Shadow's Witness (8 page)

While Gale envied Tamlin’s easy grace with women, he despised the young man’s lack of discipline. As he saw it, the sole weakness of the household was the Uskevren hen*. Tamlin lacked maturity, lacked judgment, and worst of all, lacked focus. He stuck his hands in whatever took his fancy from day to day, but never took the time to master anything. He needed to learn discipline. Gale would have been willing to teach hiiri—very willing—but he suspected that Tamlin would not enjoy the lessons. Everything had been handed to the young man since boyhood. He had never had to work for anything. If Tamlin was ever forced to fend for himself, he was as likely to survive as an ore in a dwarf hold. Unless something changed, Gale

knew, the preeminence of House Uskevren would last only through Thamalon’s lifetime.

At that moment, Tamlin looked across the hall ‘and met Gale’s eyes, caught Cale’s disapproving frown, and momentarily lost his own ready smile. Gale looked away quickly, toying to keep the disdain in his expression hidden. As he did so, he caught a dark stare from Vox. The big man was apparently displeased that Gale had so discomfited Tamlin with only a look.

Gale returned that dull-eyed stare unflinchingly and didn’t bother to hide his contempt. He knew Vox to be a professional mercenary and no doubt a skilled combatant, but Tymora would take him before he gave ground in his own house. Any time, big man, he thought, any time.

Vox looked away after a final glare, his thick-lipped mouth moving as though muttering to himself, though Gale knew him to be a mute.

Without thinking, Gale began to search the crowd for Talbot, but then remembered that the youngest Uskevren had begged off the celebration and remained at his tallhouse on Alasper Lane. He bit his lip thoughtfully, worried for the boy. He’s been begging off a lot of things lately, Gale realized. All since that hunting accident.

Boyhood pranks gone awry were the previous extent of Talbot’s troubles—Gale had typically resolved those without even informing Thamalon and Shamur—but the boy was getting old enough now that he might be attracting grown-up sized troubles. Gale knew that if he was in some kind of scrape, he would be afraid to tell anyone—especially his parents.

Ill have to look into that, he resolved. He made a mental scribe to contact Jak and ask the little man to quietly monitor the boy for a lew days.

Satisfied at last that all was in order with the family, he returned his mind to his butler’s duties and made one final inspection of the floor staff. Everything seemed in good order, though he tensed when he spotted Larajin wobbling under a tray of empty wine bottles and dishes. His eyes bored nervous holes into her back as she walked unsteadily toward the forehall, but she managed to make it through the doors without incident. Gale followed her across the feasthall and stuck his head into the forehall to assure himself that she had made it to the kitchen without breaking something. She had.

The silence coming from down the hall—rather than the rattle of pans and Brilla the kitchen mistress’s shouts—indicated to him that the exhausted cooking staff must have finally settled in to take their own dinner. Cale’s growling stomach reminded him that the floor staff, himself included, would eat only after all the guests had gone.

Spotting a nearby wine valet, he walked over and replaced his near empty bottle of Storm Ruby with a fresh bottle of Usk Fine Old—a light, pear wine suitable for late evening—and prepared for what often proved to be bis most interesting work during celebrations— information gathering.

Eavesdropping, he chided with a smile. At least call it what it is.

Surveying the hall, he noted the locations of the Old Chauncel patriarchs and planned a route from one to the other. In his time at Stormweather, he had learned that Lord Uskevren’s food and drink tended to loosen otherwise tightly reined noble tongues. Especially in tiie presence of a mere servant. With his keen hearing, Gale had overheard innumerable incriminating facts while casually refilling after-dinner drinks. Over the years, he had been able to keep the Righteous Man

satisfied with such information—information embarrassing to this or that noble family, but harmless to the Uskevren.

Generally meticulous about bis posture, he deliberately slouched when making his rounds. He had found that guests went silent if the keen-eyed, towering butler approached, but did not seem to notice him at all if he shrank in on himself and softened his habitually hard expression.

The best servants are like old furniture, he thought, recalling an old Sembian adage, there when you need them,* but otherwise not to be noticed.

Wearing his best furniture disguise, he wove his way through the crowd. He refilled drinks as he went, casually spoke the praises of Usk Fine Old, and kept his keen ears attuned to nearby conversations. As expected, most was simply the mundane, after-dinner chatter of silly nobles.

“… hear Lady Baerent had taken an interest in the work of a young artist, if you take my meaning,” said Lord Colvith with a laugh.

“… the Boaters sure are a strange lot,” Lord Relendar was saying to a plump young woman Gale did not recognize. “I hear they sacrifice….”

Gale moved along, smiling, filling drinks, listening for anything that might be of use to the Righteous Man or to Thamalon.

In a quiet corner he noticed Thildar Foxmantle— partially drunk as usual—engaged in an earnest conversation with Owyl Thisvin, a fat mage-merchant who worked primarily in the neighboring city of Saer-loon. Thildar’s heavy mustache and the dim light made lip-reading impossible, so Gale approached them, wine bottle in hand. They fell silent as he drew near, further piquing his interest.

“My Lords?” Gale held the wine bottle aloft.

“None for me, butler,” Owyl replied dismissively.

Gale swallowed the urge to punch the smugness from Owyl’s blotchy visage and instead turned to Thildar, who acknowledged him only by holding forth a silver goblet. Deferentially, Gale refilled it, walked a discreet distance away, and pretended to observe the crowd. Only then did Thildar and Owyl renew their conversation.

This must be interesting, Gale thought.

He tuned out the crowd noise and focused his hearing on the two men. When he heard them speaking Elvish, he had to contain his surprise. No doubt they felt secure in speaking the language of the elves—few Selgauntans had ever even seen one of the fair folk, much less understood their tongue. Gale silently thanked them for their arrogance. He had learned the expressive, intricate language of the elves at nineteen. A long tune ago, when he had been a very different man.

“Body sucked as dry as a Chondathan raisin,” said Thildar, drunk and too loud. “My man in the household guard tells me a shadow streaked out the window just as the guards burst in.”

At Thildar’s overloud tone, Owyl glanced about in irritable nervousness. The mage-merchant’s eyes fell on Gale but passed over and by him as though he didn’t exist. Unnoticed furniture, Gale thought with a smile.

Owyl slipped back into the common tongue. “Did you say a shadow?”

“Yes,” replied Thildar, again hi Elvish. “Or at least so he tells it.” He waved a hand dismissively and gulped from his goblet. “But you know servants. In any case, that is neither here nor there, as they say. The important thing is this: with Boarim Soargyl and the Lady dead, you’ll need someone else to move your wares

across the Inner Sea. I can help with that. No doubt we can reach an amicable agreement….”

Gale ignored the rest of the conversation, mere commercial negotiations of no interest to him. He found the news about Lord and Lady Soargyl only mildly surprising. The Soargyls had not made a public appearance in over a tenday, a rarity for them, and rumors had been flying. Through his own sources, Cale had heard a story of murder in Sarntrumpet Towers, though nothing about a shadow. He would have to relate this news to Thamalon. With Boarim Soargyl dead and his untested son Rorsin heading the family, the rest of the Old Chauncel families would scramble to take over any vulnerable Soargyl interests.

Like vultures, he thought, eyeing Thildar with contempt. Perhaps Thamalon could offer Rorsin an alliance? Cale could not hide a grim smile at the thought. Boarim would spin in his casket. The Uskevren and Soargyl lords had long been bitter enemies. But times change, thought Cale, and so do men. Despite the acrimonious history, he had no doubt that Thamalon would offer Rorsin an alliance, if it was in the Uskevren’s interest.

Thildar’s description of the bodies stuck in Cale’s mind and sounded alarm bells in bis head: Sucked dry as a Chondathan raisin, tie had heard disquieting rumors recently that some of Selgaunt’s underworld leaders had died similarly—three Zhentarim fished out of Selgaunt Bay, their bodies pruned by more than immersion in the sea. Zalen Quickblade, former leader of the Redcowls, found dead in an alley with his body collapsed in on itself. Too many similarities for a coincidence and too well targeted for a random predator. A new player looking to establish himself? he wondered. Or an old one grown bold?

He knew that murder within the walls of Sarntrumpet Towers would make things difficult for everyone. Such a daring attack on a noble’s home indicated recklessness, stupidity, or fearlessness. Selgaunt’s Scepters— the city’s watchmen—would be prowling the streets for the culprit, and they wouldn’t be overly careful about who got caught in the melee.

He would have to warn Jak so that the little man would know to lie low. Independent rogues always suffered the most when the Scepters went on a purge, Guilds could bribe Watch Captains and buy safety; independents had to hide or hang. Cale would also have to leave word with Riven to arrange a meeting with the Righteous Man. The Night Knife guildmaster might know more about what was going on—

His stream of thought abruptly stopped. Disbelieving, his gaze followed a blond haired, handsome young man moving casually through the crowd. Dressed in a finely cut tan doublet with green under-sleeves, black hose, and high boots, the man looked much the same as every other young noble in attendance. Except that he was casing the attendees. He moved among the young noblewomen, flashed a smile, laughed, and no doubt commented on the beauty of their jewelry.

He was picking his marks! Cale could not believe it. Professionally, he had to admit that the would-be thief had skills. Only Cale’s long experience and trained eye allowed him to notice anything amiss.

Spotting Larajin nearby again clearing dishes, he hurried over to her.

“Larajin—”

She jumped as though he had poked her with a pin. The tray of chalices she bore shook alarmingly. %>h! Oh.” When she turned and saw him, her voice quavered. “Yes, Mister Cale?”

“Give me one of those.” He nodded absently at the tray, his eyes still on the young thief

“Mister Cale?”

“A chalice, girl,” he snapped. “Give me a damned chalice.”

She recoiled, green eyes wide, and he felt a swift pang of guilt. She was just a girl, after all, and she was trying. He softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Larajin. Something else is on my mind. Here.” He removed a chalice from the trembling tray and filled it from the bottle he held. “And you take this.” He placed the wine bottle on the tray. “Remove it all to the kitchen and take your dinner.”

“But—”

He turned on his heel and walked across the hall toward the thief. Waiting until the boy stood alone, Cale approached with the chalice. “A drink, young sir—oops.” Feigning a stumble, he bumped into the boy, quickly felt him for steel—one buckleknife beneath his belt—and dumped the wine over the boy’s doublet.

“Oh, forgive me, young sir.” He pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and daubed at the stain. “Forgive me, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” replied the blushing thief, looking about in embarrassment and trying to push Cale away. A few heads turned their way, curious, but quickly turned back to their own conversations. That the boy had not exploded at Cale for such clumsiness—as any of Selgaunt’s nobility would have—only confirmed his suspicions.

Cale continued to apologize and daub awkwardly at the stain while the boy continued trying to push him away. “It’s aH right, butler. You can go—”

Cale looked up abruptly as though struck with an idea. “Young sir … that is, if the young sir will be gracious enough to allow me to escort him to the kitchens,

Brilla the cook will see to the stain. I’m sure she will be able to remove it entirely.”

“That won’t be necessary—”

“Please young master, I insist you allow me to correct my clumsiness. Please?”

The boy looked down at his stained doublet, hesitated, then gave a shrug. “Very well then, butler. But let’s be quick.”

“Follow me, young master. The kitchens are this way.”

Cale led him through the double doors into the forehall, but rather than turning right to go through the parlor and into the kitchen he turned left and strode toward an unoccupied receiving room.

The thief looked about absently as they walked, no doubt noting portable valuables. “How far are the kitchens, butleaaggh—”

Without warning, Cale whirled on him, gripped him by the throat, and pinned him against the wood paneled receiving room wall. The boy kicked and gagged but Cale held him fast. He stared into the boy’s wide brown eyes and slowly lifted him from his feet. Desperate wheezes squeaked from the thief s throat. His red face began rapidly to turn blue.

“I know exactly what you are and what you’re doing here,” Cale hissed into his face. The boy feebly shook his head in the negative so Cale squeezed harder. The wheezes stopped altogether. The boy thrashed but Gale’s iron grip could not be broken. “Don’t deny it. I can always spot an amateur.”

Indignant at first, the asphyxiating thief at last nodded. Satisfied, Cale eased his grip, but only slightly. The wheezes returned while the thief s blue face faded back to flush red. Cale stared straight into his frightened eyes. “Boy, if your left hand moves one inch closer to that buckleknife in your belt, I promise you that you’ve already taken your last breath.”

The boy went wide-eyed and let his hand, which had been inching surreptitiously toward his belt, dangle limply.