Twilight Falling (4 page)

Through his window, the great bells of the House of Song sounded the sixth hour. Tamlin—Lord Uskevren, he corrected himself—would be taking his breakfast. Lady Uskevren would be there as well. He would inform them first.

Shamur and Tamlin sat at a small table on a sundrenched balcony off of the main dining room, talking. Cale could not make out their conversation and would not be so impolite as to read their lips, though he could have.

Shamur wore a violet sundress, sandals, and only a few tasteful jewels. Her hair hung loose and cascaded down to her shoulders. To be dressed so casually, Cale deemed that she must have no appointments that morning. Tamlin, however, had already donned a formal doublet and hose. The lord of Stormweather had business that morning then. The fact that Cale did not know of Tamlin’s appointments ahead of time showed just how small a role he played in the life of the new lord of Stormweather.

Cale walked through the dining room toward the balcony—deliberately loud, so that Tamlin and Shamur would hear him coming. They turned in their chairs to face him as he approached. Tamlin looked grave, but not displeased to see him. Shamur smiled. Cale nodded a greeting to Tamlin and gave Shamur a warm look. Cale and Shamur had reached an understanding while in the strange otherworld reflected in a magical painting. There, they had faced death together and saved each other’s lives. Later, they had mourned Thamalon together. Cale had come to realize that his lady was no more a sedentary noble in her soul than he was a butler in his. He marveled at her ability to suppress what she was. He had never been quite able to do it.

Out of habit, he evaluated the table settings and fare with a professional eye. All appeared in order—the table services appropriately set, the meal suitable for a spring breakfast. Cora, one of the household staff, hovered on the far side of the balcony, within earshot and sight of the Uskevren if they required anything, but far enough away to give them privacy. Cale gave the young woman a nod of approval then waited to be acknowledged formally by his employers.

“Mister Cale,” Tamlin said around a mouthful of poached egg.

“My lord,” Cale said, though he still found it hard to apply the title to Tamlin.

“Erevis,” Shamur said and smiled still more brightly. The sun reflected off the jewels in her hair, and sparkled in her eyes. She looked radiant. She gestured at a nearby chair. “How very nice to see you. Please sit down.”

Tamlin frowned at Shamur’s familiar use of Cale’s first name, and her offer to allow a servant to dine with the lord of the House.

“Lady, you are gracious as always, but I must decline,” Cale said. He smiled back at her, a soft smile but genuine. Having come to know her, he thought he might miss her the most after he was gone, more even perhaps than Thazienne. He looked to Cora and said, “That will be all.”

Tamlin and Shamur exchanged a glance at that. Cora looked surprised but made no protest before hurrying off.

Surprisingly, Cale felt no anxiety. In fact, he felt comfortable for the first time in months. He looked beyond both of the Uskevren and went straight to the point.

“Lord, Lady, some unfortunate events have befallen my cousin.”

When he had first come to Stormweather, Cale had concocted a fictional cousin whose frequent problems required Cale’s aid, and thereby provided cover for his guild activities. Tamlin and Shamur did not know that his cousin was non-existent. Even Thamalon had not known, though he may have suspected.

“I fear these events will require my long-term attention,” Cale continued, “and will take me from the city. I must therefore request that you accept my resignation, which I offer now.”

For a moment, the balcony stood silent.

At last, Tamlin said, “What? When?”

He did not look unhappy, merely surprised.

“Immediately, my l—”

“No.” Shamur threw her napkin to the table, pushed back her chair, and stood. “Your request is denied.”

“Mother…”

Tamlin reached for her hand, but she jerked it away. She had eyes only for Cale. And what eyes! For a fleeting, guilt-ridden instant, he thought how beautiful she looked, how much he wished he had known her in the days when she had been Shamur the burglar, before she had become the lady of House Uskevren.

“My lady …” Cale began.

She strode forward, looked him defiantly in the face, and said, “This is nonsense, Erevis, and I will not suffer it.”

“Lady—”

“You have no cousin!” she hissed. “Do you think I’m blind or do you think I’m stupid?”

Stunned, Cale could only stare. Her eyes did not hold accusations, just certainty. How long had she known? He had never even told Thamalon.

“Neither, my lady,” he managed to mutter.

Tamlin rose from his seat and asked, “What are you talking about? Of course he has a cousin. Mister Cale has spoken of him often. Tell her, Cale. And now he needs to leave to attend to family matters. Surely we can understand that.”

Shamur didn’t turn around but her face darkened— first with anger, then with … disgust? Was she that disappointed in the man her son had become? Cale thought her face gave him the answer and made plain her thoughts: How will the House survive with Tamlin at its head?

For an instant, that thought made Cale waver, but only for an instant. He could not help the Uskevren anymore. He thought of Thazienne and knew it would cost him too much to stay.

He glanced at Tamlin—who stood with his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side—then to Shamur, whose proud eyes blazed fire.

Cale smiled and said softly, “You’ll still be here, Lady. That will be enough.”

At that, her gaze softened.

“Perhaps,” she said, “but the House needs you here. I need you here.”

“What in the name of the gods are you two going on about?” Tamlin asked. “The man said he’s leaving. That seems simple enough to me.”

Shamur still held Cale’s eyes.

“You don’t have to bing this ken, nipper,” she said.

Cale tried to keep the surprise from his face. Hearing her use cant astonished him more than if she had punched him in the stomach. She, a noblewoman of Sembia, spoke the thieves’ tongue with the practiced ease of a veteran boxman. Cale knew she once had been a burglar of note, but hearing his lady speak the tongue Cale had once used to arrange assassinations … it disquieted him.

“What did you say, Mother?” Tamlin asked.

Neither Cale nor Shamur even acknowledged that he had asked a question.

Thinking back, Cale better understood her happiness in that other world. Unlike Cale, she had never regarded herself as trapped there, even when they had been temporarily held prisoner by the elves. There, she had been free. For her, Stormweather was the trap, and one from which she could not even attempt escape.

He reached out a hand and brushed her fingers with his fingertips.

“My lady,” he said, “if you can speak that language, then you of everyone understand why I can no longer stay.”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed. Obviously he didn’t like the familiar touch Cale had just shared with his mother.

“What language is that, Mister Cale?” he asked.

Cale did not look at him, instead keeping his eyes on Shamur.

Shamur considered Cale’s comments, smiled sadly, and replied, “I do understand, Erevis.” She straightened and backed up a step. “Sometimes the choices we make become too much of a sacrifice to continue them. Sometimes.”

Cale gave her a nod and looked at Tamlin.

“I believe Lady Uskevren is now in agreement with us, my lord. I will inform the staff and see that all is put in order prior to my departure. I expect that will take a day, but perhaps two. I believe you will find Orrin more than capable of assuming my duties.”

Orrin was the chief steward, an extraordinarily competent young man.

Tamlin nodded. He looked at his mother strangely while he walked up to Cale. He extended his hand. Cale took it. It was more callused than it had been once, harder.

“Cale, you’ve been invaluable to House Uskevren. You’ll be missed.” Cale heard sincerity in Tamlin’s tone, and it moved him. “Of course, I will see to a suitable severance.”

Cale shook his head. “Thank you, my lord, but a severance is un—”

Tamlin waved a hand dismissively and said, “I insist, Cale.” He glanced at his mother. “It is the least we can do.”

“Take it, Erevis,” Shamur said.

“As you wish, my lord, lady. You’ll say goodbye to Talbot for me?” he asked them.

The youngest Uskevren spent most of his time away from the manse, and likely would not return before Cale left.

“Of course,” Shamur said. “And you’ll speak to Tazi before you leave?”

Her tone dropped when she said that last, the way a person might speak a secret.

Cale’s heart jumped at the thought of saying goodbye to Tazi.

“Erevis? She’ll want to see you.”

Cale nodded, mumbled something noncommittal, and began to walk away.

Before he reached the archway to the dining room, Shamur called out, “If I had it to do all over again, Erevis, I’d do it the same way. I understood my choice completely the day I made it. Make sure you’ll be able to say the same years from now.”

Cale heard the truth of her words and thought better of making a reply. Instead, he nodded and walked out.

Mairen Street, called Shop Street by Selgaunt’s natives, bustled with late-morning activity. Merchant nobles, day laborers on morning repast, and farmers from the surrounding countryside all strolled the cobbled walkways, browsing the endless booths of goods and two-story shops that lined the street. Donkey carts pulling wagons of produce, and lacquered carriages bearing the rich, picked their way through the crowded street and rolled slowly down the road. Street vendors shouted into the sunny morning sky, hawking everything from apples and cabbage, to breads and sweet ices, to bolts of silk, candles, and scented spices. From the street’s numerous open-air eateries and pastry bakeries wafted the pleasant aroma of cooking food—sausage and blueberry tarts. The smell reminded Vraggen that he had not yet eaten breakfast.

“That’s him,” Azriim said, nodding up the street. “Alkenen the peddler.”

The half-drow, dressed in an intricately embroidered forest green cloak, finely tailored trousers, and polished black boots, indicated a vendor just up and across the busy street.

Vraggen and Dolgan tried to get a good look at him through the crowd without being obvious. Solin Dar, late of this world, had told Vraggen that he had sold the globe to Alkenen.

Alkenen straddled a stool before his small, road-worn peddler’s cart. His crossed, goggle eyes watched the passersby as they browsed. Tufts of dull brown hair sprouted at wild angles from each side of his otherwise bald head. Even from a distance Vraggen could see that one of Alkenen’s legs was shorter than the other, but even the good one looked spindly in its simple, homespun trousers.

“You had no problem tracking him down, I suppose,” Vraggen said to Azriim. “His appearance is hardly unremarkable.”

“Perhaps harder than you think,” said Azriim. “He had been out of the city for the past tenday. He only recently returned to Selgaunt. From Cormyr, I understand. I was beginning to fear we would have to scour the Heartlands for him.” He paused before adding, “But you are correct—his poor taste does stand out, even among the Sembians.”

Vraggen made no comment but Dolgan snorted a laugh. Unlike Azriim, the big man never seemed to change his clothes. His ring mail, sweat stained brown tunic, leather trousers, and calf high boots might as well have been a uniform.

As for Alkenen, he looked every bit an itinerant peddler of the Heartlands. His pockmarked, road-worn face sported a few days’ growth of wispy beard. The sun and rain had long ago faded his weathered overcloak, once probably blue, to an indeterminate gray. His worn leather shoes had soles as thin as a vellum sheet. Perhaps he’d seen thirty winters, perhaps he’d seen fifty. Vraggen couldn’t tell. Funny that such a fool could find himself in the middle of such important events.

Alkenen’s cart looked much like most peddlers’, a sturdy wooden box on four wheels. A “roadship,” Vraggen had heard them called. Goods were stored for travel inside the walk-in main compartment, accessible from a narrow door in the back, and rotating slats were built into the cart’s sides. When turned down and locked into place, the slats could serve as display shelves. Alkenen had already done so and upon his shelves stood a dizzying array of goods—glassware knick-knacks, statuettes of wood and bronze, sterling pendants, old clothing, leather goods, used weapons, tools, even kitchen pots.

“We gonna stand here all day and stare at the cripple, or take care of business?” Dolgan asked. “I’m getting hungry.”

Vraggen didn’t think Dolgan meant he was hungry for food.

“We’ll try my way first,” Vraggen said to the big Cormyrean. “No need to draw attention unnecessarily. If that doesn’t work, we’ll remove him to an isolated alley and you’ll get your chance.”

Dolgan grunted acquiescence, but obviously hoped the peddler would need convincing.

Vraggen said, “Let’s go,” and started across the street.

As they wove their way through the thick crowd, Azriim flipped a copper penny up to a fat apple vendor sitting on the driver’s bench of his cart and plucked a green sour from the back. The vendor gave a nod and the copper vanished.

Alkenen saw them coming and must have sensed their intent. Perhaps he thought them guildsmen looking to chase him off. As they approached, he rose from his stool and tried to hobble into the safety of his cart. Dolgan and Azriim darted forward, intercepted him, and boxed him in against the side of the cart, near the driver’s bench. Alkenen’s draft horse, a road worn gray nag, idly chewed at a quarter-bale of straw set near it.

Wide-eyed and breathing fast, Alkenen swayed on his uneven legs. To maintain his balance, he steadied himself with one hand against the cart.

He looked fearfully at Azriim and Dolgan and asked, “What’s this now? I’m an honest businessman. I’ll summon the Scepters if need be.”

He made wet sounds when he spoke, as though speaking caused his mouth to fill with too much spit.