Lord of Stormweather fr-7

by Dave Gross

  "He's barking mad," said Talbot. "Just like his brother."

  Tamlin began to frame a joke about barking, then thought better of it.

  "Don't be ridiculous. Laskar is as honest as bread pudding, and twice as boring, if you ask me. Despite his talent at fencing, Radu was every bit as dull… before he disappeared. That added a bit of mystery to him at least."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," said Talbot.

  "Then enlighten me," said Tamlin. "We're brothers, after all. Even if that bond embarrasses us both, we should trust each other."

  Even as he said the words, Tamlin felt a twinge of guilt at his hypocrisy. He was asking Talbot to do what he would not.

  "You already know my secret," said Talbot.

  He held up a fist the size of a quart bottle and squeezed it tight. The hairs on the back of his fingers multiplied and grew thick. When he opened his hand, black claws jutted from his monstrous digits, each almost twice as long as before. The thick fur grew sparser along his forearm, and by his elbow the arm looked almost wholly human, as did the rest of his big body.

  "That must come in handy when-"

  "Shut up!" thundered Talbot.

  Tamlin saw fierce canines protruding from his brother's snarling lips, and he clenched his jaw to prevent himself from flinching. It wouldn't do to show his fear. Instead, Tamlin stood his ground and returned Talbot's angry gaze with a steady stare. For long seconds they stood that way, locked eye-to-eye.

  Talbot broke first. As he calmed himself, his face returned to its normal, human visage.

  "Sorry," he said. "You sounded just like Chaney for a second. That was the kind of stupid pun he'd have made."

  At last, Tamlin realized that his brother's recent brooding wasn't solely the result of sibling rivalry. Mangy gutterkin though he was, Chaney Foxmantle was as close a friend to Talbot as Vox and Escevar were to Tamlin. Perhaps Chaney and Talbot had been even closer. They'd been friends since childhood, and both of Tamlin's henchmen had joined the household as servants.

  "No, I am the one who should apologize," said Tamlin. "If I have been short with you, it is because I resent the insinuation that I would do anything to hurt Mother and Father."

  Talbot gaped at the uncharacteristic apology, and Tamlin remembered yet again why so many considered Talbot slow-witted. With his mouth open like that, he looked the perfect oaf.

  "That's not what I was saying," said Talbot. "Pietro could have been using you-"

  Tamlin held up a palm to stop Talbot and finished for him, "-as a dupe. I understand. I should resent that insinuation too, you know. I simply don't believe it. Pietro is utterly harmless."

  "Tell that to Chaney."

  "Are you suggesting the Malveens had something to do with his death?"

  "We can't prove it," said Talbot. "Not without revealing what they did to me."

  He shook his monstrous hand as if trying to fling some foul slime from it. In the blink of an eye it returned to its human form.

  "I can't believe Retro could kill anyone."

  "He wasn't there at the time," Talbot said. "It was the other two, Radu and Stannis."

  "But Stannis has been dead for-"

  "Undead," corrected Talbot. "Vampire."

  Now it was Tamlin's turn to stare agape.

  "Oh, please," he said. "Werewolf… vampire…? Isn't it all a bit much? Next thing, you'll be leading us through the graveyards with torches and stakes, searching for the long-dead Stannis Malveen."

  "He's already dead-again, I mean. Radu destroyed him to stop him from confessing."

  "What happened to Radu?"

  "If we're lucky, he died when House Malveen burned."

  "And if we're not lucky?"

  Talbot just looked back at him, letting Tamlin draw his own conclusions.

  "We Uskevren certainly have no shortage of enemies," said Tamlin. He offered his hand to his brother. "It's up to you, me, and Tazi to ensure that those enemies all come from outside the family."

  Talbot's eyes narrowed at the overture. Tamlin could hardly blame his brother for being suspicious, and he knew it would take far more than a handshake to mend their mutual distrust. What he wanted to learn was whether his younger brother would honestly rebuff him or play along at friendship until he had an advantage. Either way, Talbot would bear watching.

  Before Talbot could respond, the library door opened, and Escevar cleared his throat. Tamlin's long blue cape was folded neatly over his arm. Vox stood beside Escevar, glowering at his master.

  "It's time, Master Tamlin," said Escevar. "Your guests are waiting."

  CHAPTER 13

  IT Is FORBIDDEN

  To call Castle Stormweather large was a preposterous understatement. Thamalon had visited smaller cities. One could put the Hulorn's Palace and all its attendant buildings within the stronghold and still have room to cram in half the warehouses on the waterfront-and that was just the ground level.

  The castle soared even higher than it sprawled wide, and Thamalon couldn't conceive of the miracles of engineering required to keep the place from collapsing. Once or twice in the past three days, he'd seen dwarves wearing the Sorcerer's crimson livery, so he supposed that the fabled craftsmanship of their people had much to do with the marvel. Still, he had to believe that the Sorcerer's magic helped sustain the titanic structure.

  Since the castle's lord had granted him the full freedom of his abode, Thamalon had spent the past few days exploring the place. Walking was still mildly painful, but he thought it good to keep his injured hip limber. More importantly, Thamalon hoped to find some clues to the relationship between this Stormweather and his own-as well as to the uncanny likeness between the Sorcerer and his eldest son. He might have accepted the name of the place as coincidence, but the similarity between the Sorcerer and Tamlin wasn't just striking, it was utter and complete. They could be twins.

  The thought of twins reminded Thamalon of his half-elf bastards, Larajin and Leifander. Briefly he wondered whether this Sorcerer could be another illegitimate offspring, but that made no sense. Only womb-brothers could look so much alike, and Thamalon had been present at Tamlin's birth.

  Thamalon considered other possibilities that could be wrought only by magic. If the Sorcerer was an enemy, he could have enchanted himself to appear as Thamalon's son. He could be a magical construct shaped in the form of Tamlin. He could be a doppelganger employed by foes of the Uskevren.

  Thamalon even entertained the fancy that the Sorcerer was Tamlin's wicked half, somehow separated years before from his gentler, weaker self.

  Ridiculous, Thamalon told himself. Almost as ridiculous as being transported to this bizarre land through a painting in my own library.

  He'd been certain that Tamlin had been an unwitting accessory of some hidden enemy. Thamalon had to consider the possibility that Tamlin and the Sorcerer were one and the same, and that his son was playing some inscrutable cat-and-mouse game with him. Even if Tamlin had successfully masked his hatred for his father over the years, could the careless dilettante actually manage to perpetrate such a scheme? Even if that was possible, Thamalon couldn't understand what Tamlin would have to gain by pretending to be a stranger to him.

  That was the point at which all theories failed. No matter what the nature of the Sorcerer's resemblance to Tamlin, the real question was his motive. Why bring Thamalon there for some elaborate charade?

  Thamalon couldn't question the Sorcerer even if he dared approach the matter bluntly. Since his audience with the Lord of Stormweather, Thamalon couldn't find the man even in his great hall. Instead, the Sorcerer's chamberlain assumed the seat beneath his lord's throne and dispensed petty justice, while all great matters awaited the Sorcerer's leisure.

  Thamalon inquired of the servants and learned that their lord had gone hunting. They pronounced the word with a reverence unusual in a sport so common among the nobility Thamalon knew. Either it was a rare thing in those lands or else the Sorcerer's hunts were somehow exceptional.r />
  His host's absence was as much an opportunity as a frustration for Thamalon. While waiting his chance to speak with the man, he could enjoy the hospitality the Sorcerer had offered. Perhaps he would learn something of the man by exploring his castle.

  Soon he realized that that was a far greater quest than he'd imagined.

  By the third day of his explorations, Thamalon had acquired a rough understanding of the main floor, with its great hall surrounded by guest quarters, shops, taverns, playhouses, and craft halls.

  Since the rain had only increased since his arrival, Thamalon found the halls crowded with what seemed like thousands of people. Those who weren't hurrying to business were friendly and curious about the newcomer. Thamalon avoided those who seemed too inquisitive while seeking out gossips and tavern philosophers- those who would talk for hours with little prompting. From them he hoped to learn more about his host and the surrounding area.

  Unfortunately, most of the talk concerned the politics of life within Castle Stormweather. Most of the lesser merchants chatted about improving their trade advantages, and Thamalon might have found those conversations more interesting in Sembia, where such matters affected his family. Members of the wealthier class were less inclined to associate with an unknown traveler, but Thamalon overheard enough of their buzzing to recognize the gossip of social adventure, petty and great. Count so-and-so had taken a second mistress but failed to keep that secret from his first; an old duchess had announced she was dividing her holdings among her three grandchildren, shocking the rest of her family who feared dissolution of the House; a sly merchant, hopeful of advancement in the court, had finally managed to place his comely daughter under the chamberlain's lecherous eye…

  Thamalon had heard it all, and none of it helped solve the mystery of his location or the coincidence of Stormweather and the Sorcerer's appearance. He retired to a tavern and sat a while sipping a strange, sweet mulled wine. There he met a man who smoked a long pipe and waxed poetical about the local wine and the Sorcerer's famous cellars.

  That caught Thamalon's interest. Touring the Sorcerer's art galleries, his armory, and the water gardens had been acts of practiced civility. The prospect of inspecting his wine cellars was genuinely enticing.

  Among his varied business ventures, Thamalon felt the most pride in his orchards and vineyards. Among his servants, there were few he held in greater esteem than his vintners. Thamalon visited his vineyards as often as he could justify the indulgence to himself. When selecting a new site for a vineyard, he loved to feel the grit and taste the soil as his master vintner explain how it was good, and in which ways it could be richer.

  In summer he enjoyed picnicking among the vines with his wife and children, and at Higharvestide he would don homespun trousers and join the harvesters for an afternoon's picking. How long had it been since he felt the pleasant rupturing of grapes beneath his bare feet? The task had been an owner's indulgence, since it had been years since his vintners used anything but their efficient oak presses to extract the juice. They humored Thamalon's whim by providing him with an old-fashioned mashing tun, and he repaid the favor by keeping his visits short and infrequent so as not to slow their production.

  Throughout the fermenting, filtering, casking, and aging, Thamalon always felt a sense of nurturing the raw produce of the earth into something far finer-something approaching art. While he didn't personally oversee the process, it was performed by his support and his will.

  In a way, it was like raising children, but without all the bother. Should drought or excessive rains produce an inferior vintage, he had only to wait a year for another chance to get it right.

  If only it were so simple to be a father. Unfortunately, in many ways Thamalon had approached parenthood as an owner rather than as a vintner, letting nannies, tutors, and whipping boys attend to the messy business of shaping a child into an adult. He sometimes regretted not tending more often to his children rather than leaving their daily care to his servants. He wondered how much they had suffered from his benign neglect.

  The worse thought was that they'd turned out better for lack of his direct attentions. That idea injured his pride, but as one who'd single-handedly rebuilt the empire his father had destroyed, Thamalon believed a man was shaped most profoundly by the decisions he made alone.

  Or perhaps that was only a feeble old man's excuse for spending too little time with his sons and daughter.

  Thamalon tried to turn his thoughts back to the matter of the Sorcerer's wine cellars. What strange fruit did they harvest in this land? How might its yield compare to the vintages famous throughout the lands Thamalon knew? The pride of his own extensive cellars included racks of Arabellan Dry, Berduskan Dark, and Saerloonian Glowfire. He also reserved generous allotments of the finest domestic wines, including the famous House Ansril, House Beldraevin, and House Glaery. It was a source of great pride to him that House Uskevren also had its place among the most estimable vintages, as did his specialty wines, including the Usk Fine Old, Thamalon's Own, and the tart and fortified Storm Ruby.

  Thamalon wished he'd been holding a bottle of one of them when he fell prey to that damnable painting. He would have liked to present it to his host, and perhaps the gesture would be enough to encourage the Sorcerer on to more speedy assistance in returning Thamalon to his homeland.

  It was a fleeting, vain hope, but the wistful fantasy was enough to divert Thamalon from unhappier thoughts as he explored the increasingly lonely halls beneath the main floor of Castle Stormweather. Eventually, the tapestries and carpets withdrew to leave only flagstone floors and bare walls. Thamalon followed the trail of crackling torches in their iron sconces until he came to a plain iron gate.

  On either side stood a pair of Crimson Guards. Those in front crossed their spears in the ancient gesture of forbiddance.

  "Halt," said one. "It is forbidden to pass."

  "I take it this is not the wine cellar?" said Thamalon amiably.

  Beyond the gate he saw a large chamber. On the other side of its shadowy expanse was a heavy stone door embedded with river stones of blue and indigo and incarnadine. Between the gems, the stone curved and whirled in strange geometries that defied all symmetry. There were no recognizable characters among the arcs and spirals, but Thamalon sensed there was some foreign order among the chaotic lines.

  "No," said one of the interposing guards.

  He offered no further explanation, but since none of the men seemed especially belligerent, Thamalon pressed another question.

  "What is it there?" he said. "Some sort of-?"

  "It is forbidden. Away with you!" said one of the guards. He turned his spear to point at Thamalon.

  Thamalon bristled as much at the coarse rebuttal as at the threatening gesture.

  "Your lord and master welcomed me as his guest. I doubt he would be pleased to hear that one of his-"

  One of the other guards marked Thamalon's surprise and stepped forward. He lay a hand on the weapon to turn its point away from Thamalon's chest.

  "You are the recent arrival?" he said. "The one they call Far-Traveler?"

  Thamalon nodded curtly, holding his chin high.

  The guard nodded back. He wasn't as unctuously accommodating as the upstairs servants, but he had none of the insolent tone of his fellow.

  "The chamberlain must have been diverted by his scheduled visitors when you came to court. He is always distracted as the Sorcerer prepares to hunt. Otherwise, he would have told you that my lord invites his favored guests to enjoy all the chambers of his abode but one." He indicated the room behind him with a flick of his eyes. "The Ineffable Vault."

  "I see," said Thamalon. He could practically hear the capital letters. He felt his eyes drawn inexorably toward the gloom-shrouded vault. "Had I known…" He raised his empty palms to the ceiling.

  "If you wish, I shall escort you to the cellars. The sommelier would be pleased to show you the stores."

  Thamalon followed the man away from the guar
ded portal. It was perfectly sensible for a man to keep visitors out of his treasury, but something about the unusual door made him think there was more than coin stored within.

  Together they walked away from the gate, the hard heels of the guard's boots tapping a cadence on the stone floor. Once they were out of hearing range of the other guards, Thamalon's escort stopped. He removed his helmet and turned to face Thamalon.

  "If you please, sir," he said. He was a young man, and his cornflower blue eyes were wide with trepidation. "Allow me to report my fellow's insolence to our captain. I assure you he enforces strict discipline and will not overlook the offense."

  Thamalon sensed the fear in the man's voice. A bead of sweat ran down the guard's cheek to vanish in his downy beard.

  "Of course," said Thamalon. "I have no wish to trouble your master with such a trifle, especially since you have been so helpful."

  The guard snapped his heels and bowed over his fist. "Thank you, sir."

  As they continued their journey, Thamalon mused aloud, "I wonder what is so 'ineffable' about it?"

  The guard cast a nervous glance at him and said, "I would not know, sir. No one ever enters it but the Sorcerer." After a few steps, he added, "On pain of death."

  "I see," said Thamalon. After a few more steps, he ventured, "Surely you must have wondered."

  "No, sir. It is forbidden."

  "Where is the harm? I mean, why give it such a mysterious name if you don't want anyone wondering what's inside? Why block it with a gate that lets you see exactly what is being forbidden? Tantalizing, isn't it?"

  The guard shrugged and kept his silence.

  Thamalon tried not thinking about the mysterious vault, but of course the seed of curiosity had been planted, and his imagination fed it. He had a suspicion that the Sorcerer named his forbidden room exactly for that reason, and he remembered the old adage about the flying carpet that worked only when its owner did not think about elephants.

  The past summer, Talbot's troupe had performed a play about a sorcerous queen who married a handsome but common man on the sole condition that he never open her wardrobe doors. Naturally, the man burned with curiosity about what his wife might be concealing inside that cabinet. One day, as his wife took her bath, he crept inside her bedchamber and opened the wardrobe door-only to find her empty skin hanging there. When the fiend heard his screams, she emerged from her bath and gobbled up her disobedient husband.