Paul Kemp: Twilight Falling

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 good-bye 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.

Azriim took a loud bite of his apple, glared at the peddler, and said nothing. Dolgan took a step nearer Alkenen, fairly blotting out the sun. The peddler sank back and tried to meld with the wood of his cart.

Vraggen, ignoring the peddler for the moment, walked up and surveyed the peddler's goods, looking for the globe.

"What's this about?" Alkenen asked again, his voice quaking.