Dave Gross - Lord of Stormweather

Thamalon nearly changed his mind when he agreed to be shaved and his servant girl joined him in the water, straddling his lap to lather his face and scrape away his three days of whiskers. It would be no effort to seduce the lass, who seemed to expect and invite his attentions. Still, when Baeron and his fellows made quiet arrangements for their elves to join them in their chambers, Thamalon politely sent his away and retired alone.

He lay in bed restlessly, trying to ignore the sounds of carnal sport from the nearby rooms. In his younger days, his marriage vows had been no restraint to dalliance. His bastard twins were proof enough of that. Even apart from the question of the servant's consent, Thamalon felt a genuine desire to keep faith with his wife.

How strange, he thought. After all the years of clandestine escape from his unhappy union, he feared he'd become a romantic at last. He desired his wife in forfeit of all other women.

Thamalon slept, comforted by thoughts of returning to his beloved Shamur. He dreamed of her soft hair in his face, her breath upon his ear. When he awoke, it was with a cold feeling of doom and a fierce longing to see her one last time before he died.

His washed and mended house clothes lay upon a dressing table, but beside them were a pair of dark trousers, supple boots of a leathery fabric, a deep green tunic embroidered in floral patterns on the yoke, and a half-cape cut with dashing asymmetry.

Thamalon donned the unfamiliar costume and admired his reflection. An old man looked back at him, unsuited to the rakish attire. He smiled at himself, but the gesture seemed weary. Thamalon laughed at his own vanity, and the ghost of his youth laughed back at him. It looked something like his eldest son, and for a moment the image brought him joy before regret supplanted the feeling.

"Tamlin," he said to the mirror. "There's so much I have to tell you. I-"

Father?

Before he could decide whether he'd imagined hearing the word, Thamalon heard a servant scratching on the door.

"What?" he said.

"Sir," repeated the servant. He was a boy, not much younger than Tamlin. "It is time."

The lad led Thamalon toward the center of the castle and through a grand archway bigger than Selgaunt's Klaroun Gate.

On the other side was Stillstone Hall, a grand circular room wider than any cathedral. Its arched walls soared so high that their upper points faded with distance. They converged on a central dome through which gray light poured down on the throng below.

Hundreds of people filled the hall, most of them waiting their turn to appear before the lord of the castle. Their conversations were muted by the splashing of a great central fountain composed of huge, uncut slabs of colorful stones, the smallest larger than the dwarves' throbe wagons.

Two grand fireplaces blazed in opposite walls. Savory meats roasted on spits above the flames, and ranks of cauldrons bubbled with soups and some sweet, dark beverage. Servants tended the food and carried it among the crowd. To Thamalon, the place appeared like a cross between an Old Chauncel reception and the street outside of Talbot's playhouse, bustling with vendors.

At regular intervals along the walls stood the red-plumed, red-cloaked, and red-armored guards. More of them patrolled quietly among the throng, which parted respectfully-or perhaps fearfully-wherever they went.

On the far side of the fountain, upon a high dais smothered in carpets, the Sorcerer sat on a grand throne. His body was as lean and supple as a dancer's, and his tight-fitted breeches and jerkin showed off every sinew. Topaz and ruby glittered on the gold phylactery around his biceps, and the huge dark stones upon his bracers roiled with magic. From the sides of his crowned helm, gleaming brass bars curved over his cheeks, concealing his face from those he judged. As he pronounced his decrees, he held up a winged scepter embedded with a ruby the size of a man's eye.

The supplicants stood at the foot of his throne. To either side were elite members of his Vermilion Guard, their bright plumes spilling like manes upon their muscular backs.

Thamalon observed the Sorcerer dole justice to his people.

He resolved a matter of disputed property by dividing the territory in proportions equal to the evidence presented. Afterward, he sentenced one of his generals to public flogging for cowardice. Later, he granted a pension to a war widow and acknowledged the approving cheers of the courtiers.

At last he received the dwarf merchants.

After his chamberlain introduced the travelers, the Sorcerer cut straight to the matter.

"What does King Uldrim offer for this season's throbe?"

"Eleven coffers of gold," replied Baeron, "and the six finest sapphires of Glitterdelve mines."

He held up a platinum necklace in which the aforementioned gems shone, the smallest the size of his thumbnail.

The Sorcerer considered the offer, then said, "The king is generous to offer such an incomparable jewel. In these times of conflict, however, I have little need for ornament or coin."

The response didn't seem to surprise Baeron, who said, "Our liege commands me to say that the forges of Deepspire are at your service. Six hundred long swords, eight hundred hardened spears, forty suits of vermilion scale-"

"Throbe steel," insisted the Sorcerer.

Baeron bowed and said, "In that case, our liege offers two hundred swords, two hundred sixty spea-"

"Three hundred swords," said the Sorcerer, "and all forty armor. As for the spears and shields, one hundred each will suffice us until winter."

"Such quantities require more throbe," said Baeron. "Our yield will be diminished by at least… two wagons."

"Then you shall have two wagons more," said the Sorcerer. "Yet I wish a dozen greatswords, too, in the fashion of Warlord Krandar's famous blade."

"My lord…" said Baeron. Thamalon perceived that the dwarf was stalling for time, mentally calculating the cost versus gain for the additional weapons. "If your highness were to include a hundred yards of skwalos membrane-"

The Sorcerer rose, leaving his voluminous cloak lying in his seat. He descended the stairs and reached toward the dwarf.

"Bargain," he said, clasping Baeron's forearm.

"Bargain," the dwarf replied.

Thamalon had seen far more complicated negotiations over much simpler exchanges, but still he sensed that he'd just witnessed a significant change from previous deals. Both the Sorcerer and Baeron seemed satisfied with the result, yet neither gloated in victory. Despite the disparity in their stations, they bargained fairly, as equals.

"Nelember Far-Traveler," called the chamberlain, a man whose pointed beard and winged hairstyle made him easy to recognize even across the hall.

Thamalon presented himself before the dais. The Sorcerer had returned to his throne, but he didn't sit. Instead, he drew his cloak over his shoulders and fastened its round clasp. On its boss were the crossed thunderbolts of Talos, god of storms and destruction.

"What mishap brings you to my demesne, old man?"

The Sorcerer's tone wasn't mocking so much as casual. His voice was familiar, too. Thamalon bristled at the appellation, but he sketched a courtly bow, ignoring the pain it brought to his still-bruised hip.

"My tale is strange even to me, so I beg your indulgence while I confess I don't understand it all myself. In short, some unknown enemy enchanted a painting to cast me magically across the world, so far from home that I recognize nothing here. The only boon I crave is that I may speak to your caravan masters and ship captains in hopes that one of them knows something of my home or some other land I know."

"What is it called, this land of yours?"

"Sembia, my lord."

"Sembia…" the Sorcerer said-slowly, as if savoring the word. Thamalon saw a faint twitching of the muscles in the man's neck. There was something the Sorcerer didn't like about its taste. "You say you are called Nelember?"