Black Wolf s-4

by Dave Gross

  Even Stannis did not like the thought of Radu's displeasure.

  As an added benefit to his visits to the Wide Realms playhouse, Darrow was able to observe Talbot Uskevren. The young man was a far more imposing figure than Darrow had expected. All of the players seemed larger than life on the stage, but Talbot was deceptively tall. Seen alone, from a distance, he looked like any other muscular youth. When he stood beside another man, however, his true size became obvious.

  Only one or two of the other players came close to his size, and one of them looked more like an ogre than a man. The other was the notorious head of the troupe, the playwright and chief owner of the playhouse. She was a vulgar, pipe-smoking woman whose name, Quickly, was the punch line for half the jokes among the working class. Darrow was not surprised to hear in his eavesdropping that Tal-bot's parents did not approve of his involvement with the players.

  Most surprising, Darrow discovered that Talbot Uskevren was an appealing fellow, at least on stage. Even when he played the unscrupulous moneylender in Favors and Fivestars, he pleased the audience with his character's unintentional mockery of his own profession.

  Darrow lingered after each performance, watching the players mingle with the audience. Talbot seemed popular among the groundlings, though Darrow noticed that he artfully avoided the overtures of his fellow nobles when they inquired about the health of his family or invited him to meet their eligible daughters. It wasn't hard for Talbot to escape, for very few nobles attended the plays, and those who did paid extra to sit in the gentleman's gallery, delaying them long enough for Talbot to see them coming. In any event, the young man seemed far more comfortable with the common folk, much more than could be affected by a noble who practiced slumming as a mildly dangerous diversion.

  Sometimes Darrow followed Uskevren and his friends after they left the playhouse. Invariably they arrived not at some exclusive salon or festhall but the public alehouses.

  Darrow remembered the names and faces of Talbot's most frequent companions, notably Chaney Foxmantle.

  Stannis asked about all the gossip Darrow had overheard each night, even that which had nothing to do with Talbot Uskevren. Darrow tried to remember everything said near him in the playhouse itself and in the taverns afterward. He knew his master was much less interested in common clack than he was in any hint of scandal among the Old Chauncel. Unfortunately, relatively few of the upper class would stoop to being seen at the playhouse. Fortunately, most of their servants were frequent visitors.

  The vampire had been absent from Selgauntan society for two decades, but he had an uncanny knack for identifying the children of his contemporaries by Darrow's reports of the servant's descriptions. Their scandals delighted Stannis to no end.

  "Rilsa Soargyl," he chortled, enjoying the sound of her voice on his tongue-or whatever it was he had beneath that golden veil. "Every bit the slut her mother was. What else did you hear?"

  Darrow relayed the gossip as many times as Stannis commanded, pouring him goblet after goblet of deep red wine. When he was especially pleased with Darrow's report, Stannis insisted his servant enjoy a drink for himself. The wine was old, dry, and sour, and Darrow did not much like it. He thought at first he lacked the refined tastes of a noble, but later he decided the Malveen cellars were simply long past their prime. Whatever dire magic had transformed Stannis's dying body had, perhaps, altered or even dulled his once refined palate.

  One night Darrow noted that the wire rack that held the bottles was nearly empty. When he informed Lord Malveen, Stannis said, "Fetch us some more from the cellar, beneath the pantry. You will need this." He removed a tarnished key from his golden veil and laid it on the table. "But first tell me again what you heard about Tamlin Uskevren today. Did you say the girl was pregnant or indignant? I was laughing too hard to hear, I'm afraid."

  As Darrow finished repeating the most recent rumor about Talbot's older brother, Stannis waved at his veil as his head tipped back in a yawn.

  "It is nearly morning, my pet. Let us resume tomorrow."

  Darrow stood and bowed. He had been practicing the bow after observing gentlemen meeting on the street. The gesture still felt clumsy, but it seemed to please his master.

  Stannis rose gracefully from the broad couch to glide over and into the grand pool. Once submerged, his dark body broke into a black cloud and sank down to the bottom of the pool. There it gradually faded, oozing through unseen vents and passages to the vampire's hidden lair.

  Darrow assumed that his master slept in the murky depths of Selgaunt Bay during the daylight, rising to feed off the boaters who lashed their vessels together and huddled against the darkness. He also assumed that the master's spawn were taken from the same source. Should he displease Stannis, Darrow feared, his fate would be the same as the boaters. As he left the River Hall, Darrow touched the coin of Tymora where it lay beneath his livery and whispered a prayer for the goddess to spare him such a fate.

  He briefly considered putting off the trip to the wine cellar, for he loathed the thought of entering the pantry. While he had restored the kitchen more or less to working condition soon after his arrival, he had taken one look inside the pantry and shut the door again.

  Darrow lit a lamp and approached the door. Rats had gnawed ragged passages at the bottom, letting a faint and earthy stench of decay waft out. Darrow braced himself and opened the door.

  He looked in, holding the lamp high. Twenty years ago, no one had taken the trouble to clear out the stores once House Malveen was abandoned. Rats scurried from the light to crouch in the black shadows. From the surrounding shelves, moldering lumps spilled over onto the floor, where rilled fungus grew on twisted furrows of accumulated dirt and gods only knew what else.

  Wincing at the sight, Darrow moved the lantern this way and that, daring not step into the room until he had found his destination. The cellar door was all the way in the back. Darrow approached timidly, grimacing at the thought of stepping on a rat or something worse. He fumbled briefly with the lock, then pulled at the door. It moved grudgingly, opening only a foot or so before the scraped filth held it firm. Darrow tried to kick away the blockage, but his nerve broke as the rats scurried over to investigate the new avenue. Darrow retreated before them, pushing through the narrow opening.

  His first step slipped away, and Darrow grabbed the door handle to keep from tumbling down the stone stairs. Dark slime had formed on the steps, and there was no railing to hold. For an instant Darrow considered fleeing, but one thought of his master's burning eyes made him press on. He descended with painful caution, half-crouching over the precious light.

  The sound of dripping water greeted him at the bottom, where the stairs ended in a long cellar. Beads of moisture crawled slowly down the walls. Those that did not vanish into the thousand ragged cracks in the stone pooled in the corners or in a great sagging depression near the middle of the room.

  All along the left wall stood rusted iron racks. Those nearest the stairs were barren. Darrow raised the lamp to see beyond, but all he could see was the shifting shadows of a thousand empty sockets. He walked farther into the cellar, avoiding the pooling water where he could. Beyond the center racks, he glimpsed the shattered remains of wooden crates. He moved closer to examine them.

  Something hissed above him. Darrow spun around, holding the lamp up like a warding talisman. An oily black shape oozed across the ceiling to merge once more with the shadows. Before his eyes could follow it, something else rushed across the floor toward him. It was far bigger than a rat.

  Frantically, Darrow raised the lamp, but a heavy blow struck it from his hands. It crashed against the floor, oil spreading in a dark crescent beneath the broken glass as the fire fluttered on the wick. In the dying light, Darrow was nearly blind. Clammy hands clutched his arms and a cold tongue pressed against his cheek, searching. The smell of dead fish and seawater-

  Darrow threw himself backward, knocking his head hard against the stone wall. He slid to the floor and felt shards
of the broken lamp cut into his elbow. The same motion pushed the feeble wick into the escaping lamp oil.

  Three horrid faces leered at Darrow, gradually moving closer after the surprising return of the flame. Their skin gleamed like black oil, reflecting colors where the light fled at its touch. Dull black tongues writhed between long yellow teeth in anticipation of the hot spurt of living blood. Their talons raked out to tear at Darrow's tunic.

  Darrow could not hear his own scream. It was drowned in the thundering drumming of his pulse as he flailed uselessly against the attacks. He turned to get away on hands and knees, but an irresistible grip held his legs. One of the spawn flipped him onto his back. The third pinned him to the floor by straddling his chest. It reached out with long, half-webbed fingers and ripped away the last remnants of fabric to reach Darrow's naked throat.

  A shriek of agony joined Darrow's terrified screams. Suddenly the weight was gone from his chest. Darrow opened his eyes and saw that the nearest spawn had vanished. The others still held his limbs, but their fishy eyes stared at his throat, where the coin of Tymora lay glimmering.

  Darrow snatched the disk and held it forth. The spawn squealed and hissed, flinching from the sight of a holy icon.

  Instantly, Darrow scrambled across the wet floor toward the steps. Heedless of the slime, he fled up the stairs, pushed through the slender opening at the top, and slammed the cellar door shut. Only after the key had turned twice in the lock did he realize he had never ceased screaming.

  He stopped then and staggered out of the filthy pantry, where he slowly crumbled onto the floor. There he lay panting until sleep mercifully took him.

  *****

  "Sometimes I feel…" said Darrow.

  From her cot, Maelin looked up at Darrow. His conspiratorial attitude piqued her curiosity.

  "What?" she said. "What do you sometimes feel?"

  "Sometimes I feel as though I'm as much a prisoner as you are."

  Maelin snorted and turned her eyes up to the ceiling.

  "It's true," he said.

  "Pardon me if I don't weep openly," she said. "Maybe if you took me to a tragedy at the playhouse, I could squeeze out a tear or two."

  "Look what they did to me," said Darrow, pulling open the collar of his tunic to reveal the scratches on his neck.

  "Then run away," said Maelin. "Buy a pair of balls next time you go to the market. Maybe then you'll have the courage to drop an anonymous note to the Scepters that there's a miniature slave trade going on down here."

  Darrow gaped at her. He had hoped for some understanding, maybe even some sympathy. Now he realized that her earlier overtures were what he originally suspected them to be: a trick.

  "I thought you'd understand," he said bitterly.

  Maelin left the cot and crouched beside Darrow. Only a few inches of air separated them. That and the bars.

  "I'd be a lot more understanding if we talked about it somewhere else," she said. "You've got the keys. Everyone else is asleep during the day. What's stopping you from opening this gate and leading me out of here? We could catch a ship before dark and be on our way to Westgate before that levitating slug even knows you're gone."

  "There's Radu," said Darrow.

  "He's never here! You said so yourself."

  "He'd find us," moaned Darrow.

  "Dark and empty, you jellyfish!"

  Darrow only hung his head in response to Maelin's words. Suddenly, she grabbed his tunic and jerked him into the bars, hard.

  "Give me the sodding keys!" Spittle sprayed Darrow's face.

  Darrow grabbed her wrists and tried to pull her hands away, but as he feared she was stronger than he.

  "Give them to me!" she demanded, slamming his face against the bars again.

  "I can't!" shouted Darrow, his eyes welled with shame and anger. "They're over there." He jerked his head back toward the closed portcullis.

  "Bloody, bloody bugger-all!" She pushed him away and threw herself down on the cot.

  Darrow straightened his tunic and wiped the spit and tears off his face with a sleeve. He hoped Maelin saw only the spit.

  "I'm not stupid, you know." He knew as he said the words how pathetic they sounded.

  "No," said Maelin. "Just weak."

  *****

  Darrow cursed himself again when he stepped outside. He'd wasted too much time sulking in the baiting pit gallery after the humiliating encounter with Maelin. The sun's edge had already touched the highest spires of central Selgaunt, casting them in grand silhouette. The warm red light of the western clouds belied the cold evening air.

  There was no time to reach the market and return before Stannis awoke. Darrow did not look forward to explaining his encounter in the cellar, and he needed some way to soothe his master's displeasure at his failure to fetch the wine. Then he remembered a fancy shop on Sarn Street, one that he had never before thought to enter. If he pooled his own savings with what remained of his master's allowance, he might afford a bottle or two of wine fit for a noble.

  Darrow returned breathless and shivering from the cold. Despite his worries, he had plenty of time to compose himself and await his master's return. Stannis emerged as usual from the pool in the River Hall. He seemed sleepy and indifferent to conversation until Darrow presented him with a goblet.

  "What is this?" sniffed Stannis. He lifted his golden veil and brought the cup to his mouth. Darrow had yet to see his master's entire face. He took pains not to peer too closely when Stannis drank.

  "The wine seller recommended this one highly," said Darrow. "It is not commonly available."

  "How nice," said Stannis. He slurped at the wine. "Hmm. It is very sweet, is it not?"

  "It is a dessert wine," said Darrow. "Storm Ruby, it is called."

  "You are a thoughtful boy," said Stannis. "You must have a reward."

  Stannis gestured toward the bottle and another goblet. Darrow bowed his thanks and poured himself a glass. He made a show of sampling the bouquet, for sometimes Stannis asked him his opinion, reaffirming Darrow's guess that his master's own senses were dulled with age and death.

  The wine tasted faintly of cherries, with a slight, indescribable tartness that balanced the sweetness. Darrow momentarily forgot about the morning's ordeal, and a smile crossed his lips.

  "Excellent," murmured Stannis, gazing at Darrow's face. Something he saw there made his eyes narrow. "But have we depleted the cellars so soon?"

  "No, master," said Darrow. He felt a cold presence in the room, something that had not been there a moment earlier. "I thought you might like to sample some of the more recent vintages."

  His eyes flicked unconsciously toward the shadows across the room. He knew that somewhere in that darkness crouched the spawn who had attacked him. Stannis noticed the glance and moved toward him. He reached out to touch a scratch on Darrow's cheek.

  "Have my minions been interfering with you?"

  Darrow hesitated before answering. He knew the spawn would retaliate if he complained, but he dared not lie. "Yes, my lord."

  "Jealous creatures," hissed Stannis.

  His great body shot up to hover eight feet above the floor. He turned with imperial grace to gaze upon the darkness that covered his spawn. With a gesture he summoned them forth.

  The spawn shuffled out of the shadows, shivering in anticipation of their master's displeasure. It came with the utterance of arcane syllables and a flourish of the master's hand.

  "Disobedient wretches!"

  The unseen threads of magic plucked at the spawn's limbs. They twitched and moaned as pain filled their limbs and minds.

  "Why must I repeat myself?" said Stannis.

  The spawn babbled and hugged themselves, writhing under the pangs of invisible wounds. They fell to their knees and begged forgiveness with their inarticulate tongues.

  Stannis spat his words at them. "The boy… is not… to be… touched. Not by you!"

  Darrow had not heard such anger from Stannis before. He could not bring himse
lf to pity the creatures who had tormented him, but he shrank from the sight of their punishment. He felt their seething hatred even though their eyes avoided him. They looked like beasts, he knew, but they were cunning and mean. They would remember.

  "Begone," spat Stannis, "and be grateful for such a gentle reminder. I shan't be so forgiving again."

  Chastised, the spawn fled like dead leaves before a winter blast.

  There, now," said Stannis, descending once more. "Distasteful task, that, but they shall not trouble you again."

  "I thank you, master," said Darrow, bowing. At last, fate was rewarding him for enduring the day's earlier indignities. Tymora's coin was turning in his favor.

  "It appears I've spilled my wine," said Stannis.

  He set his goblet beside the bottle and held up his hand. Darrow quickly fetched a towel and gently wiped the wine from his master's wrist. Stannis watched him all the while, his eyes half-lidded with approving affection.

  "What is this charming discovery you have made?" he asked, indicating the wine bottle. "You say it is a local vintage?"

  "Yes, master," said Darrow.

  He lifted the bottle to show off the vintner's stamp. He had not noticed it before, the seal of a horse's head beneath a slender anchor. He realized his mistake just as Stannis recognized the device.

  "The horse at anchor… The horse at anchor!" he rasped, choking. He dashed the bottle out of Darrow's hand. It flew across the carpet to crash against a nearby pillar.

  "You seek to poison me with the milk of my enemy?" Stannis moved closer to loom over Darrow.

  "No, master!" Darrow pleaded. He dropped to his hands and knees, averting his gaze from the dread presence. "I didn't know."