Twilight Falling (9 page)

No response.

Cale kneeled at his side, took out his holy symbol, and whispered the words to a healing spell. The moment the energy flowed into Riven, he gave a sharp gasp and sat up straight. Before Cale could pull away, Riven snarled and grabbed him by the wrist with one hand. His eyes were wild, his face contorted with rage and fear.

“Not anymore! I’ll kill you—”

Cale grabbed Riven’s forearm to keep him from inadvertently stabbing with his steel.

“Riven!” Cale repeated. “Riven!”

The assassin’s gaze cleared. He stopped struggling and looked around, dazed.

“Cale? Where are they?”

“They’re gone. I didn’t get either of them.” He looked up the street to the fire. “We need to move. Scepters are all over.”

Though it took a conscious effort of will, he helped the assassin to his feet. He gazed into Riven’s eye, the eye in which he had just seen fear for the first time.

“What in the Hells happened to you?” asked Cale.

The assassin stood on wobbly legs. His eye grew distant.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “The spell… took me somewhere … else. Somewhere dark. I—”

He seemed suddenly to realize what he was saying, and how he must look. He shook his head, pushed Cale’s helping hand roughly away and recovered at least a semblance of his sneer.

“It doesn’t matter what happened,” Riven said. “We didn’t get them, but they didn’t get us. They’re going to wish they had.”

That sounded like Riven. Cale gave him a nod.

“I need to get back to Stormweather Towers. Where are you staying?” said Cale. “Never mind, I’ll find you later. In the meantime, see what you can find out. We know he was a Cyricist.”

“Whoresons are everywhere. When do we meet?”

“I said I’ll find you,” Cale replied, and he sped off down the street.

From Sarn Street, nothing appeared amiss at Stormweather Towers but that did not put Cale at ease. He sprinted up the slate-paved walkway to the main gate, breathing heavily and sweating. He held his blade bare. He must have looked a madman attempting to overthrow the House with only a single sword.

Two Uskevren guards, both young and unfamiliar to Cale, stepped briskly from the stone gatehouse, mail chinking, blades drawn, and shields ready. Two older guards followed hard after and took positions out wide, cocked crossbows leveled at Cale’s chest. The oldest of the four, a paunchy, middle-aged warrior with a short black beard and mustache, gestured with his crossbow.

“Scabbard that weapon and cease your advance. Now!”

Cale stopped ten paces from the guards but did not sheathe his blade. In the dim light of the gatehouse torches, it took him a moment to place the speaker—Almor, one of the sergeants of the house guard. The old warrior had been with the family since the Year of the Wyvern.

“I said scabbard that weapon,” Almor said again, and Cale could hear the threat in his voice.

Cale had caught his breath. Being near Stormweather, he automatically fell back into his role as House Uskevren’s chief steward.

“I trust you do not greet all of our visitors who arrive after sunset with bared steel and challenges, Almor.”

Almor slid sideways and grabbed a torch from the sconce on the gatehouse wall. He stepped forward, holding the brand before him and squinting. His crossbow, held steady in one hand, still marked Cale’s chest.

“Step into the light.”

Cale stepped a few paces nearer.

“Mister Cale?” asked Almor. “Is that you?

“It is.”

“By Tempus, man, what happened to you? You’re all covered in soot. Lower your weapons,” he ordered over his shoulder, and the other guards did. Almor looked back at Cale. “What’s going on here, Mister Cale?”

Almor always called him “Mister Cale,” though Cale had told him long before to drop the “Mister.”

“I’ll provide the details later, Almor. For now, find Orrin and organize some search teams. We may have intruders in the house.”

Almor’s mustache twitched and he said, “Intruders? Mister Cale, I assure you no one has passed this post and I’ve heard no alarm.”

“The manse has many gates, Almor, and these intruders wield powerful magic.” While Cale knew the wards on the manse proper prevented anyone from teleporting directly inside, an intruder could nevertheless transport himself onto the surrounding grounds and steal into the house from there. “Search the house first, then the grounds. Go in the main door in front. Gather the guards there. Check on the lady, Lord Tamlin, and Mistress Thazienne first. Leave men with each. Clear the second floor. Shout if you notice anything suspicious. Anything. Do you understand?”

Almor nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

“You and you,” Cale said, pointing at the two young men. “You’re with me. We’ll start on the first floor, beginning at the rear of the house, and gather men as we go. Go, Almor.”

Without another word, Almor and the other guard turned and ran for the main door of the manse as fast as their armor allowed.

Cale looked at the two men with him and said, “Stay close to me and do what I say.”

They nodded, and one of them said, “Word was you’d left, Mister Cale. I’m glad to see it’s not so.”

Cale didn’t take the time to correct the guard’s mis-perception. He was back, but only temporarily.

He sprinted for the house. Burdened with their mail, the guardsmen struggled to keep up. The gardens were empty, the shrubs and dwarf trees ghostly in the darkness. Cale stopped.

“Where are the grounds patrols?”

The young guardsmen shared a confused look, and one of them said, “I don’t know, sir.”

Could all of them have been put down? Cale wondered. Probably not. After all, the Uskevren estate covered a lot of ground. Unless there was a special event or some reason for alarm, only twenty-five or so guards were on duty at any given time. Possibly, there were just no guards in the immediate vicinity. It was dark and Cale couldn’t see far. He hoped that was the explanation.

“You,” he said to one of the guards. “See if you can find any of the grounds patrols. Alert them to what’s happening and get them into the house.”

Cale wanted to ensure the safety of the family foremost. The man looked unsure.

“What’s happening, sir?” the guard asked.

“I’m not entirely sure. But be careful. I mean that. You call out if you see or hear anything. Do not try to deal with it alone.”

The man nodded, turned, and sped off back through the gardens.

“Let’s go,” Cale said to the other.

They entered the house via a back entrance near the kitchens. Embers from the supper fires still smoldered in the three great hearths. Besides that soft glow, the kitchen stood dark and empty. Brilla and the kitchen girls were probably already asleep in the servants’ quarters near the stables.

Heading for the door that led into the main hallway, Cale moved past the preparation tables, the butcher’s block, and several stools.

“Stay close,” he said over his shoulder to the guard.

The young man nodded, tightening his grip on his long sword. The clink of the guard’s mail and the thump of his hobnailed boots on the wood floor sounded an alarm to Cale’s ears. He should have come alone. Nothing for it now, though.

Without warning, the kitchen door flew open. The guard behind Cale gave a start and stumbled backward over a stool. Cale dropped into a crouch, blade ready. The dim light from the hallway beyond illumined an armored figure with his blade held high to strike. Cale recognized him immediately—Almor.

“Almor!” Cale said in a sharp whisper. “It’s us.”

“Mister Cale?” Almor hissed, and lowered his blade a bit.

“Where are the other guards, man? Godsdamnit, I told you to gather your men.”

Almor stepped through the doorway and spoke in a whisper, “I sent the guards stationed at the main door upstairs to check on Lord Tamlin and Lady Shamur. When I went to pick up the guards at the garden door, I thought I heard someone in the parlor. No one should be there, Mister Cale. I was on my way to check on it when I heard this one—” he nodded at the young guard—”clattering around in here like a drunk cooking maid. I thought you were more of them and figured I’d better do something.”

The young guard mumbled something and looked sheepish. Cale thumped Almor on his shoulder.

“You did well, Almor. Now keep quiet and follow me.”

Only a single oil lamp on a side table illuminated the hallway beyond the kitchen. The parlor was just down the hall. From there, Cale’s keen ears caught a faint scuffling, like a boot dragged over the hardwood.

Blade held before him, Cale stalked down the corridor. When he reached the parlor, he peeked around the doorjamb and spotted two figures standing near one of the bookcases across the room. Both had their backs to him. In the darkness, he could discern no features, but the light from the hall glinted on steel.

Cale charged, shouting as he ran, “Almor, here!”

His call startled the intruders. They whirled around and Cale saw them more clearly—

They wore the blue and silver livery of House Uskevren.

Even as the implications of that realization began to register, Cale tripped over something meaty in the middle of the floor. He caught himself on a reading desk before he fell but….

Corpses. Three of them, all Uskevren guards with their livery stained dark. Cale looked at their faces—

This was impossible!

Almor was among the dead, his throat slit wide, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace.

Then the other Almor … ?

An imitator, Cale realized, disguised by magic.

Thinking quickly, Cale hurdled a desk to his left and put it between him and the two intruders, just as Almor—or the Almor double, rather—entered the room behind him. The imitator had disarmed the young guard and held a blade at the lad’s throat.

“Say nothing and I won’t open a new mouth in his throat.”

The double still spoke with Almor’s voice. Cale marveled at the accuracy of the disguise spell.

The young guard, Cale didn’t even know his name, squirmed a bit and said, “Damn this prig to the Nine Hells, Mister Cale. Kill them! Almor, you trait—”

Faint pressure on the blade drew a thin stream of blood. The young man’s protest ended in a grunt of pain.

“You hold your tongue too, boy, or the next one’s deeper. And there’s your Almor.”

The double indicated the corpses on the floor. The young guardsman took in the corpses and went wide-eyed. The double smiled languidly at Cale—an incongruously feminine gesture from Almor’s grizzled face.

“Cale?” the impostor prompted.

The two other men advanced a few steps nearer to Cale, cutting off his lane to the far door. Both had blades drawn. Able to see them better, Cale saw that they looked like house guards he knew—Derg and Halthor—but he figured them to be disguised by the same magic as the Almor imitator. The real Derg and Halthor were probably dead. The Halthor lookalike held something in his hand. It took Cale a moment to recognize it: Thamalon’s crystalline sphere, the one Cale had intended to take with him when he had first left Stormweather.

“Cale, I grow impatient.”

For emphasis, Almor again nicked the captured guard. To his credit, the boy gritted his teeth and made no sound.

Cale had no choice, so he said, “All right.”

Almor gave a satisfied smile and moved farther into the room.

“You won’t get away,” Cale said, and meant it.

“Of course I will,” Almor replied. He sidestepped across the room, watching Cale the while. “You’re an intriguing man, Cale, from all I’ve heard and seen. I suspect I might find you entertaining in another context.”

When Cale heard those words and the innuendo registered, the realization hit him—a woman had disguised herself as Almor. A woman had led the attack on Stormweather Towers and killed the gods knew how many guards. For a terrifying moment, Cale had a mental picture of Tazi, Shamur, and Tamlin murdered in their beds—for clearly the Almor-imitator had not sent guards to protect the Uskevren bedrooms. The thought nauseated him, even while sending a hot rush of rage through him.

He forced his mind to focus on the three enemies before him. Perhaps they had attacked only to recover the sphere, and had only killed the guards in their way. He hoped so. But if that was true, what in the Nine Hells was the sphere?

He backed up until he felt the parlor wall behind him. If he had to fight all three, he wanted a wall at his back. He took care to ensure that as much furniture as possible stood between him and the intruders. With his combat mobility, he could use the furniture to his advantage if they tried to close.

He had few options. He considered casting another of his darkness spells but dismissed it because of the boy. The Almor double could kill him whether she could see or not. Cale was not prepared to sacrifice the young guard to save a piece of Thamalon’s art. For the moment at least, they were in charge.

They had probably teleported into the courtyard and walked unchallenged right into the manse. It occurred to him then that possibly no one else knew the house to be infiltrated. No, he reminded himself. He had sent the other young guard to find the grounds patrols. They would be coming.

Cale eyed the sphere in Halthor’s hand. It looked like … nothing more than what it was. An unusual piece of quartz with flecks of diamond and tiny gemstones suspended within it. He wondered what in the Nine Hells he and Thamalon had purchased.

Almor slid near her two comrades, dragging the guard with a chokehold while staring at the bloody corpses in the center of the room as though they were a feast.

“You have it?” she asked of Halthor.

Halthor nodded and held the sphere up for Almor to see.

Almor smiled and said, “Excellent. Then we’ll be off.”

Halthor, broad and going to fat, eyed Cale with narrowed eyes.

“And him?”

Almor, still keeping the hostage guard between herself and Cale, said, “I suspect he’s going to follow us out. Probably staring daggers with his eyes all the while. Isn’t that right, Cale?” She fluttered her eyelashes, a grotesque display from Almor’s scarred face. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.” Seeing the disgust on Cale’s face, she jerked the house guard’s head to the side to expose the jugular. “But not too close. Or else slice-slice.”