by Dave Gross
Hot baths in deep oak tubs awaited the travelers. The dwarves murmured appreciatively as lovely elf maids stripped away their road-stiffened clothes and scrubbed their hairy shoulders. Thamalon might have surrendered himself to the pleasure, but the memory of the chained war slaves disturbed his thoughts as soft hands massaged the knots in his back. His troubled conscience wouldn't let him indulge his familiar instincts. Were these women servants or slaves?
Thamalon nearly changed his mind when he agreed to be shaved and his servant girl joined him in the water, straddling his lap to lather his face and scrape away his three days of whiskers. It would be no effort to seduce the lass, who seemed to expect and invite his attentions. Still, when Baeron and his fellows made quiet arrangements for their elves to join them in their chambers, Thamalon politely sent his away and retired alone.
He lay in bed restlessly, trying to ignore the sounds of carnal sport from the nearby rooms. In his younger days, his marriage vows had been no restraint to dalliance. His bastard twins were proof enough of that. Even apart from the question of the servant's consent, Thamalon felt a genuine desire to keep faith with his wife.
How strange, he thought. After all the years of clandestine escape from his unhappy union, he feared he'd become a romantic at last. He desired his wife in forfeit of all other women.
Thamalon slept, comforted by thoughts of returning to his beloved Shamur. He dreamed of her soft hair in his face, her breath upon his ear. When he awoke, it was with a cold feeling of doom and a fierce longing to see her one last time before he died.
His washed and mended house clothes lay upon a dressing table, but beside them were a pair of dark trousers, supple boots of a leathery fabric, a deep green tunic embroidered in floral patterns on the yoke, and a half-cape cut with dashing asymmetry.
Thamalon donned the unfamiliar costume and admired his reflection. An old man looked back at him, unsuited to the rakish attire. He smiled at himself, but the gesture seemed weary. Thamalon laughed at his own vanity, and the ghost of his youth laughed back at him. It looked something like his eldest son, and for a moment the image brought him joy before regret supplanted the feeling.
"Tamlin," he said to the mirror. "There's so much I have to tell you. I-"
Father?
Before he could decide whether he'd imagined hearing the word, Thamalon heard a servant scratching on the door.
"What?" he said.
"Sir," repeated the servant. He was a boy, not much younger than Tamlin. "It is time."
The lad led Thamalon toward the center of the castle and through a grand archway bigger than Selgaunt's Klaroun Gate.
On the other side was Stillstone Hall, a grand circular room wider than any cathedral. Its arched walls soared so high that their upper points faded with distance. They converged on a central dome through which gray light poured down on the throng below.
Hundreds of people filled the hall, most of them waiting their turn to appear before the lord of the castle. Their conversations were muted by the splashing of a great central fountain composed of huge, uncut slabs of colorful stones, the smallest larger than the dwarves' throbe wagons.
Two grand fireplaces blazed in opposite walls. Savory meats roasted on spits above the flames, and ranks of cauldrons bubbled with soups and some sweet, dark beverage. Servants tended the food and carried it among the crowd. To Thamalon, the place appeared like a cross between an Old Chauncel reception and the street outside of Talbot's playhouse, bustling with vendors.
At regular intervals along the walls stood the red-plumed, red-cloaked, and red-armored guards. More of them patrolled quietly among the throng, which parted respectfully-or perhaps fearfully-wherever they went.
On the far side of the fountain, upon a high dais smothered in carpets, the Sorcerer sat on a grand throne. His body was as lean and supple as a dancer's, and his tight-fitted breeches and jerkin showed off every sinew. Topaz and ruby glittered on the gold phylactery around his biceps, and the huge dark stones upon his bracers roiled with magic. From the sides of his crowned helm, gleaming brass bars curved over his cheeks, concealing his face from those he judged. As he pronounced his decrees, he held up a winged scepter embedded with a ruby the size of a man's eye.
The supplicants stood at the foot of his throne. To either side were elite members of his Vermilion Guard, their bright plumes spilling like manes upon their muscular backs.
Thamalon observed the Sorcerer dole justice to his people.
He resolved a matter of disputed property by dividing the territory in proportions equal to the evidence presented. Afterward, he sentenced one of his generals to public flogging for cowardice. Later, he granted a pension to a war widow and acknowledged the approving cheers of the courtiers.
At last he received the dwarf merchants.
After his chamberlain introduced the travelers, the Sorcerer cut straight to the matter.
"What does King Uldrim offer for this season's throbe?"
"Eleven coffers of gold," replied Baeron, "and the six finest sapphires of Glitterdelve mines."
He held up a platinum necklace in which the aforementioned gems shone, the smallest the size of his thumbnail.
The Sorcerer considered the offer, then said, "The king is generous to offer such an incomparable jewel. In these times of conflict, however, I have little need for ornament or coin."
The response didn't seem to surprise Baeron, who said, "Our liege commands me to say that the forges of Deepspire are at your service. Six hundred long swords, eight hundred hardened spears, forty suits of vermilion scale-"
"Throbe steel," insisted the Sorcerer.
Baeron bowed and said, "In that case, our liege offers two hundred swords, two hundred sixty spea-"
"Three hundred swords," said the Sorcerer, "and all forty armor. As for the spears and shields, one hundred each will suffice us until winter."
"Such quantities require more throbe," said Baeron. "Our yield will be diminished by at least… two wagons."
"Then you shall have two wagons more," said the Sorcerer. "Yet I wish a dozen greatswords, too, in the fashion of Warlord Krandar's famous blade."
"My lord…" said Baeron. Thamalon perceived that the dwarf was stalling for time, mentally calculating the cost versus gain for the additional weapons. "If your highness were to include a hundred yards of skwalos membrane-"
The Sorcerer rose, leaving his voluminous cloak lying in his seat. He descended the stairs and reached toward the dwarf.
"Bargain," he said, clasping Baeron's forearm.
"Bargain," the dwarf replied.
Thamalon had seen far more complicated negotiations over much simpler exchanges, but still he sensed that he'd just witnessed a significant change from previous deals. Both the Sorcerer and Baeron seemed satisfied with the result, yet neither gloated in victory. Despite the disparity in their stations, they bargained fairly, as equals.
"Nelember Far-Traveler," called the chamberlain, a man whose pointed beard and winged hairstyle made him easy to recognize even across the hall.
Thamalon presented himself before the dais. The Sorcerer had returned to his throne, but he didn't sit. Instead, he drew his cloak over his shoulders and fastened its round clasp. On its boss were the crossed thunderbolts of Talos, god of storms and destruction.
"What mishap brings you to my demesne, old man?"
The Sorcerer's tone wasn't mocking so much as casual. His voice was familiar, too. Thamalon bristled at the appellation, but he sketched a courtly bow, ignoring the pain it brought to his still-bruised hip.
"My tale is strange even to me, so I beg your indulgence while I confess I don't understand it all myself. In short, some unknown enemy enchanted a painting to cast me magically across the world, so far from home that I recognize nothing here. The only boon I crave is that I may speak to your caravan masters and ship captains in hopes that one of them knows something of my home or some other land I know."
"What is it called, this land of yours?"
"Sembia, my lord."
"Sembia…" the Sorcerer said-slowly, as if savoring the word. Thamalon saw a faint twitching of the muscles in the man's neck. There was something the Sorcerer didn't like about its taste. "You say you are called Nelember?"
Thamalon couldn't think of an affirmative that wasn't a lie, and he didn't care to wager against the chance that the Sorcerer could detect a falsehood.
"It is a name by which I travel," he said.
"Nelember… Nelember…" The Sorcerer said the name as if he was tasting it, as he had "Sembia." At last, he said, "A wise man leaves old names behind."
Thamalon bowed. Was there some hint of mockery in the Sorcerer's voice? He wasn't sure, but he sensed the man was toying with him.
The Sorcerer removed his helm and passed it to his chamberlain before descending the steps. Once again, Thamalon struggled to conceal his emotion. The man's face couldn't have amazed him more.
The Sorcerer's dark beard jagged across his cheeks in a savage pattern, so neatly trimmed that it looked at first like a dark tattoo. Prominent brows and a straight nose lent nobility to the natural beauty of his features. His was a face to make ladies swoon and men burn with envy. Most arresting were the man's emerald green eyes, which Thamalon had seen only a few hours earlier-in the mirror.
Apart from his exotic grooming, the Sorcerer looked identical in every respect to Thamalon's eldest son.
Tamlin.
Still, the man's face betrayed no sign that he recognized Thamalon as his father. He clasped Thamalon's arm and smiled easily, exactly as Tamlin greeted visitors to the Uskevren family home.
"Welcome," the Sorcerer said, "to Stormweather."
CHAPTER 11
BROTHERS
Radu granted as he pulled himself onto the roof of the tallhouse. The action had been effortless the night before. The night before that, he might have leaped from the ground to the second-story eaves.
Chaney noticed Radu's strength wane steadily in the days since murdering Thuribal Baerodreemer. He hadn't been certain before, but it seemed obvious that the power killing gave Radu was fading faster with each murder. Perhaps there would come a day when Radu himself faded into a ghostly existence.
Chaney smiled at the thought.
While he hadn't been the most devout of men, Chaney prayed for his soul's release from the shackle of his killer. Even were the gods to grant him that wish, he feared his prospects for the hereafter. His mortal life wasn't without blemish, so he shuddered to imagine just where his soul might be interred for all eternity.
Even more than the reckoning for his own relatively petty sins, Chaney feared that the unholy power binding him to his killer might also drag him into Radu's certain torment. Sometimes he bravely told himself that it would be worthwhile just to witness his murderer's damnation. At other times, he thought of perdition and shuddered.
To dispel the awful thought, Chaney focused on the object of his hatred.
Radu crept lightly across the roof, holding his scabbard up off the shingles with his hardened right hand. The assassin knelt beside the garret window. Despite the chill air, the shutters were open, and a long white curtain waved out like a flag. Inside, a pair of voices rose above a noisy fire.
Chaney looked past Radu's shoulder, into the tall-house garret.
The unfinished room was filled with paintings. There were paintings on easels, paintings on the walls, paintings in stacks ten deep on the floor. Most of them were horrid, abstract landscapes. A few were barely recognizable as human nudes with black blots for eyes and raw scratches where mouths should be.
In one dark corner lurked a quartet of unfinished sculptures, abandoned on their pedestals. Crusty jars of dried clay rested beneath them, along with boxes of sculpting tools.
Frazzled brushes sprung like dead flowers from paint-stained vases in shelves to one side of a low fireplace. Palettes and paint pots, jars of gray water, trowels, knives, rags, bottles of linseed oil, charcoal sticks, and ragged sheaves of sketch paper littered the room. A sheet-draped stool and a low fainting couch crowded a small canvas stage.
On the other side of the fireplace was a messy nest of a bed smothered in dirty laundry, books, lithographs, and drawings. Next to the bed, a huge water pipe squatted on a low table. Upon its cap was a lascivious depiction of divine Sune, her nude body entwined with that of a constrictor snake. Around the brass sheath of the pipe cavorted naked princes and virgins, while within its glass chamber steamed orange chunks of enchanted ice.
Chaney focused on the two men inside the room. With their high cheekbones, fair skin, and striking black hair and eyes, they were unmistakably Malveens.
Chaney barely knew Laskar. The man was almost as old as Chaney's father, and he'd been lord and master of House Malveen for as long as Chaney remembered. Twenty years past, that title meant power and influence. In the Year of Rogue Dragons, it meant nothing, and the sadness of that knowledge showed in Laskar's heavy eyes as he sat on the edge of the model's stage.
Pietro stood between a wet canvas and a pair of tall iron candelabra. He was the youngest, and as far as Selgaunt knew, the only other surviving Malveen male. Barely older than Chaney, he had already cultivated a reputation for degeneracy usually reserved for syphilis-ridden septuagenarians. Pietro stood a hand's width shorter than Laskar and Radu. His skin had an unhealthy sheen in the candlelight, and his teeth were stained from pipe smoke.
"At least consider the girls," said Laskar. He ran his ink-stained fingers through his thinning black hair, leaving a smudge on his temple. "Their prospects depend solely on the family reputation."
Pietro smiled at the blot on his brother's forehead but didn't point it out. Instead, he dabbed a richer shade of yolk on a jaundiced landscape.
"Your fat wife's the only one who complains that darling Gellie's unmarried. I doubt the girl minds much. She has no shortage of callers, even if none of the boys' fathers will consent to marriage. If you took your own sow to bed more often, she might squeal a little less about-"
In two long strides, Laskar crossed the distance between them and slapped Pietro's face. The shock of the blow sent the paintbrush tumbling through the air. It landed with a fat yellow skid mark on the bare floor.
Chaney heard the faint creak of leather as Radu tensed beside him. He wondered what emotions stirred beneath the killer's porcelain mask as he observed the confrontation between his brothers. Considering what happened the last time Radu quarreled with a sibling, Chaney fancied that he might just witness the end of the Malveen line then and there.
Two cheerful thoughts in one night, Chaney thought. How can I complain about this ghostly existence?
"I-I am sorry," said Laskar. He stared at his hand, still flush from the blow.
"You would never dare strike me when our brother was alive," Pietro said as he tenderly probed his mouth.
"I wish you were the one-!" Laskar choked off his retort.
"What? That I was the one who was dead?" Pietro laughed, showing his bloodstained teeth. "What a coward! You can't even say it aloud."
"That's not what I meant," said Laskar. He turned away from Pietro to stare at the fire. "I simply cannot bear your vulgar mouth. You may be my brother, but sometimes I could just…"
"We both know you will never cast me out," said Pietro. He retrieved his brush and swirled it in a dingy jar.
"I do not like these obscene… things. I like your selling them to Mad Andy even less."
"But you do not mind the commission they bring, yes?" Pietro said. He filled his brush with crimson pigment and slashed at the canvas. "Without Radu to help you squeeze the books, you need me-and my art."
"Andeth Ilchammar is dangerous, Pietro."
"You simply do not understand him. Your simple coin-counter's mind is incapable of real imagination. You know nothing."
"I know when I'm out of my depth," said Laskar, "and I know enough to stay clear of the Old Chauncel when they're spinning their webs."
They stood
a while in silence, Laskar brooding, Pietro painting. Twice, Laskar's head rose as if he were about to speak, but each time the thought died silently in his closed mouth.
At last, Pietro said, "Why're you still here?"
Laskar squeezed a fist and bowed his head over it, but he kept his silence as he left the room.
As his brother's footsteps receded down the stairway, Pietro muttered, "Idiot." His eyes glistened as he stabbed again at his painting. "Weakling."
Radu was in the room before Chaney realized he had moved. His shadow fell across his brother's painting.
As Pietro turned, Radu plucked the brush from his hand and cast it into the fireplace. The flames leaped and popped as they devoured the paint.
"You shame us all," hissed Radu.
Pietro stepped backward, into his painting. The wet paint stuck to the back of his shirt, and he opened his mouth to call for help.
Radu's left hand clamped the artist's jaws shut.
"Quietly, little brother."
Radu watched as Pietro's expression shifted from terror to wonder. He released his grip.
"Radu?"
The mask rose and fell in a curt nod.
"But how…?"
"Just listen, and obey. Laskar is the master of House Malveen."
"What, this shack? This tenement? House Malveen died with the fire-"
"Never say that," said Radu. "Obey Laskar. Help him. Together, you must rebuild the family's wealth, and its honor."
"Impossible! No one deals with him on fair terms. The Old Chauncel take advantage at every turn, claiming they risk their reputations by dealing with the untrustworthy House Malveen, children of the great pirate queen. And Laskar, he smiles and bows and lets them have their way. He is weak, Radu. Not like you and Stannis." Pietro knit his brows as a thought unfolded in his mind. "I have not heard from Stannis since you disappeared."