by David Gross
Tears welled in Larajin’s eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they rolled down her cheeks. “I know,” she said. “I know. Often I’ve wanted to tell her myself, but I could never work up the courage.”
“Oh, I think she knows.”
“Do you really?”
“How could she not see it? I bet she’s kept quiet only to save the family reputation.”
“I’m sorry!” said Larajin, defiantly. “You should have said something sooner if you felt so strongly about it. I was going to tell you that last time we spoke.”
“You were going to tell me? Did you think I’d be happy to hear it?”
“You always treated me like a sister anyway,” she said.
“Like a sister? How could I think of you that way when you’re sleeping with my own father?”
“What?”
“That makes it even worse,” he said. “It’s bad enough that you’re his mistress without acting like you’re part of the family.”
Larajin slapped his face. He barely felt the blow, but it shocked him nonetheless. Larajin’s eyes hardened. It was the first time Tal had seen her truly angry with him. The sight made his stomach shrink.
“How could you think that?” She dropped her packages and punched him in the arm. The crowd began to move away from them, forming a small clearing around their argument.
“Ow! Yes, well—”
“You thought I was his mistress?” She kicked him on the shin.
“Ow! No! I mean, obviously, you’re not.” He scooped up some of the fallen packages and smiled awkwardly at the people who had begun to stare.
“That’s revolting!”
“I know. I thought so, too. Ow! Quit it!” he said, trying to use the packages as a shield.
Larajin held up both fists as if to redouble her pummeling, but then she saw the confusion on Tal’s face.
“You assumed … he never told you!” Larajin’s fury transformed to astonishment. “After all that has happened this year, he never told you the truth?”
“What is the truth?” Tal asked, keeping an eye on her fists.
Larajin watched Tal’s face carefully, alert for any trace of subterfuge. Satisfied that he wasn’t acting a part for her, she shook her head and smiled as she had years before, when they were children.
“I should probably leave it to Lord Uskevren to explain,” she said tentatively.
“Obviously, he doesn’t tell me the truth,” protested Tal. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not Lord Uskevren’s mistress,” said Larajin. “I’m his daughter.”
Tal felt dizzy. “His what?”
“Your half sister.”
Since their quarrel subsided, the jostling crowd pressed in on them again. Tal felt seasick in the tide of bobbing heads. He wanted to sit down. He wanted a drink of ale. More than either of those, he wanted to hear that he’d just misunderstood what he thought he’d heard. No matter how fantastic it seemed, it did explain some things.
Larajin seemed to read his mind. “That’s why he was so upset when he thought you and I were …”
“When he thought you and I were doing what I thought you and he were doing.”
“Yes.”
Tal stood still for a few moments looking over the market crowd toward the heart of the city. In the distance, the morning sun set the spires and towers of central Selgaunt to gleaming. Dozens of family crests waved in the sea breeze, their bright colors creating the illusion of a blooming garden.
“Larajin, I don’t know how to begin apologizing.”
“Try anyway,” she said. Indignation lingered in her tone.
“I am unutterably sorry,” he began. “The fault is entirely mine.” He paused, torn between inventing a more formal apology and wondering at the ramifications of what he had just learned.
“Say more things like that.”
“I couldn’t have been more wrong,” he added. “None of this confusion would have happened if I weren’t born an idiot.”
“That part isn’t your fault,” said Larajin. “It’s hereditary.” She covered her mouth like a child who’d just said a naughty word in range of her parents. Then she laughed.
“At least among the Uskevren men,” agreed Tal.
“Right.”
Tal salvaged the dropped parcels, and they stood a while in silence as the crowd jostled them.
“Want to help me carry these back to Stormweather?”
“I … I can’t at the moment. There are some things I have to do first.”
“Like finding a set of clothes that fit?” Larajin plucked at the fabric of his stolen shirt.
“Among other things,” said Tal. “Listen, there are some things happening lately … I have to deal with them. It means I won’t be around Stormweather for a little while longer, but I’ll come back soon. And I promise not to avoid you.”
“Yes, Master Talbot,” she said. “Whatever you say, Master Talbot.”
“Oh, stop it. Even before we knew you’re my sister—”
“Not so loud!” warned Larajin. “I haven’t told anyone else.”
“Why not? He’s got to recognize you, doesn’t he?”
“Maybe he is thinking of Lady Shamur.”
“Oh,” said Tal.
Thamalon might not be keeping a mistress these days, but Larajin was born after Tamlin. That much was obvious. Now that his parents were getting along so much better these days, Tal saw why Thamalon might choose not to disturb the past.
“But don’t you deserve to be recognized as an Uskevren?”
“I thought about that,” said Larajin. “Perhaps one day that’s what I will want. For now, there are too many other changes happening in my life. I’m not ready to begin a new one.”
“I know what you mean,” said Tal. “Everything was a lot simpler when we were young.”
“We’re still young, you great goof. We’re just not children anymore.”
“Maybe that’s why it used to be a lot easier.”
CHAPTER 19
THE BLACK MOON
Tarsakh, 1372 DR
At first, Darrow feared he might have the wrong street. In the afternoon light, there was no question of identifying a known house, but he knew Talbot Uskevren’s tallhouse only by description. Alaspar Lane seemed right, but he wasn’t sure which one he wanted until he saw the guards.
He spotted the family guards first. They made no effort to hide. Two of them stood to either side of the front door of the three-story building, while two more guarded either end of the lane. Their bright blue cloaks and yellow horse-at-anchor emblems marked them clearly as Uskevren house guards. Their conspicuous locations confirmed Darrow’s suspicion that they were posted more to warn Talbot off than to apprehend him.
The Scepters were somewhat subtler. Four of them stood in a cluster across the street from the tallhouse. If there were others, they were well hidden at the farthest range of a signal whistle. From the occasional glances the Scepters cast at the Uskevren house guards, Darrow saw that there was little affection between the two camps. He wondered briefly whether the guard would fight the Scepters to cover the young man’s escape if he were so foolish as to show himself.
“Too bold to hide,” murmured Darrow. It seemed a ridiculous motto for any of the Old Chauncel, whose successes more often depended on diplomacy and bidding wars than military conflicts.
Most house militia were simply bodyguards, but something about the proud posture of the Uskevren men made Darrow wonder just how much provocation it would take to ignite a conflict like those that had brought low both House Uskevren and House Malveen a generation earlier. Perversely, he wished Stannis Malveen were present so he could ask his opinion. Of course, Lord Malveen would never show himself in the daylight.
Unless Talbot was much slipperier than Darrow expected, there was no way he’d find shelter at his tallhouse with so many eyes upon it. There was one other obvious place for the fugitive Uskevren to take shelter. Fortunately, it was not
far away.
Darrow had no reason to fear the guards, so he walked down the lane between them. Too bold to hide, he joked silently. That would make a good motto for the pack, who walked boldly through the herd here in Selgaunt. None of the lambs realized there were wolves among them, and they wouldn’t—not until the wolves chose to reveal themselves.
When he arrived at the playhouse, Darrow found the outer court deserted. A sign over each entrance read CLOSED in big letters, followed by a flowery apology written in fine calligraphy. Rather than approach closely enough to read the words, Darrow walked to the tiny park nearby and found an unoccupied bench. The seat afforded him a good view of the rear entrance and one of the public entrances.
Darrow watched for almost an hour. No one entered or left the building in that time, and he saw no sign of city Scepters watching the place. That surprised him, since the playhouse seemed an obvious haven for Talbot Uskevren. Either the Scepters underestimated the strength of his connection to the place, or they considered it an unlikely refuge for other reasons. Or, thought Darrow, they had someone adept at remaining unseen watching the place.
When the sun touched the horizon, Darrow knew he could wait no longer. If Feena and Talbot had returned to the city, as he assumed they would, then he knew of no other place they might hide. If they hadn’t gotten into the playhouse earlier in the day, he thought it unlikely they would try so close to dusk. The moon would rise soon after dark, and it was far more difficult to resist the call of the beast on a full moon than it was to summon the transformation on other nights. What he had to do was hard enough without his suddenly turning into the wolf.
One last look around revealed no suspicious figures, so Darrow went to the back door of the playhouse. Like the others, it bore a sign and an apology for the cancelled performances. Darrow beat on the door with his fist. He waited a moment, then banged again.
A big woman with biceps like catapult shots opened the door. Darrow recognized her as one of the players, the infamous Mistress Quickly herself. He had seen her perform in both male and female roles each time he’d come to the playhouse as Stannis Malveen’s eyes in the city. She clenched a straight-stemmed pipe between her jaws. The smoking bowl bobbed as she spoke through gritted teeth.
“Closed, it says.” She pointed to the sign and blew smoke out her nostrils.
“I know,” he said. “I’m a friend of Talbot Uskevren. I have an important mess—”
“You thought wrong, sweetie,” she said, closing the door in his face.
Darrow got a foot inside the jamb before it shut. He sniffed deeply, trying to scent past the stink of pipe smoke and the woman’s garlic breath. Besides the strong smell of greasepaint and timbers, he detected the odor of human sweat and something else. Mingled among the other smells was the musk of two different kinds of animals. One was a strange smell, oily and somehow hot. The other was the more familiar musk of wolves, including one particular wolf.
“Much as I hate to bust up a potential customer,” said the woman, “I’ll rattle your head on the street if you don’t back off.”
She pushed the door open, shoving Darrow back. She was even stronger than she looked, maybe even stronger than Darrow.
“I know he’s here!” he said more loudly than she obviously liked. She looked left and right. Seeing no witnesses, she cocked a fist and prepared to bludgeon Darrow.
“Is he alone?” asked someone behind Quickly. Darrow recognized Feena’s voice.
“Yeah,” answered Quickly. “Nothing I can’t handle on my own.”
“Let him in,” said Feena.
“Yer kiddin’, right?”
“No,” said Feena. “He’s here to help.”
Darrow gave the red-haired cleric a grateful smile.
“Sure about that?” asked Quickly. She took the pipe from her mouth and blew a stream of smoke at Darrow through the gap in her big front teeth.
“No,” said Feena, “but if he’s not, it’ll be better to kill him inside.”
Darrow realized he had not won the cleric’s trust, but the fervor with which she threatened him still scared him. He had thought Selûne was a gentle goddess. Perhaps she made an exception when one of her clerics had been slain.
“Good enough for me,” rumbled Quickly. She slapped Darrow smartly on the buttocks. “Get in there, boy.”
Inside, they led him out onto the stage and into the yard. Waiting in the lower gallery was a small group of men and women, along with a short, green-skinned creature with a wild black mane. The beast hissed at Darrow as he approached.
“Easy, Lommy,” said Talbot Uskevren. He sat in the second row, surrounded by the others. Across his knees he held the biggest sword Darrow had ever seen. It looked impossible to wield, even in two hands. Talbot scratched the little creature behind the ears. “Go upstairs and make sure he wasn’t followed.” Lommy scrambled up the nearest pillar as nimbly as any monkey.
Talbot stood up and set the monstrous sword aside as easily as if it were a walking stick. He was at least as tall as the Huntmaster, and even more powerfully muscled. Darrow felt the same sense of foreboding as he did when in the presence of Rusk or Stannis. This man could kill him in a second.
“I saw you in the playhouse last night,” said Tal. “You were with the white-haired elf.”
“Yes,” said Darrow.
Talbot looked ready to ask something else, but Feena interrupted. “Is it true what your friend said about killing my mother?”
“Your mother?” he asked.
“Maleva. He said you killed Maleva.”
“Rusk said she was your teacher …” said Darrow. “He didn’t tell us she was …”
“So it’s true,” she said. Her voice turned cold.
Darrow nodded slowly. “Rusk killed her, yes. She tried to stop us from coming to the city.”
“But you helped,” said Talbot. “You all killed her, didn’t you?”
Darrow licked his lips. “Listen, I came to warn you—”
“Answer the damned question!” said Feena.
“I was there,” admitted Darrow. “I … I’m as guilty as the rest.”
“And you’ve killed before then, haven’t you?” Feena spat at his feet. “You’ve done it yourself. You’re nothing but an animal!”
This was the last thing Darrow expected. He knew they had no reason to trust him, but this badgering astonished him. “What does it matter? I’m here to help save someone, not to kill anyone.”
“Eckert’s daughter,” said Tal. “That’s what you told Feena.”
“I still can’t believe Eckert has a daughter,” interrupted Chaney, clutching his head with both hands. “Do you know what that means? That means he’s had sex. With a woman. Some poor woman had sex with Eckert!”
“Knock it off, Chane,” said Tal. He fixed his eyes on Darrow. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know how she was captured, but she’s been Lord Malveen’s prisoner for over a year.”
“There is no Lord Malveen,” interjected one of the players. He was a pretty man with long black curls.
“Stannis Malveen still lives—if that’s the word for it—in the ruins of House Malveen,” Darrow said. “Everything that’s happened to you started with him.”
“Tell me everything,” said Talbot.
“I will,” Darrow promised, “but you’ve got to promise to help me get Maelin out of there.”
“No promises,” said Talbot, “but if you make yourself useful, I won’t break your neck right now.”
Darrow didn’t believe the threat … not until he met Talbot Uskevren’s unwavering eyes. They were the color of unpolished steel, dead and strong. He realized that he had put himself completely in the other man’s power. He might be able to win past all the players and even Feena, if he were lucky, but he could not oppose this man that Rusk called the Black Wolf.
“Start from the beginning,” said Talbot, glancing up through the open roof. “And make it quick. The moon is coming.”
Darrow took a breath and obeyed. He hoped his new master would be merciful.
Talbot was quiet for a long time after Darrow finished his tale. He had told it carefully, trying not to make too much of his desire to release Maelin from captivity, but leaving unspoken his own participation in the pack’s High Hunts and callous defense of their territory. Judging by Feena’s steady gaze, his guilt was not forgotten, nor forgiven.
The cleric had turned away from him only long enough to say her prayers at moonrise. Having listened carefully to Darrow’s tale, she called on Selûne for protections against the undead as well as spells to heal the wounded and harm the wicked. Afterward, she sat rocking slightly in a gesture that reminded Darrow of his own inner contest with the moon. She was calling to his wolf, and he had to concentrate to contain it. He had little doubt that his sudden transformation would be all the excuse Feena needed to execute him.
If Talbot felt the call, it did not show. He sat pensively, his fingers trailing the length of the gigantic sword he held on his lap. Whatever he was thinking, he did not share with the others.
Quickly lit a fresh bowlful of tobacco and broke the silence.
“Werewolves and vampires,” she said. “This’ll make a great play when it’s all done.”
Talbot began to protest, but then he sighed. “You might as well,” he said. “There’s no hiding it after last night.”
“I want to play this Sorcia,” said a slim, androgynous woman. Darrow was astonished at her aplomb.
“Sivana!” said Feena.
“Can I play Tal?” said a big, goofy looking fellow. He had the size for it, if no other resemblance to the Black Wolf.
“Not you, too, Ennis! Listen,” said Feena sharply. “I know you’re just trying to lighten the mood, but this doesn’t help.”
“Sorry,” said the man with black curls. “Tell us what we can do to help.”
“Absolutely nothing, Mallion,” said Talbot. “I’ve already brought more than enough trouble to the playhouse. From now on, I’ll deal with it on my own.”
“Not alone,” warned Feena.
“No,” agreed Tal reluctantly. “I’ll need your help.”