The Shattered Mask (8 page)

nature, and to silence it, she’d crept to Thamalon’s receiving room to search for more evidence of his guilt, for all that she’d proved it beyond a doubt already.

It had been obliging of him, she sardonically reflected, to absent himself from home tonight. He’d claimed he had to make sure that one of his merchantmen was loaded and ready to sail with the morning tide, but she suspected he was visiting one of his doxies. Perhaps wide-eyed little Larajin had begun to bore him.

The parlor smelled of lemon oil, a testament to the diligence of the servants. Since Shamur had only bothered to light a single sconce, it was rather dark, and certain of the shapes around her, like the white bearskin rug from the Great Glacier and the harp that Thamalon vowed he would learn to play someday, looked strange and subtly unreal swimming in the gloom.

All was silent, inside the room and beyond. Shamur knew that elsewhere in the mansion, a handful of guards and lackeys were performing various tasks while the rest of the household slumbered, but she couldn’t hear them up here on the second floor.

Then something did make a noise. Just as the cabinet yielded to her efforts, the latch securing the door to the passage clicked. The brass handle turned.

Shamur fleetingly considered hiding, but wasn’t sure she could manage it in the split second remaining, not with the sconce burning, anyway. So she simply closed the cabinet, scooped up her makeshift lockpicks, and concealed them beneath the blue sussapine sleeve drooping over her hand. An instant later Erevis stepped through the door.

The gaunt major-domo had evidently come inside rather recently, for he still wore a dark gray cloak which, though woven of good-quality broadcloth, hung about his gangly form like a winding-sheet. The garments beneath the mantle, at least what Shamur could see of them, were equally unattractive: subfusc, devoid of ornament, and generally funereal.

Erevis was not a demonstrative man. Indeed, Shamur

believed he prided himself on his composure. Still, his deep-set, melancholy eyes widened slightly in surprise when he beheld her. For though the matriarch of Stormweather Towers presumably had the right to visit her husband’s apartments, she rarely chose to exercise that prerogative even when Thamalon was there.

“Good evening, my lady,” the butler said.

“Erevis,” she replied. “You’ve been out of doors, I see. A night on the town?” Not that she cared where the chief steward had been, but she’d rather ask questions than give him an opening to do the same.

“No, my lady,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to walk the house and grounds, just to make sure that everything is in order and the night staff are performing their duties.”

“Commendable,” Shamur said, “but I hope now that you’ve verified that all is as it should be, you’ll be able to rest. Sleep well.” Her tone, though cordial enough, made it clear that he was dismissed.

He hesitated, then said, “Thank you, my lady. Good night.” He turned toward the door, she started to relax, and then, in his graceless way, he lurched back around. “Is there something I could help you with?”

Shamur felt a pang of annoyance, though, with the ease of long practice, she kept any trace of it from showing. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to rid herself of Erevis so easily. Though he’d always served her well, he was ultimately Thamalon’s man, not hers, and, knowing something of the cool relations between his lord and lady, he was reluctant to leave her here alone. Mask only knew what he thought she was up to, but if she wanted him to go away, and to refrain from informing Thamalon of her visit later on, she’d have to disarm his suspicions with a persuasive excuse for her presence.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “I’m looking for something, that’s all.”

Erevis nodded. “I thought as much, my lady. Lord Uskevren has an abundance of drawers, shelves, chests,

cabinets, and armoires, here in this suite and elsewhere in the mansion, and if it isn’t presumptuous of me to say so, I probably have a better sense of what he keeps where than you do. If you’ll permit me to assist you, I may be able to shorten your search.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said, “but I can manage.”

“Will you at least tell me what it is? Perhaps I’ve seen it lying about.”

She heaved a sigh. “Moon above, you’re stubborn. And you must think I’m acting very strangely.”

“No, my lady. Such a notion never entered my mind.”

She smiled. “You’re tactful as well. All right, since you leave me little alternative, I’m going to tell you what I’m looking for, and then you’ll comprehend why I need to search by myself. I wouldn’t confide in most people, but I know I can depend on your discretion.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Many years ago, when we first were married, Thamalon gave me a love token. A tenday ago, we argued rather vehemently, and I threw the gift back in his face.”

“Ah,” Erevis said.

Shamur was a bit bemused that the butler didn’t seem surprised by the thought of his reserved, dignified mistress flinging objects angrily about like a fishwife in a pantomime. Perhaps all the servants imagined that Lord and Lady Uskevren were given to furious rows whenever closeted-together.

“Well,” she continued, “now I’d like the object back. Sometimes … sometimes Thamalon and I have trouble expressing our fonder feelings to one another, but if he sees his present in my hand, he’ll understand that I want to mend our quarrel.”

Erevis frowned. “Yes, my lady, but I still don’t quite grasp why you can’t tell me what the token is.”

“It’s a … sort of toy intended for private moments,” she said, “and if you discovered precisely what, then you’d know rather more about my personal inclinations than I would prefer.”

“Oh,” he said, and then his dark, deep-set eyes flew wide open. “Oh! Yes, of course I don’t want to know… uh, that is, I mean to say, I understand the difficulty. I understand, and with your permission, I’ll withdraw.”

“Good night, Erevis,” she said.

She managed to hold in a grin until he closed the door behind him, but for all her finely honed skill at dissembling, it was hard, for she’d never seen the sober major-domo so flustered. She was confident he’d never speak of their embarrassing conversation to anyone, especially Thamalon.

But her mirth couldn’t endure for long, not considering the nature of her errand. By the time she reopened the cabinet, she was frowning once again. ‘ She searched the parlor and wardrobe without result. That left the bedchamber, one of the few rooms where Thamalon’s enthusiasm for things elven had been allowed to influence the decor; a colorful tapestry, the weaver’s panoramic, and, Shamur suspected, entirely fanciful depiction of life on the elf island of Evermeet, adorned one of the walls. A casement opened onto a small balcony, and an ornately carved walnut bed even larger than Shamur’s own took up fully a quarter of the inlaid floor. A long sword and target hung beside the headboard, so that if danger ever threatened in the dead of night, Thamalon could arm himself the instant he awoke.

Always ready for anything, Shamur thought. But, husband, you won’t be ready for me. She continued her search, and found what she was seeking shortly thereafter.

Thamalon kept a small chest beneath the bed, a shabby, battered leather box he’d carried about in those desperate, starveling days when he’d struggled to rebuild the Uskevren fortune. These days, he used it primarily as a repository for date-nut bread, almond cookies, a silver flask of brandy, a book or two, and other items he might suddenly crave when already comfortably ensconced beneath his silk sheets, furs, and eiderdowns.

Or at least Shamur assumed that was the box’s primary purpose, for unlike many of the drawers and cabinets, it

wasn’t locked. Indeed, infrequent guest in this chamber though she had been, over the years she’d watched him root around in it half a hundred times. Had Errendar not schooled her to overlook no possibility when conducting a search, she might not even have bothered to check inside it.

When she did, the flask was there at the very bottom of the chest, green, delicate, whorled, and unmistakably one of Audra Sweetdreams’s bottles. An inch of clear fluid sat in the bottom.

For a moment Shamur didn’t know what she felt, and then the rage came, black, cold, and overwhelming. She’d imagined she hated Thamalon before, but it was nothing compared to the loathing that gripped her now. The monster had kept the poison—the poison with which, he believed, he had once tried to murder her—under the very bed where the two of them had lain together and quite possibly conceived their children. Had its proximity amused him? Had he laughed every time he’d opened the chest and given her the chance to spy the emerald glass glinting at the bottom? Had it excited him to know that if he wished, he could caress or-kiss the venom onto her lips as she slept?

She forswore any further hesitation or second thoughts. Thamalon was going to die, and before the month was out. All she needed was a plan.

She pondered for a few moments, until her idly roving V eyes fell on the tapestry of Evermeet again. Then a notion came to her, and her lips stretched into a feral grin.

The receiving room was lavishly furnished in accordance with the taste of a bygone generation, when the colors in style were teal and ivory and it had been fashionable to inset clear, faceted crystals on every available surface. Few of them sparkled, however, for much of the chamber was shrouded in gloom. Marance had only bothered to light two white beeswax tapers, which burned in latten candelabra on the marble mantelpiece. Ossian Talendar, who had come to see if there was anything his “dead” uncle required, supposed that if the wizard spent a great deal of time in his current state, he actually didn’t require even that meager bit of illumination. For Marance sat motionless in a high-backed, claw-and-ball-footed chair, his rather horrible pearly eyes staring at nothing. For the moment he looked genuinely deceased, albeit

only recently so, and his appearance prompted Ossian to wonder for the hundredth time whether he ought to be elated or frightened that his father Nuldrevyn, patriarch of the entire Talendar family, had appointed him the mage’s aide-de-camp.

Actually, he felt both emotions together, though the fear had been only a thread of disquiet at first. Certainly, it was uncanny that his father had discovered a kinsman slain nearly three decades before wandering the inner precincts of Old High Hall, the Talendar castle, on the night of the Feast of the Moon a month and half ago. But Ossian, who fancied himself an adventurer, had watched certain priests converse with the shades of the dead and even command corpses and skeletons to rise and shamble about. He’d survived a skirmish with one of the ghouls that had plagued Selgaunt a year ago. He wouldn’t have been much inclined to cower in dread even if Nuldrevyn hadn’t assured him that Marance had returned to help the family, not afflict it.

In fact, when his father had introduced them, Ossian had felt a trifle disappointed, for on first acquaintance, there was nothing spectral or monstrous about Marance unless one counted the eyes, which, however freakish, were merely the ones he’d been born with. Actually, he was such a soft-spoken, bookish fellow that it was hard to believe he was even the celebrated family hero who’d performed extraordinary feats of magic and waged savage war on the TalendV’s foes, let alone a visitor from the netherworld.

In the weeks that followed, however, Ossian noticed certain peculiarities of Marance’s behavior. When dining with a companion, Marance only consumed a bite or two, and, as far as Ossian could tell, when alone, the wizard never bothered to eat or drink at all. He didn’t seem to sleep, either, although sometimes, as now, he appeared to enter a trance. Occasionally he even neglected to breathe.

Ossian didn’t know why these petty irregularities unsettled him so. It wasn’t as if his uncle had a naked skull for a head or was a rotten, stinking cadaver covered in grave mold. Yet at odd moments the younger man almost felt that

he would prefer such disfigurements. At least then he would never feel that the spellcaster was posing as something he wasn’t.

Still, Ossian believed that Marance had been candid about the reason for his return, and surely that was all that truly mattered, since the mage proposed to win an extraordinary victory for himself and his living kindred. Ossian ought to be delighted to assist, for both the thrill of the exploit itself and the ascendancy over his siblings and cousins he would achieve through its successful resolution.

Outside in the passage, a cat screeched. Startled from his musings, Ossian strode to the door to see what was happening.

Old High Hall was the biggest merchant-noble residence in Selgaunt, as befitted a family that considered itself the foremost in the land. Indeed, the castle was too big for even the horde of Talendar and retainers that presently dwelled there, and in consequence, Nuldrevyn had ordered certain precincts of the house closed up. Wishing to keep Marance’s resurrection a secret for fear that someone would find it troubling or gossip about it to outsiders, the Talendar lord had put his brother in a suite in one of the disused sections.

Even though none of the servants had been entrusted with the secret of his presence, Marance’s new apartments were somewhat clean, because Ossian had taken a broom and feather duster to them himself. The corridor outside, however, was dirty and musty-smelling. Cobwebs full of insect husks hung in dusty tatters, and footprints mottled the film of dust on the floor.

For a moment, Ossian couldn’t see anything amiss. Then a tabby cat hurtled around a corner, shot past the toes of the nobleman’s pointed red boots, and, its claws scrabbling on the floor, vanished through the door to one of the vacant suites.

Ossian peered about for the source of the animal’s distress. He had a good idea what he was looking for, but even so, never saw the feline’s tormentor approach. Shrieking,

an amber-eyed shadow exploded from the general gloom directly into his face.

Ossian nearly squawked and recoiled, but he’d decided early on that it would be a bad idea to show any fear around Marance’s familiar, and he mastered himself in time. He merely blinked, then took a casual step backward, distancing himself from Bileworm in an unhurried and dignified fashion.