Dave Gross - Lord of Stormweather

Those pretty features had been the object of much gossip from other servants who complained that Lord Thamalon favored Larajin more than was proper. There was even talk that Larajin was Thamalon's mistress, and some of it had reached Shamur. Perhaps the Old Owl had finally bowed to his wife's jealousy and married the girl off to some shopkeeper. That would explain why Tamlin hadn't seen her for months.

"It would be good to have one alive for questioning," said Tazi.

"No need," said Larajin, arching her delicate eyebrows. "I can question the corpses later."

"Larajin!"

"Look what they've done to him," said Larajin. "Look what they've done to your brother!"

Her hands moved from his arms to his forehead. They felt cool and soft, and Tamlin realized he was burning with fever.

"I know, I know," said Tazi. "It's just that I never expected to hear something like that from you."

"You have been away for a while," Larajin said as she continued her ministrations.

The pain was leaking away from Tamlin's body. Even so, he felt as weak as a kitten, and he was grateful when Vox lifted him up through the torn sewer grating and up to the streets. There was an Uskevren carriage, surrounded by men in blue livery, the gold horse-at-anchor ensign on their breasts.

"He should be all right, now," said Larajin. "I'll go back for Tal."

"Be careful," said Tazi, closing the carriage door. She called up to the driver, "Go!"

Tamlin squinted and smiled in a fashion he hoped looked brave rather than delirious. Tazi and Escevar smiled back at him from the opposite seat, but their expressions were tarnished with worry. Tamlin remembered then that he wasn't the only one in peril.

"They told me mother and father were-"

"Missing," said Tazi firmly. "Now that you're back, we'll search for them together."

Tamlin felt relief wash through his chest. He hadn't before realized how tense his muscles had remained those past, uncounted days.

Tamlin thought about what he'd heard during his rescue and said, "And in addition to his talent for imitating father's voice, Talbot has become some sort of monster."

"Well," she said. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

"And you've just returned from training as a master assassin?"

"That is not how I'd describe myself."

"Cat burglar, then. Just like mother."

"Well, yes. If you must be rude about it."

"And even the chambermaid has divine powers?"

"That's right," said Tazi. She glanced at Vox and Escevar as if considering whether to speak in front of them. Eventually she shrugged and said, "That, and she's actually our sister."

"Our sister…" Tamlin felt another wave of dizziness coming. He was saved by the absurdity of the revelations. "It appears that everyone I know has become some sort of storybook hero-" he sighed- "and all I can boast is 'most often kidnapped.'"

"Now would be a bad time to tell you about Larajin's twin brother?" Tazi asked. She raised a solemn eyebrow, but the quirk upon her lips was all mischief.

"Now you're making things up."

She kept smiling, but she shook her head.

"Next you'll tell me he's an elf."

Tamlin strove not to take offense at her wild laughter, even though it continued long after they turned off the streets of Selgaunt and rumbled through the gate to Stormweather Towers.

On the morning after their emergence from the wood, the wagons waited at a rendezvous point. Within hours, Thamalon watched as eleven more small groups of wagons joined them. Some were similar to those Baeron commanded, while others appeared to be the more traditional sort of flat-bed conveyances piled high with crates and bundles. All were heavily guarded.

After all wagons reported to their commander, Baeron returned and ordered his men to resume their journey. Thamalon was glad to hear that his presence was still permitted, and gladder still that he remained with Baeron's team.

On his occasional business with dwarves, Thamalon found them blunt and predictable during negotiations. Only after a deal was struck did they relax and speak freely-and only after a few mugs of ale had loosened their tongues. At those times they could be the most ribald of colleagues, treating their business partners like decades-old friends if only for a few raucous hours.

In the three days Thamalon rode beside Baeron, he found the dwarf talkative even without benefit of ale. Once they were clear of the elven woods, Baeron became downright friendly, perhaps in gratitude for Thamalon's assistance during the ambush.

The dwarves had been traveling for over ten days, a period Thamalon knew as a "ride," the average length of a caravan journey. They came from their stronghold in the eastern mountains, avoiding elven territory as much as possible. As the Sorcerer's legions drove them farther and farther from Castle Stormweather, the elves retreated deeper into the forest, and the dwarf scouts were hard pressed to keep track of their shifting territory and avoid confrontations.

Curiosity about this other Stormweather rustled constantly in Thamalon's imagination. Had he come across the name in a history or heard that some lord in Waterdeep had named his mansion similarly, he might have smiled and forgotten it. To discover a fortress with the same name as his own holding after falling through an enchanted painting… that was a matter that deserved consideration.

Thamalon didn't much believe in coincidence.

Trying to keep his inquiries casual, Thamalon continued to press for more information on this Sorcerer and his Stormweather.

The dwarves made the perilous journey for trade with the Sorcerer's subjects, especially to buy their most precious commodity: throbe vapors. The armored wagons were actually huge tanks of the gas. They would return fully laden, each with enough of the vapors to fire one of their forges for months to come.

"Why did the elves attack you?"

"They object to the harvesting of throbe," Baeron explained, "and we bring weapons to trade with the Sorcerer."

"What is wrong with harvesting throbe?"

"The elves revere the skwalos," said Baeron. "They believe that the spirits of their ancestors reside in the animals."

"Skwalos?"

Baeron raised his bushy eyebrows, pointed upward, and asked, "What is your word for them?"

Thamalon looked up and saw a gray sky pregnant with rain.

"The clouds?"

"Ho ho!" Baeron punched his shoulder.

Thamalon realized it was a gregarious gesture, but it hurt. He rubbed his arm and wondered how many bruises this adventure would cost him before it was done.

"You do not jest?" the dwarf asked. "Look again."

Thamalon did so, scanning the clouds for a clue. After long seconds, he discerned vast, dark shapes cruising through the mists.

"The floating whale creatures?" said Thamalon.

"If 'whale' is your word for forest, then yes."

"Perhaps the comparison is not apt," admitted Thamalon. "How're they like a forest?"

"Is that a riddle?" asked Baeron, brightening.

"No."

"Oh," said Baeron, making no attempt to mask his disappointment. "Well, over time, the skwalos develop patches of fungus and moss. Some of the ancients eventually catch seeds on the wind and sprout flowers and even trees. My grandmother once told me of elf wizards who cultivated food upon the backs of the greatest skwalos, living in the sky with them to harvest their familiars."

"Harvest?"

"How do the wizards in your land do it?"

"Well, I know little about wizards, but I imagine they summon them with a spell."

"Things are very different here from your land?"

"Indeed. Almost everything here is somewhat strange. Except for you," he quickly amended. "You're very like the dwarves I have met. And the elves are not much different."