Shadowbred (22 page)

A disturbance in the street ahead drew his eye. A wave of people jumped to their feet and pushed toward the middle of the avenue, all racing away from Cale. Many shouted, raised their fists. Cale fought his way through the press to see.

A caravan of mule-drawn wagons from the outlying farms rumbled down the center of the city. Turnips, leeks, and sacks of grain lay piled in the wagon beds. Armed Scepters surrounded the caravan and held the press of people at bay with their shields. Two Scepters rode in the wagon, straddling the food as if it were gold.

“This food is going to the market!” one of the Scepters shouted. “Make your purchase there!”

“Purchase!” a man near Cale shouted. “We cannot afford to pay! A bag of turnips costs a fivestar! We are hungry here, guardsman!”

Many in the crowd shouted agreement and pressed closer.

The Scepters looked alarmed, as did the teamsters driving the wagons. Even the mules looked skittish. The Scepters pushed the press of bodies backward with their shields and brandished their blades. The people fell back and the carts moved onward toward the market, leaving crying children and despondent parents in their wake.

The crowd started to disperse, grumbling in their despair. Cale put a hand on the shoulder of the thin man who had shouted about the price of turnips.

“Did you say a fivestar for turnips?”

The man turned and regarded Cale with hollow eyes. “Aye. The price of food has left all but the rich scraping for dog scraps, unless you are willing to wait all day in a priest’s food line and swear to the worship of his god. Where have you been living?”

Cale held his tongue and let the man go.

A year ago, a sack of turnips would have cost a copper, maybe two. But a fivestar! Half of Selgaunt would be unable to eat at those prices. There would be riots.

Cale immediately decided that the new Hulorn was incompetent. He picked up his pace. Perhaps Tamlin could get the Old Chauncel to act.

Halfway to the Noble District, on the sharply angled, shop-lined Adzer s Way, Cale caught sight of a mounted trio of Helms patrolling the streets. They sat atop warhorses and each wore the customary round steel cap and blue tabard emblazoned with Sembia’s coat of arms, the raven and silver. Cale stared at them for a moment in disbelief. He had never before seen soldiers of the Sembian army patrolling city streets. Sembia’s merchants had always shown a strong distaste for soldiers. The nation’s army was small and decentralized and kept deliberately so. Sembia was positioned to conquer through the force of its trade, not through force of arms. The Helms’ duties had always consisted of patrolling the trade roads and villages outside of Sembia’s major cities.

Cale decided that the new Hulorn was not merely incompetent, he was an idiot. He had put soldiers on the street—not city guardsmen accustomed to peacefully resolving disputes among the citizens, but soldiers, accustomed to answering problems with steel.

Shaking his head, Cale steered wide of the Helms and hurried on. He had been isolated in his cottage for too long. He had not known things had deteriorated so far, so fast. He needed to see Tamlin; he needed to understand what had happened.

The sounds on the streets were strangely subdued, tired, pensive.

Cale moved through the street traffic, dodging thin horses, men pulling empty carts, pedestrians trying to pretend that life was normal. He followed a line of people that snaked almost an entire block until he reached a warehouse with its wagon doors thrown open. Inside, priests of Lathander and Tymora spooned porridge out of huge pots into whatevet container the hungry carried. He imagined Temple Avenue must look much the same.

When he reached the Noble District he found the streets dotted with armed men. Patrols of Helms and Scepters walked the streets. The gatehouses of the Old Chauncel manses were manned, not by two or three armed house guards, but by five or six.

Cale endured the suspicious gazes of the soldiers and headed south, past the towering walls of the Old Chauncel manses, toward Stormweather Towers. A group of mail-armored Helms stood in the street before his old home, blocking the walkway that led to the gatehouse. Shields hung from their backs; crossbows dangled from shoulder slings. All bore broadswords at their belts. Cale gauged their number at about a score. The pedestrian traffic—there was little—steered clear of the soldiers. But not Cale. He walked toward them, keeping his hand clear of Weaveshear as he approached. With conscious effort, he kept shadows from sneaking free of his flesh. The Helms saw him coming and three of them detached from the rest and stepped forward to halt his advance.

“The Hulorn holds audiences only on the tenth of each month,” said the oldest of the three, a thick-set warrior with a square jaw and hard eyes. “Leave your name with the clerk in the palace and you will be seen in due time.”

At first Cale could not make sense of the words. “The hulorn? Why is the hulorn in Stormweather?”

The man’s eyes never left Cale’s face. The eyes of his two comrades never left Cale’s blade hand. “Lord Uskevren resides—”

Cale took a step back, incredulous. “Tamlin Uskevren is the hulorn?”

The Helms looked agitated at his tone. “Calm down, goodsir. Of course Tamlin Uskevren is the hulorn—has been these four months past. You are new to the city?”

Cale could not believe that Tamlin had been stupid enough to fill the streets with soldiers. He shook his head. “No, but I have been away for a time.”

Too long, it appeared. He said, “I have business with the Hulorn. He is expecting me.”

The Helm took in Cale’s appearance and weapons and looked doubtful. “He has not sent word that we should expect a visitor. If you leave your name with the clerk at the palace—”

“I am leaving my name with you,” Cale said, a bit more sternly than he’d intended. “Please inform the Hulorn that Erevis Cale

IS …

Cale trailed off. Behind the Helms, he saw a familiar face emerge from Stormweather’s gatehouse.

“That tone will get you a day in the gaol,” the Helm said.

Cale ignored the Helm and shouted past him. “Ren! Ren! It’s Mister Cale!” Cale raised a hand in greeting. “Here!”

Cale had saved Ren’s life a year ago, when slaads had used the young man as a hostage and taken three of his fingers.

Ren, in the attire of an Uskevren house guard, heard Cale’s shout and looked around. He saw Cale waving and furrowed his brow.

“Ren! It’s me, Erevis Cale.”

“Move along,” said the Helm, and he put his hand on Cale’s chest.

“Mister Cale?” Ren called.

Shadows emerged from Cale’s flesh and wrapped the Helm’s hand. The man exclaimed, recoiled in alarm, and drew his blade. The other Helms did the same. Cale’s hand went instinctively to Weaveshear but he stopped himself before drawing.

“What in the Nine Hells are you?” the Helm said, pointing his blade at Cale.

Cale ignored him and spoke to Ren. “Yes, Ren! It’s me!”

Ren wore the blue and gold Uskevren livery over his armor and shield. He hurried down the pathway and scowled at the Helms.

“Scabbard that steel,” he said to the Helms. “Now.”

To Cale’s surprise, the Helms obeyed—reluctantly, and eyeing Cale all the while.

The leader of the Helms said, “This man—”

“Was serving the hulorn when you were still chasing brigands down Tildaryn’s Road, Vol,” Ren finished.

Vol’s lips pursed, but he nodded tightly and held back whatever he might have wanted to say.

Ren regarded Cale, clasped his forearm. “Gods, it is you, Mister Cale. I did not recognize you with the hair.” He cocked his head. “And there is something else different, too.”

“Datk sorcery,” muttered Vol, eyeing his hand where Cale’s shadows had touched him.

Cale ignored the Helm. Ren did not.

The house guard held up his hand to show his missing fingers. “You are insulting the man who ensured that I lost only these rather than my life.”

Vol looked away. The other two Helms eyed the road.

Cale thumped Ren on the shoulder. He had left Ren an uncertain young man. Now he seemed a senior leader in the house guard. He had grown a neatly-trimmed beard, and he’d put on some weight.

“It is good to see you,” Cale said.

“And you,” Ren said with a smile.

“My apologies, goodsir,” Vol said to Cale.

“Accepted,” Cale answered immediately.

Side by side, Cale and Ren walked up the paved walkway that led to the gatehouse. Four other members of the house guard stood at the gate, watching them approach. They were armed and armored like Ren.

Ren said, “The hulorn informed the house guard that if you appeared, you were to be allowed entry at any hour. He neglected to inform the Helms.”

Cale did not recognize any of rhe house guards stationed at the gatehouse. Ren ordered one of them to inform Irwyl, Cale’s replacement as Uskevren steward, that Mister Cale had arrived, and the young guard sped off. The other house guards eyed Cale with open admiration.

Ren made introductions and led Cale through the gate and onto the grounds. The estate appeared as Cale remembered it. Topiary,

fountains, statuary, and well-tended gardens dotted the swath. The stables, servants’ quarters, and other outbuildings crouched along the surrounding walls.

“I told the other guards what happened at the Twisted Elm,” Ren explained. “Everyone here knows of it.”

Cale nodded, mildly embarrassed.

Ren looked at him sidelong. “I wondered what happened to you after we parted. Were you in Selgaunt all that time?” “No,” Cale said, and left it at that. Cale could see Ren wanted to speak his thoughts. “Speak plainly, Ren.”

Ren hesitated, but finally asked, “Mister Cale, what happened to the sons of whores that maimed me? I want them dead. Or hurt. Or… something.”

Cale understood the feeling. He pulled Ren to a stop and looked the young man in the face. “All but one is dead. And I made that one suffer before he escaped. Well enough?”

Ren smiled grimly and nodded. “Well enough.”

Cale said to him, “My advice? Leave it in the past.”

Ren looked Cale in the face and nodded. “Good advice.”

They started walking. Ren asked, “What happened to your hand, Mister Cale? Surely not the same bastards?”

“The same,” Cale said, holding up the stump of his wrist. “But the one that took my hand was not the one that escaped.”

Ren spat on the ground. “Good news, that. Who were they, Mister Cale?”

“Ask me again another time, Ren. That is a long tale.”

Ren nodded and changed the subject. “Things look a bit different, don’t they?”

“Stormweather? It looks nearly the same.”

“No. The city, I mean.”

“Ah,” Cale answered, nodding. “Very different.”

Ren gestured northward as they walked. “Upcountry was struck hard by the Rage and the Rain of Fire. I heard that wildfires and dragon attacks destroyed entire villages. Some villages were abandoned out of fear. In others, the soil just went bad. The harvest

suffered. The villagers headed for the cities in droves but the cities had nothing to offer them. So here we all sit.” He shook his head. “I hear Selgaunt is worse than most. I do not know what will happen.”

Neither did Cale. He knew only that Sephris had prophesied a storm and he felt as if he were watching it unfold before his eyes. He moved the conversation to smaller matters.

“What are you, second or third in command of the guard? Who heads it? Still Orrin?”

“Second,” Ren answered with a swell of pride. “The youngesr in the history of Stormweather. And aye. Still Orrin.”

Cale knew Orrin to be a good man and a good leader. He had done well to promote Ren. The young man had grown much in the last year. Cale hoped the same was true of Tamlin.

They walked for a time in silence and Cale noticed eyes on himself. Grooms, stable boys, grounds men, all paused in their work to watch him pass. He recognized many of them. They had been on his staff long ago. He nodded. They waved. Gossip trailed in his wake.

“The staff still gossips,” Cale said with a smile. “So do my guards, and neither will ever change,” Ren answered, also smiling. “It’s good to have you back, Mister Cale.” “Thank you, Ren.”

Ahead, Cale saw the, raised porch and double-doored main entryway to Stormweather Tower. Ivy climbed up the manse’s curved walls. The Uskevren crest—the horse at anchor—hung over the doorway. Part of Cale’s past lurked behind those doors.

Before they reached the porch, a squeal from Cale’s left stopped him. He turned to see a bouncing mountain of flesh lumbering toward him—Brilla, the kitchen mistress. She wore a dress as large as a tent, a stained apron like a ship’s sail, and a smile as wide as the Elzimmer River.

“Well met, Brilla,” Cale said.

Brilla did not bother with words. She wrapped him in the folds of her ample body and gave him a squeeze so hard he was pleased his body had regenerated his broken ribs. Streamers of shadow

coiled around her but she seemed not to notice.

“I told them all you would be back, I did. Said this place was in your veins. Said this family was your family. And here you are.”

She pushed him away to arm’s length. “Let us have a look. Look at this hair! You look so different, Mister Cale. I hardly recognize you.”

“I have changed a bit,” Cale acknowledged. “But not you, Brilla. You look as lovely as ever.”

She turned away and blushed under her gray hair, pulled into a tight bun. “Now, Mister Cale …”

Cale smiled and said, “It is a true pleasure to see you, Brilla.”

Brilla had always been a rock of sense among the staff. Chatty and stubborn, but always sensible. She beamed. “And you, Mister Cale.”

“No need for the ‘Mister,’ Brilla.”

“You will always be Mister Cale to me, Mister Cale.”

Cale decided not to argue the point.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Your hand!”

Cale pulled his sleeve down over the stump. “It is nothing, Brilla.”

“Nothing! How can you say such things?” She took his forearm in her hand, pushed up his sleeve, and examined the stump. There was no point in resisting her.

“It has healed well. How did it happen?”