Dave Gross: Lord of Stormweather

Therein lay the rub.

"How did I get into this mess, Ratty?"

The rodent paused briefly in its disgusting feast, then resumed slurping.

Even if the rat could speak with all the wisdom of Elminster the Sage, it didn't matter. Tamlin was already beginning to recall the events of the hours preceding his current disgrace, and he knew that he had no one to blame but himself.

"Let's get out of here, Deuce."

Even in adulthood, Escevar had an impish array of freckles across his pug nose. Combined with his russet hair, they gave him a mischievous air that Tamlin appreciated in part because standing beside Escevar made him look more mature.

"I am not afraid of Mister Pale," said Tamlin.

He smiled, thinking he sounded brave by saying it aloud. The smile turned into a wince as another wave of his hangover crashed against his brain.

Perhaps I should have retired before dawn, he thought.

"I don't know. He wouldn't have ushered you out of the meeting without the Old Owl's nod," said Escevar, looking up toward Vox for support.

Vox stood a head taller than Tamlin, and his brutal features-those not obscured by his wild black beard-suggested he was not wholly human. His wide, crooked nose and heavy forehead with its single eyebrow suggested ogre ancestry. He wore his hair in a thick braid curled around the left side of his neck. Tamlin had seen the ugly scar it concealed and knew it was a legacy of the wound that stole the man's voice.

"You agree that I should stay and apologize," said Tamlin. "Don't you, Vox?"

The big man replied in the private language he and Tamlin had devised, a quick series of hand gestures, Better to be out of his sight for a while.

"Far be it from me to ignore the advice of my bodyguard," said Tamlin, hoping to sound reluctant.

Secretly, he was glad to escape. It had been a long time since he'd made his father this angry, and all over a slip of the tongue.

He nodded toward the grand stairway, and Vox led the way. As the three men passed through the halls of Stormweather Towers, servants stepped aside and bowed, tiny bells tinkling on their turbans. As they approached the grand front entrance, Tamlin ordered the doorman to summon a carriage, and allowed the man to wrap him neatly in his fine ermine coat.

They stepped outside, into the bracing Alturiak morning. A light snow covered the cobblestone drive, while drifts of a foot or more still lingered in the corners of the courtyard from a recent snowstorm.

Before the frozen fountain stood one of the four House carriages. Escevar instructed the driver as the footman lent his arm to help Tamlin mount the step before nestling into the cushioned seats. Vox joined the footman on the rear step of the carriage, while Escevar joined his master inside. The coachman slapped the reins, and they rode through the gates and into the streets of Selgaunt.

"We should stop at the Green Gauntlet," said Tamlin. "I could use a few drinks to smooth the corners."

"That's in the wrong direction," said Escevar. He produced a slim pewter flask from a pocket within his thigh-high boot. "This should help us reach the festhall in comfort."

Tamlin took a long pull from the flask. The brandy performed its magic, warming his throat and soothing his troubled stomach.

"This is the one with the Calishite girl you were telling me about?"

"The Djinni's Pearl." Escevar leered. He'd been buzzing with gossip for a tenday about the exotic new festhall dancer.

"She is undoubtedly still asleep at this hour."

"I suspect the proprietors will be glad to accommodate a special performance."

"I hope you brought another purse," said Tamlin, rubbing his sore neck. "And another flask."

The additional funds proved unnecessary once the bare-chested doorman heard the name Uskevren. Within moments, musicians arrived and filled the parlor with the sour strains of desert music. Tamlin and Escevar lounged on fringed pillows, while Vox squatted behind them, leaning on his war axe.

The place had seemed empty when they first arrived, but with a few claps of his hands, their host conjured a trio of serving wenches wearing gossamer harem pants and a few ounces of cheap jewelry. They were obviously local girls, matched in the predictable blond, brunette, and redhead combination that panderers all thought was sure to please. They brought the men wine-drenched dates and took turns feeding them first to Escevar, who tasted everything before it was fit for his master, then to Tamlin.

"Perhaps we should have waited until evening," said Tamlin. He yawned into his fist. "It's more fun with a crowd."

"Boy!" called Escevar. A pasty Sembian lad ran to their low table. His gaudy fez and vest looked as though they'd been stolen from a performing monkey. "Your best wine."

Vox touched Tamlin's shoulder with two fingers, then pressed a third before tapping all three once, sharply.

"Relax, Vox," said Tamlin. "Have a date."

He flipped one of the dark fruits over his shoulder in the general vicinity of the big man's mouth. Vox snatched it out of the air with a huge fist, sniffed it, and took a bite.

Tamlin drank wine and watched dully as the local girls danced to the Calishite music. Despite the pleasant undulations of their bodies and the very nearly artful gestures of their hands and chins, he couldn't stop thinking about the morning's gaffe. As much as he wanted to blame his father for unreasonably ejecting him from the meeting, he realized the failing was his own. A slip of the tongue, Tamlin had called it. A drunken obscenity, his father had thundered.

Tamlin drained his goblet and held it up for a refill.

The remainder of the afternoon was hard to recall. Tamlin remembered asking after the Djinni's Pearl, and he had a dim recollection of assurances that she would rise with the noon sun. Would he care for some grilled lamb?

At some point he insisted that Vox join them in a drink. The brooding bodyguard no doubt protested. Tamlin didn't remember for certain, but that was the way Vox usually behaved. Dutiful to the end.

The one clear memory of the last minutes in the festhall was of stumbling into the nearby alley to be sick against the wall. The stench of garlic in his vomit remained pungent even days later, as he wallowed in fresher stinks. He retained a vague impression of Vox's strong hands on his arms, then a sudden fall to the moist ground. The sounds of blades drawn from their sheaths… a painful cry from Escevar, abruptly silenced… sudden darkness as a big body crashed to the ground beside him… and a series of stunning red impacts to his skull…

"Sometimes I despair of that boy," said Thamalon Uskevren to his seemingly empty library.

"Yes, my lord," replied Erevis Cale, startling his master but sparing him again from the embarrassing habit of talking to himself.

The Lord of Stormweather Towers didn't turn, comfortable in the knowledge that he was never safer than when his most trusted servant stood just behind his left shoulder. Despite the twelve years he'd known his butler, Thamalon was still surprised when Cale suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The tall, bald man had a knack for invisibility that had nothing to do with wizardry, and the children used to jest that "Mister Pale" was thin enough to slip under doors. Thamalon knew that Cale had other dangerous talents, and he trusted his servant well enough not to inquire too pointedly about them.

"How does he expect to learn how to lead the family if he can't be bothered to attend our conferences on time?"

Cale didn't answer. He was an excellent butler.

"And that lesser Houses' remark, oh, that was calculated, I tell you. No slip of the tongue, that. He purposefully sabotaged that meeting, and for what? Why, for no reason at all, I say. He is full of wanton mischief! By the time I was his age, I was already-What is this? Who put this here?"