweather.

Tamlin continued, "Meanwhile, is there anything you need before we leave tomorrow?"

"No, my lord." Cale had his armor, his blades, his armor… and his holy symbol.

"Very good, then. I will leave you to your own devices. Vees, accompany me to the palace. I have orders to issue and we have much to discuss."

Vees offered an insincere farewell to Cale and they parted. Before Cale left the parlor, he again advanced the pawn on Thamalon's old chessboard.

He wandered Stormweather Towers for a time. Servants and members of the house guard nodded and smiled at him when they passed him in the halls. Every room through which he walked held a memory.

Throughout all the events of his life, his love for the Uskevren had been a constant. And he had always known, deep down, that he could return to Stormweather if he had need. It was his sanctuary. The manse was where he had been born, or at least reborn, and it pleased him to be able to return to his birthplace. After wandering for a time, he headed for his quarters to await Shamur's return.

Even when Cale had been Stormweather's steward, he had never done much to personalize his quarters. The room was as bare as he had left it. He opened the shutters, sat in his old reading chair, took out Jak's pipe, tamped and lit. He spent some time remembering with fondness the adventures he and Jak had enjoyed in Selgaunt. He removed the book he had taken from the Fane of Shadows from his backpack-the book that contained lore about Mask, Shar, the Weave, and the Shadow Weave-and opened it.

To his shock, the pages were blank.

He flipped one, another, another. The whole tome was blank except for the final pages. On them were words written in purple ink in a tongue Cale could not read. Staring at the writing made him nauseated, so he slammed the cover shut. He looked at the cover of black scaled leather and assured himself it was the same tome. It was. He blew out a cloud of smoke and replaced the book in his pack. He did not know what to make of the book, but it made him uneasy. Had its magic served its purpose, and was now destroying itself?

Thoughtful, he smoked two bowls of pipeweed before a knock on his door disturbed his reverie. He laid the pipe on the side table and opened the door. Shamur stood in the doorway, still dressed in her green daygown. Jeweled pins held up her auburn hair. Cale thought the lines in her face, around her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth only made her more attractive.

She did not look surprised at his appearance. Perhaps she had been forewarned. "You look well, Erevis."

Cale bowed, embarrassed by the cloud of smoke that billowed out of his room. "And you, Lady, look as young and beautiful as ever."

She smiled, stepped forward, and embraced him warmly. "Mister Cale, you still lie as well as ever."

They separated and he gestured her in.

"Smoking, Erevis? That is new."

"A long tale, Milady," he explained. "A friend got me started. I will put it out."

He moved to the table to snuff the pipe.

"No need," she said. "The smell is not unpleasant. Thamalon enjoyed a pipe, you will recall."

Cale did recall. The Old Owl had not smoked often, but when he had, the entire east wing of the manse would smell of pipeweed for days. In the spring, Cale had the staff open the windows to air out the house. In the winter, nothing could be done but to wait for the stink to pass.

Shamur looked around the room, then turned to face him. "Your quarters look much as you left them, but you have changed a great deal. And not merely your appearance. What has happened to you?"

Cale smiled gently. "Nothing that can be undone or made easier to bear by sharing, Milady. Suffice to say that I have changed, but serve your family still."

She smiled. "Of that I had no doubt. It is good to have you back under our roof, Erevis."

"It is good to be back," Cale said, and meant it. "Please, sit."

Shamur sat in his reading chair. Her hair glittered in the fading sunlight.

Cale did not have another chair in the room so he sat on the bed nearby. Before he could speak, she said, "This house has been dying for a year. It started with Thamalon's passing. Then you left. And Talbot is gone almost always. Tamlin spends most of his day and much of his nights away at the palace. I hate it here."

Cale looked away. He did not know what to say so he broke with decorum and reached out to take her hand in his. Her skin felt warm. Shadows sneaked from his skin and danced over hers. She gasped but did not withdraw her hand.

"What happened to you, Erevis? Tell me."

Cale did not look her in the face. "Milady, I… must carry this alone."

She caressed his hand and he felt such a sudden, powerful attraction for her that he pulled away and stood up before it caused him to do something he should not.

"What is it?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He moved the conversation to the purpose for which he had wanted to see her, or at least the purpose for which he thought he had wanted to see her.

"Lady Uskevren, I have reason to believe that things are… unsafe in the city."

She leaned forward in her chair. "What do you mean? Have you informed Tamlin?"

Cale shook his head. "No, Milady. It is nothing that we can act on, nothing that I can easily articulate. But I would advise you and Tazi to leave the city for a time." He struggled to find a better explanation, failed.

"You want me to abandon Stormweather? I have only just returned."

"Not abandon, Lady. I am suggesting only that you retire to the upcountry estate until things settle down here." He grasped for an excuse, found one. "Tamlin would be better served with fewer things to think about. I will watch over him and vouchsafe his person."

"You two are traveling to Ordulin. You will not even be in the city."

"When we return, I mean," Cale said. "Please, Milady."

"What is it that you are afraid of, Erevis?" she asked, leaning forward in the chair.

Cale looked away. Anything he said would sound absurd. He could not tell her that the mad Chosen of Oghma had prophesied a storm, that Mask had met him in an alley and told him something similar. Instead, he offered a half-truth. "Milady, the city is on a blade's edge. The family of the Hulorn is a natural target for those unhappy with the state of affairs. I think you would be safest away from Selgaunt."

She stared at him, considering. He held her gaze but only with difficulty. Finally, she said, "I am always willing to leave Stormweather for the upcountry. And Thazienne has found the city stifling of late. Perhaps a vacation is advisable. My carriage is not yet unpacked. It would be easy to return to Storl Oak."

Cale exhaled with relief. "Just for a month or two, Milady. You should leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow. I will inform Irwyl to prepare Tazi's things."

Shamur stood. She studied his face.

"You are not always a good liar, Erevis. But I am thankful for your concern." She touched his cheek and exited the room.

Cale remained in his room, thoughtful, until Irwyl came to retrieve him to dine with Tamlin. Irwyl bore a change of clothes in his arms.

"Will you be changing for dinner, Mister Cale?"

The question was clearly a recommendation.

Cale eyed the soft material, the embroidery, the buttons gilded with precious metal. He shook his head.

"No," he answered.

He had worn a facade most of the years he had spent in Stormweather. Those days were behind him. He would wear his own clothing and his weapons. He was a man who wore leather and steel, not linen and gold.

Irwyl only raised his eyebrows and frowned slightly. "Very well."

Cale informed Irwyl that Tazi and Shamur would be returning to Storl Oak on the morrow. Irwyl nodded and led him not to the dining hall but to a private meeting room. Tamlin sat alone at a small table set for two.

"That will be all, Irwyl," said Tamlin. Irwyl bowed and exited.

"Join me, Erevis."

Cale took a seat across from Tamlin. A bottle of Thamalon's Best sat on the table, and a silver platter of roast beef and carrots.

"Help yourself," Tamlin said, and stocked his own plate. "Brilla prepares excellent fare."

Cale cut himself a modest slice of roast. "We are fortunate to eat so well in these lean times."

Tamlin studied his face as if trying to determine if Cale's words had been a veiled insult. Cale kept his face expressionless and let Tamlin conclude what he would.

"Indeed, we are fortunate," Tamlin said. "But it is not all merely good fortune. Some are suited to rule and succeed. Others are not. When times are difficult, the latter often suffer. It is the way of things."

Cale filled his mouth with beef to hold in the sharp retort that wanted to come forth. Tamlin had spent too much time around the likes of Vees Talendar.

Tamlin awaited a reply; Cale offered none. Finally, Tamlin said, "I asked Irwyl to provide you with suitable attire. He is often forgetful. I will-"

"He brought it, my lord," Cale said, his tone overly sharp. "I declined. I deemed my current attire suitable to my situation."

Tamlin's brow furrowed at Cale's tone. "You owe me an explanation, Mister Cale."

Cale did not miss Tamlin's own cool tone.

"About what, my lord?"

Tamlin gestured at Cale's flesh. "About your appearance. About the shadows that flow from your skin. About the hand that appears and disappears from your wrist, about how the light in a room dims when you grow angry. Explain."

Cale set down his fork. Tamlin's tone irked him, so Cale did not mince words. "I am a shade."

Tamlin stared, his fork frozen over his plate. The silence stretched. "A shade?" Tamlin said at last. "Like the Shadovar?"

Cale shrugged. He knew little of the Shadovar. "I cannot say. I am stronger in the darkness." He held up his hand. "My hand regenerates entirely at night or in darkness. I can travel from one shadow to another in an eyeblink, covering a bowshot or thirty leagues. My flesh resists magic. As far as I can determine, I no longer age."

Tamlin gawked. "I do not know what to say. That is… wonderful, Mister Cale."

"No, it is not."

Cale's tone tempered Tamlin's exuberance. "How did it happen? Tell me everything."

Cale shook his head. "I am not inclined to share that, my lord. The how and the why do not matter."

"Do not matter?"

"Correct, my lord. And I would be appreciative if you would keep this knowledge between us. I wanted to be candid with you at the outset but I see no reason for others to know."

Tamlin stared, finally managed to say, "As you wish, Mister Cale."

They ate for a time in silence.

Tamlin set down his fork and looked across the table. "You do not like me very much, do you, Mister Cale? And you certainly do not respect me."

Cale sipped from his goblet of wine while he considered his words. "You are the son of my former Lord. I will serve you loyally and to the best of my ability."

Tamlin gestured dismissively with his hand. "I know that. But you do not respect me, do you?"

Cale sighed and looked across the table into Tamlin's eyes. "My respect is hard-earned these days, my lord."

Tamlin stared across the table, waiting.

"No, I do not," Cale admitted, and once he opened the gate, the army poured forth. "I do not think you understand the scope of the problems before you, before the city. I could see that after walking the streets for only one day. You still think like a nobleman, not a statesman. And you take counsel from fools like Vees Talendar. And still you-"

He cut himself off. He had said enough. He could see the hurt in Tamlin's eyes, and below that, the angry defiance. Cale knew the expression well. Tamlin often had shown it when his father had demanded something of him. Tamlin had always disliked anyone demanding anything of him.

Tamlin took another bite of beef and said tightly, "You come back for a single day after being gone a year and think to take the measure of me, Vees, and the city all at a glance?"

"My absence did not render me blind," Cale answered. "Or stupid."

Tamlin stared at him across the table. "Thank you for your candor, Mister Cale." He dropped his utensils. "You will excuse me. My appetite has passed."

"My lord-"

"We leave for Ordulin as soon as I can get some final matters resolved," Tamlin said as he rose. "The fool to whom I sometimes listen will not be accompanying us. He must attend ceremonies at the new temple."

Cale nodded. He thought of apologizing but could not bring himself to do it.

"Good eve, my lord."

"Good eve, Mister Cale."

Cale finished the meal alone and in silence.

Afterward, he walked the halls until he reached the kitchen and was warmly welcomed by Brilla. She wiped down a butcher's block, set him down on a stool, and smiled as she watched him eat her raisin and syrup torte.

Vees shed his false face-that of a spoiled dilettante nobleman-and entered the temple through the concealed doorway in the alley. He had murdered the four stonemasons who had knowledge of the secret entrance, using the curved sacrificial knife at his belt to cut their throats.

He closed the pivoting secret door behind him and walked down the steep stairs that led into the secret worship hall below the false temple to Siamorphe. When he reached the vestry off the hall, he donned a ceremonial robe that awaited him there-a voluminous black velvet affair with purple piping. Whispering a prayer to his goddess, he walked the corridor to the main worship hall.

His steps carried him through one of the magically created areas of silence that surrounded the hall. His footsteps on the stone went quiet. A ring of such areas surrounded the worship hall, as did a series of magical screens to prevent scryings. Anything that happened within the hall could be heard and seen only by those in attendance. The secrecy of the design pleased the Lady.

The worship hall of the Lady's temple lay directly below the worship hall of Siamorphe. Like Vees, the temple had a false face. Like Vees, the temple purported to serve one purpose while serving another.

He reached the edge of the area of silence and immediately sensed the change-the whimpers of the sacrifice victim and the murmur of the worshipers suddenly sounded in his ears. He pulled up his hood-none of the worshipers knew his true identity-and pushed open the apse door. A rustle of movement greeted him as the worshipers turned to watch him enter. Even the sacrifice went silent. The large, semicircular worship hall smelled of tallow candles and fear-tinged sweat.

Vees held up his arms and spoke aloud the supplication.

"In the darkness of night we hear the whisper of the void."

"Heed its words," responded the eight worshipers of Shar. "Welcome, Dark Watcher."

"Welcome, dark sisters and brothers," Vees answered, and moved to the altar.

The worshipers lowered themselves onto kneelers, heads down as he passed. No accoutrements of the faith adorned the altar or the worship hall. No windows allowed outside light. The Lady and the Nightseer wished it so.

The room was dark but for the candles that burned in candelabra at the head and feet of the bound and naked sacrifice. Shadows played over the bare walls, the arched ceiling.

Vees assumed the sacrifice-a thin, malnourished man-to be one of the refugees from upcountry. He stepped behind the altar and smiled within his hood. The difficult times in Selgaunt had made sacrifices so easy to obtain.

Sweat glistened on the man's body; he stank of fear. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He stared up at Vees with wide, terrified eyes.

"Do not," he said, his voice a croak. He must have been crying, or screaming, before Vees arrived. "Please."

Vees ignored him and looked out on the worshipers. He moved to one candelabrum and blew out all but one of the candles, then did the same with the other. A deeper darkness settled on the chamber.

"Darkness has fallen and the Lady of Loss is with us," Vees said. "Give her now your bitterness. Lay your losses before her."

He waited while the worshipers confessed aloud the matters that had made them bitter, the things they had lost, the grudges they had developed since the last time the group had met the month before. The hubbub of voices made it impossible for Vees to distinguish sentences or speakers, but Vees knew the Lady heard them all and rejoiced.

When the worshipers completed the ritual and fell silent, Vees said, "The Lady is pleased by your offerings made in this, her new temple. The construction is nearly complete. We turn now to the sanctification of her altar, which requires blood."

The sacrifice writhed, pleaded. "No! No!"

Vees reached under his robes and withdrew the sacrificial dagger. He held it above the man.

The sacrifice fought against his bonds. His breath came so quickly he would soon lose consciousness. Vees could see every tendon in his body, every muscle.

"Your despair is sweet to the Lady," Vees said, and raised the blade for a killing strike.

The sacrifice stared wide-eyed at the blade's point and screamed.