Shadowbred

  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.”

  “Dark 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 the 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, seco
nd or third in command of the guard? Who heads it? Still Orrin?”

  “Second,” Ren answered with a swell of pride. “The youngest 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?”

  “Another time, Brilla. Well enough?”

  She let his arm go, frowning. “Well enough. Perhaps tonight? I have a torte that you will love, Mister Cale. Ingredients have been hard to come by of late, but I have improvised a little something with grapes from the Storl Oak vineyard and maple syrup. Will you be dining with Tamlin?”

  Probably Brilla alone called the Hulorn by his given name.

  “I am not certain,” Cale said. He did not know exactly what Tamlin desired of him. “But if not, I will make a point to come to the kitchen.”

  Brilla accepted that with a smile. Most of her front teeth were rotten or missing. “It feels right to see you here again, Mister Cale.”

  “Thank you, Brilla.”

  She watched him, smiling all the while, as he and Ren entered Stormweather’s double doors.

  Irwyl awaited them in the arched foyer, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His short hair hung over a face as pointed as an arrowhead. He wore a prim look, a tailored vest, and linen pantaloons. He looked more a steward than Cale ever had. His eyes widened somewhat at Cale’s appearance, but he masked his surprise well.

  “You look well, Irwyl,” Cale said.

  “As do you, Mister Cale. Different, but well. That will be all, Ren.”

  Ren nodded, turned to Cale, and extended a hand. “For everything, my thanks.”

  Cale shook his hand. “Of course. I will be around for a while.”

  “Good to hear,” Ren said. He nodded at the butler and took his leave.

  “Do you require anything?” Irwyl asked Cale. “A refreshment? A … change of clothing?”

  Cale smiled. “No, Irwyl.”

  “Very well. Follow me, then, Mister Cale,” Irwyl said, and started for the parlor.

  Before they reached it, Irwyl turned around and faced Cale.

  “May I be candid, Mister Cale?”

  Puzzled, Cale said, “Of course. What is it?”

  “Do you intend to take your previous station? I would like to know if I need to seek a new situation. Times are difficult but I suspect the hulorn would be generous with severance.”

  Cale would have laughed aloud had he not seen how serious Irwyl was. He wiped the burgeoning smile from his face and said, “Of course not, Irwyl. My life has … gone in a different direction.” He gave Irwyl a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Besides, I would be a poor substitute for you.”

  A relieved smile broke through Irwyl’s stony exterior. “Very good, Mister Cale,” he said, in a much softer tone. “Follow me, please.”

  Stormweather Towers had changed little. Cale felt as if he were walking back in time. Tapestry and art-bedecked halls and walls, carved wooden doors, arched ceilings. All of it seemed so far removed from Cale’s life.

  Irwyl led him into the parlor, the parlor where Cale often had played chess with Thamalon the Elder, or spent a long night discussing the plot of this or that rival of the Old Chauncel. The book-lined walls and reading chairs remained, as did the ivory and jade chessboard and pieces. Cale felt Thamalon’s absence the same way he felt the absence of his severed hand.

  “I have informed the hulorn of your arrival,” Irwyl said. “He will see you shortly.”

  While he waited, Cale paced the parlor, examined the spines of the books, the suits of ceremonial armor that stood in the corners of the chamber, the sculptures small and large that dotted the room.

  The parlor was still Thamalon’s, even more than a year after his death. That pleased Cale. He stood over the chessboard, pondered, and advanced the queen’s pawn.

  “Your move, my lord,” he murmured.

  A cleared throat from over his shoulder turned him around.

  Tamlin wore a long green jacket, a pale, stiff collared shirt, and the tailored breeches that seemed fashionable in Sembia that season. He wore a number of pouches on his belt—components for his spells, Cale figured. Some gray at his temples accented his otherwise dark hair. Shadows darkened the skin under his eyes, which widened at Cale’s appearance.

  A man of about the same age stood beside Tamlin. He wore a snugly fitted purple vest with a collared black shirt, and high boots rather than shoes. A rapier and dagger hung from his belt. A short beard masked a tight mouth and small eyes set closely together. He, too, looked surprised at Cale’s appearance.

  “Mister Cale?” asked Tamlin tentatively.

  Cale bowed formally. “Lord Uskevren.”

  Tamlin approached him, mouth open, but arm outstretched. They clasped forearms.

  “Gods, man!” Tamlin said, shaking his head and smiling. “You look so … different.”

  Cale nodded. “Many things have changed since our paths crossed last, my lord.”

  Tamlin studied his face. “So I heard, and so I see. Same man underneath, though. Yes?”

  Cale hoped so. “Yes. You look a bit different, my lord.”

  Tamlin ran his fingers through the gray in his hair. “Ah, yes, this. Well, heavy is the head that wears the crown and all that, right?” He laughed, a forced sound, and gestured at the man who had accompanied him into the room.

  “Do you remember Vees Talendar?”
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  “Talendar?” Cale paused to think. A rogue wizard of the Talendar family had once orchestrated an attack on the Uskevren. It culminated in a lengthy battle with summoned monsters atop the High Bridge.

  Vees flushed. “No doubt you recall my Uncle Marance’s unfortunate bout of madness and the consequences of the same.”

  “Our families have long since come to terms with those events,” Tamlin said with a dismissive wave, and Cale was not certain if he was speaking to Cale or Vees. “The Talendar and Uskevren are fast friends now.”

  “That is something good that came of my uncle,” Vees said.

  “The past is the past,” Cale said to Vees, nodding respectfully. “Lord Talendar.”

  Vees smiled, a polite gesture but nothing more. “Mister Cale,” he said.

  Tamlin gestured at Vees. “Vees’s advice has been invaluable to me, Mister Cale. Due to him, I was elected Hulorn.”

  “Indeed?” Cale asked.

  “Your own talent got you elected,” Vees said, and Cale knew he was silver-tongued. Vees eyed Cale’s leather armor, his weapons. “You do not look much like a steward.”

  “Mister Cale was always more than that,” Tamlin said.

  “A bodyguard, more like,” Vees said. “At least from what I have heard.”

  Cale recalled that the Talendar family had sent Vees to Waterdeep for an education and he had returned a priest of Siamorphe. Cale thought it strange that he did not wear a holy symbol openly. He knew also that the Talendars had financed the building of a temple to Siamorphe on Temple Avenue.

  “How is construction proceeding?” Cale asked, to change the subject.

  Vees looked surprised that Cale knew of the temple.

  “You mean the temple? Quite well, Mister Cale. The Lady’s new home will be completed soon.”

  “Perhaps then you can give us a tour, at last,” Tamlin said with a laugh. He looked to Cale and said, “The priests keep the place locked as tight as a Calishite Pasha’s harem room.”