Shadow's Witness

by Paul S. Kemp

  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 Cale 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 Cale, 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.

  Cale 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. Cale 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. Cale, 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 Cale 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 Cale 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 Cale to notice.

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

  “Excellent, Lord.” Cale refilled his goblet and looked to Thamalon. “Will there be anything else, Lord?”

  Thamalon smiled. “No, thank you, Erevis.”

  Cale 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, Cale 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 the 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. Cale 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 Cale’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. The light from her innocent spirit lit the dark places in his soul like a bonfire. Without her …

  He shook his head, 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 Cale’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.

  St
ill 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 longhorn 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, he 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, Cale 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 in a long sleeved blue gown with a gold stomacher, sat nearby in light-hearted conversation with Dolera and Meena Foxmantle. To Cale’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, Cale 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, Cale 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.”

  Cale 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, Cale 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 dangerousness. Cale watched Tamlin throw back his head in laughter and sprinkle the floor with wine. He frowned at Tamlin’s carelessness.

  While Cale 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 heir. 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. Cale would have been willing to teach him—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 orc in a dwarf hold. Unless something changed, Cale knew, the preeminence of House Uskevren would last only through Thamalon’s lifetime.

  At that moment, Tamlin looked across the hall and met Cale’s eyes, caught Cale’s disapproving frown, and momentarily lost his own ready smile. Cale looked away quickly, trying 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 Cale had so discomfited Tamlin with only a look.

  Cale 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 Cale knew him to be a mute.

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

  Boyhood pranks gone awry were the previous extent of Talbot’s troubles—Cale 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. Cale knew that if he was in some kind of scrape, he would be afraid to tell anyone—especially his parents.

  I’ll 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 few 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. Cale 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 the presence of a mere servant. With his keen hearing, Cale 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—informatio
n 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 Relendar was saying to a plump young woman Cale did not recognize. “I hear they sacrifice.…”

  Cale 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 Saerloon. Thildar’s heavy mustache and the dim light made lip-reading impossible, so Cale approached them, wine bottle in hand. They fell silent as he drew near, further piquing his interest.

  “My Lords?” Cale held the wine bottle aloft.

  “None for me, butler,” Owyl replied dismissively.

  Cale 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, Cale refilled it, walked a discreet distance away, and pretended to observe the crowd. Only then did Thildar and Owyl renew their conversation.