by David Gross
Thamalon turned back to the basin for a better view, hardly noticing that Malaika withdrew. He saw the Sorcerer shake his scepter at the skwalos. From its bright ruby shot a barbed spear. The weapon sank deep into the creature’s hide, and immediately a ribbon of red lightning shot down from the wound to the ground. The crackling light persisted even after the initial flash, coruscating in a constant line between earth and sky. It wriggled and contracted, tugging its skyborne prey toward the ground.
The Sorcerer raised his scepter, and in a hot red flash, another spear appeared above the pulsating ruby. He flew to the other side of the skwalos, alert for further defenders.
None came.
He cast the second harpoon, and another red line of energy bound his prey to the ground. Slowly, the skwalos began sinking below the clouds. The Sorcerer followed until Thamalon could see neither of them through the basin’s cloudy image.
He spared a glance through the ceiling windows, but all he could see were dim eruptions of red light through the clouds. The thunder began to subside, leaving only the sound of steady rain upon the glass.
Malaika sat beside her harp, head bowed as she leaned upon its neck.
“It’s over,” he said, thinking it might console the lady.
“No,” she said. “It is only beginning. Soon my lord’s servants will catch it with their flensing hooks.” Malaika looked at Thamalon as if seeing him for the first time. She said, “You are the traveler.”
“You may call me Nelember,” Thamalon said, making a courtly bow.
“Yet that is not your name.”
He repeated his bow, this time with an apologetic hand over his heart. He didn’t question how she perceived his obfuscation.
She gestured an invitation to sit, and he obeyed, then she rose to stand close to him, looking down into his face. Her eyes searched his features for long seconds. She touched his brow and ran a finger down the straight line of his nose.
“What secret do you keep from my lord?”
Thamalon smiled at her remark. He affected a casual tone and said, “What makes you think I have a secret from him?”
“Because everyone has a secret from the Sorcerer,” she said. “That is his curse.”
Where she had seemed at first frail and frightened, she was transformed into a daunting inquisitor. Thamalon feared that she might be the more dangerous of his hosts.
“What secret do you keep from him?” he countered, already regretting the bluntness of his riposte.
“Not a one,” she replied. “That is my curse.”
“Does he know you weep for his enemies?”
“Rather say, ‘for his victims.’ Yes, he knows. Nothing pleases him more than forcing me to call the skwalos, then to watch as he enslaves and butchers them.”
“Are you his prisoner?”
“No,” she said.
“Then why do you endure it?”
“Because I remember him as he was,” she said, “as a boy whose heart was filled with dreams. You know my curse. My blessing is that I can still remember him as he was, and I can hope that he will become that boy again. Perhaps you will succeed where I have failed these many years.”
“What possible influence could I have over—”
“You are his father, are you not?”
Her words came as no surprise to Thamalon, and more than ever he accepted the likelihood that this Sorcerer was the dark reflection of his son, just as Castle Stormweather was a vast shadow of his home. It was a simple puzzle on its face, but he still had no idea of its key.
Thamalon began to suspect that the woman was somehow reading his thoughts.
“Did he tell you so?” he asked.
“No,” said Malaika. “I believe he suspects it but is not certain. You humans change so quickly over so short a time. Still, I see you in him. He has your eyes.”
“He does look very much like my eldest son,” admitted Thamalon. “They could be twins, but he’s not Tamlin.”
“Hush!” Malaika glanced urgently at the stairway and said, “Let no one hear you say that name.”
“Let me guess,” said Thamalon. “It is forbidden.”
“It is no matter for jest. You have not yet seen what he is capable of doing to those who displease him.”
“Even one he suspects could be his father?”
“Especially to him. The Sorcerer guards his power jealously. He keeps it secure in a vault beneath the castle.”
“Keeps what secure?”
“His dreams,” she said. “Once constrained, they gave him the power to hunt the skwalos and destroy all who would oppose him.”
“I assure you, I have no designs on his dreams, my lady,” said Thamalon. “All I wish is to return safely to my own home and my own family. What possible reason would I have to offend my host by disturbing his precious vault?”
“Because it is the gate through which he first came to our world,” she said, “and opening it is the only way for you to return home.”
CHAPTER 17
ALLIANCES
Escevar pinched his nostrils shut with a blood-stained handkerchief.
“I warned you not to broach the subject so soon,” said Tamlin. He suppressed the laughter, but his amusement obviously showed.
“It’s not funny, Deuce,” said Escevar. “I think she broke it.”
“Did she at least give you an answer?”
“She said if you like Brimmer Soargyl so much, you should marry him.”
“Did she like any of the other prospects better?”
“She refused to hear of them. I think her words were, ‘I will not be married off like so much decorative chattel.’ ”
“Well, we knew she wouldn’t care for the idea. Perhaps she still fancies that Steorf fellow. Give them a few more months, and one of them will tire of the other. Still, now is a much better time. Did you speak with Talbot?”
Escevar glared at him over the handkerchief.
“All right, all right,” said Tamlin. “Much as I dread the thought of what offspring the great brute might produce, I’ll make some time to suggest it to him myself.”
“You had better invite the entire house guard to that conversation. If you can put a leash on him first, so much the better.”
Tamlin sighed. He’d known his siblings wouldn’t welcome the thought of socially advantageous marriages, but he’d hoped they would at least consider the idea. It wasn’t as if he was unwilling to do the same to ensure the continuance of House Uskevren. Most of his peers had already produced at least an heir and more often two or three. More than ever, it was imperative to show stability, and marriages were the easiest way to reassure the rest of the Old Chauncel.
If Tamlin could establish a few new alliances along the way, so much the better.
“Here,” said Escevar, who had put away the handkerchief and revealed his swollen pug nose. He laid a sheaf of parchment atop the books Tamlin had been reading. “These need your signature.”
Tamlin glanced at the new documents—land leases, transportation bonds, pay releases, bills of sale—all of them were important if boring, but they irritated him all the more because they were distractions from his more crucial work.
“You already balanced these against the treasury?”
Escevar grimaced and said, “We cannot pay out more until we’ve received the balance of this month’s income, but these are the most urgent issues.”
Tamlin signed them one by one. Impatience turned his usually elegant signature into a ragged scrawl. When he was done, he reached for the sealing wax and nearly knocked over the candle.
“Here,” said Escevar, removing the documents and taking away the candle. “I’ll take care of that for you.”
“Remind me to give you a raise,” said Tamlin.
“I gave myself one this morning.”
He wiggled his thumb and pointed to the Uskevren seal on Tamlin’s hand.
“You’re the very model of efficiency,” laughed Tamlin. He removed the seal
from his thumb, but he hesitated before passing it over. “You didn’t actually …?”
“Hopping Ilmater, Deuce! It was just a joke.”
“Sorry,” said Tamlin, surrendering the ring. “I guess the lack of sleep is making me jumpy.”
“If you wouldn’t insist on having the servants wake you so early, you might get a good night’s rest.”
“I know,” said Tamlin, “but even with your help, there is still so much to do. Somewhere among these letters must be the clue to my father’s disappearance.”
“You still think he’s alive somewhere?”
“Maybe,” said Tamlin. “Yes. He must be. And I must find him.”
“And give up all this?”
With an awkward wave of his own laden hands, Escevar indicated the stacks of documents on Tamlin’s desk.
Such clutter was a new phenomenon in Tamlin’s receiving room. Adjacent to his bedchamber, the place usually projected the false impression that Tamlin was meticulously tidy in his business pursuits. The fact was that he’d spent most of his life avoiding exactly such endeavors, so he rarely had any use for the chamber’s exquisitely carved writing desk or its bookshelves stocked with histories of the Dalelands, Cormyr, Sembia, and all the most significant states bordering the Moonsea. Except once or twice to pretend he had been engrossed in one of the books before a surprise visit from his father, Tamlin had never read so much as the preface to what he presumed was desperately dry reading.
Those same shelves overflowed with texts on elementary trade practices and folios of laws and regulations by state. While he needed them for reference, Tamlin had been finding that he remembered far more of his father’s business instructions than he could have hoped. Still, he left the day-to-day administration to Escevar, who’d paid far better attention during those tedious meetings.
Tamlin’s real interest resided elsewhere. Open on his desk and on the shelves all around were tomes and librams and codexes—not mere books. These were the repository of arcane knowledge, secret lore, and chronicles whose narratives were merely a disguise for the power that lay beneath them.
“What do you hope to find in all these spooky old books?” asked Escevar.
“Perhaps some clue about magical paintings,” said Tamlin.
That much was true, but he left unspoken his other reason to investigate matters arcane. Just before Escevar’s arrival, Tamlin had discovered a most intriguing account of his own grandfather’s startling display of magical powers in the moments before his death.
“Has Pietro replied to your invitation?”
“He begged off,” said Tamlin, “but he said he would look for me at the Soargyl affair.”
“Suspicious, that.”
“Perhaps,” said Tamlin. “Talbot likes the Malveen for this, too. Still, I find it hard to imagine Pietro conspiring to harm me. We have always gotten on so well, and he has never shown the least political inclination. And don’t suggest Laskar is up to any tricks. The man would give you a straight answer to a ‘Where’s Elminster?’ riddle.”
Escevar shrugged an affirmative.
“No, I think our enemy lies elsewhere,” said Tamlin, “and I think he’s using magic.”
“Like the Talendar did last year,” suggested Escevar.
“Yes, but we put an end to that, didn’t we?” Tamlin still looked back on the fight against Marance Talendar with pride. He still kept the ugly hand axe that had proven so lucky in his several battles against conjured monsters. “That reminds me, have you heard from the guild?”
“Yes,” said Escevar reluctantly. “It will cost more than the entire month’s warehousing fees, but they’re willing to send one of the wizards you requested. She will arrive at dusk.”
“Helara?” Tamlin remembered the blond, red-robed wizard as both competent and easy on the eyes.
“No, the gadget-mage,” said Escevar.
“Magdon! But she’s only an apprentice.”
“Apparently she graduated to journeyman wizard since you last saw her. Besides, after the trouble of your promissory note last time, they insist on payment up front, and we simply do not have enough ready coin to entice a senior—”
“All right, have done,” said Tamlin, waving him down.
Having been responsible for the family treasury the past few days, he was beginning to understand why Thamalon had always been angry at his spendthrift ways. Being wealthy didn’t always mean having coin on hand.
“It matters little to me which wizard they send, as long as she can shed some light on our current predicament.”
“And on those dreams of yours?”
Tamlin felt a pang of guilt. He should be concentrating all his efforts on finding his parents, not the meaning of the return of his childhood dreams. Still, he couldn’t resist the hope that the two events were somehow related.
“Perhaps,” he admitted, “but only after she helps us determine what spells have operated in the house on and since that night. Maybe she will even find that painting, or the stolen gold—just as she helped us find those odd coins before. Probably they’ll turn up in some footman’s locker.”
“Are you sure of that?” Escevar frowned. “Mister Cale is scrupulous in selecting the servants.”
“And where is he now?” said Tamlin, stroking his chin. “What do we really know about good old Mister Pale, anyway?”
Escevar tried and failed to smother a smile.
“What?”
“You look just like your father when you do that,” said Escevar, imitating the chin stroking. Usually comparing Tamlin to Thamalon was enough to provoke the younger Uskevren, but this time it only made his expression that much more severe—and that much more like his father’s. “What I meant was, your father trusts Cale.”
Tamlin appreciated Escevar’s use of the present tense. Despite his legal assumption of his father’s mantle, Tamlin still couldn’t bring himself to believe his parents were dead.
“True enough,” he said. “Still, the fact that he too is missing troubles me.”
“Does it have to have been a servant?”
“I think it had to be someone inside the house,” said Tamlin. “Barring an intruder, that leaves the servants and my siblings.”
“But they’re the ones who rescued you.”
“Yes, yes, but something about the way the kidnappers behaved made me suspect there had been a change in plans. Or perhaps the one who hired them planned all along to rescue me, and—”
“What better alibi than to be the one who saved you?” Escevar completed his thought. “I see what you mean.”
Tamlin rose to pace around the desk. Escevar finally tired of his master’s restlessness and sat down beside a bust of Helemgaularn of the Seven Lightnings. Tamlin had had the statue moved into his office in hopes that the old wizard’s wise eyes and fabulously braided beard would act as inspiration in his own magical investigations.
At last, realizing that Escevar wouldn’t be the first to cast such black suspicions on his family, Tamlin voiced his own uncomfortable thoughts.
“It seems awfully convenient that Talbot killed the two kidnappers who ran.”
“He must have known you would have a cleric question their spirits,” said Escevar. “Besides, they knew nothing of use.”
“But that cleric was Larajin. She and Talbot have always been close. How do we know she told us the truth?”
“Well, she wants your support for this new shrine of hers,” suggested Escevar.
Tamlin had been giving serious consideration to Larajin’s petition for funds, but the heretical nature of her worship troubled him. The Sunites would resent competition of any sort, especially from a sect that reduced their deity to a human reflection of the elf goddess of love and beauty. While Thamalon and Shamur had raised their children to reject bigotry, too many of Selgaunt’s rich and powerful disdained anything to do with elves.
“It’s not really Larajin who worries me,” Tamlin said by way of dismissing the troublesome matter,
“but Talbot. I’m afraid he’s always hated me.”
“He’s your younger brother,” observed Escevar. “It’s practically his duty to hate you.”
“Well, if he’s not behind this intrigue, then whoever is gave him yet another good reason to hate me. He thinks I’ve stolen his coin.”
“You’re sure he actually left it in the library?”
“The lack of a receipt is strange,” allowed Tamlin. “Still, what a clumsy ploy that would be. It’s easier to believe he’s telling the truth. What really bothers me …”
Tamlin didn’t complete the thought. He’d told no one about the mystery correspondence he found within his father’s library desk. He still had the vellum sheet of code and the one letter that he’d slipped into his boot, but he had found the others missing by the time he returned to his father’s library.
What troubled Tamlin about their speedy disappearance was that Talbot had been the only one to see him handling them.
“Maybe there is no enemy inside the house,” said Escevar, rescuing Tamlin from his unpleasant reverie. “Even without magic, a very good thief might have slipped out with a painting, or your brother’s coin.”
“A hundred-pound coffer of coins?”
“Well, maybe a very strong thief. Or one with a magic bag of holding-absurdly-large-objects, like that one you almost bought from that warlock at the Black Stag a few years ago.”
“I see your point,” sighed Tamlin. “Still, the thief angle troubles me, too. If it had happened at any other time, I might suspect Tazi was playing a prank on Talbot or me or both of us.”
For a while, he stood silently by the window. Outside, the courtyard was sheathed in ice after the previous night’s hailstorm. Four of the groundsmen had finished cutting away the upper half of a tree that had broken under the weight of the ice, and they were chaining it to the harness of a draft horse that stamped and blew plumes in the cold morning air.
“Well,” said Escevar, rising from his chair. “I’ll leave you to your contemplations.”
He made a cursory bow and slipped out into the hall.