Dave Gross: Lord of Stormweather

Thamalon's antique globe of Abeir-Toril had been moved to make room for a cedar easel. On it was a wide frame covered with a fringed curtain, complete with tasseled pull-cord for a grand unveiling.

"A gift from Master Tamlin."

"If that boy believes that he can smooth over this morning's debacle with a gift…" Thamalon felt the vein in his right temple begin to pulse. He dismissed the painting with a backhanded wave. He'd retreated to his library to escape the day's events, not to reexamine them. "Bah!"

Thamalon sat in his great manticore-hide chair and immediately noticed that someone had left several tomes open on his desk. The vein throbbed again. Sometimes it seemed that only he of the entire household held books in their deserved reverence. He grimaced at the carelessness, but before he could utter a ripe curse, Cale was already tidying the mess.

"Leave it," said Thamalon, spotting an interesting chapter title. "Mysteries of the Moon Cults? That's not one of mine. Is it?"

He knew perfectly well it wasn't, for he held the catalogue of his entire collection in memory, and he'd not yet grown as forgetful as other men his age.

How would I remember if I had forgotten? he asked himself, considering the joke about memory being the second thing to go. The thought made him scowl.

Approaching sixty-six, Thamalon was enjoying an unexpected revival of romance with his wife Shamur, who was still as lively as a colt at a scant forty-nine. Their marriage hadn't been a happy one until recently, and their conjugal catching-up had made Thamalon more keenly aware than ever of the difference in their ages. More specifically, it reminded him of his own age. He was far older than his father or uncles were when they died. Despite the illusion of youth that Shamur's new affections granted him, he felt the weight of years more with each passing day.

"I suspect Master Talbot left those," said Cale, "but perhaps you will ask him. He should be arriving directly."

"How do you know?"

"It is my duty to know, sir."

Thamalon clucked at his butler's uncharacteristic formality. Cale had long been more a confidant than a servant, but lately he'd seemed aloof. The narrowly averted war with the elves of the Tangled Trees had set everyone on edge, and the Uskevren family had suffered more than its share of crises in the past few years. Through it all, Cale had remained a bastion of calm. He seemed distant, more like a stranger than a trusted friend. Perhaps it was because the household had changed so much in recent months, especially with Thazienne's extended absence. Thamalon still worried about his daughter, though less so than before he commissioned the auguries that pronounced her safe. Even so, her departure seemed to mark the beginning of Cale's gloom.

Before Thamalon could broach the subject of his butler's distraction, someone thumped on the library door.

"That would be Master Talbot," said Cale as he went to the door.

When he opened it, Talbot Uskevren entered carrying a large coffer.

"May I take that, young master?" offered Cale.

"Better let me," said Talbot, hefting the box.

The dull clank of coins sounded from within the container. Cale arched an eyebrow but stood aside to let Talbot pass.

A few months shy of his twenty-second birthday, Thamalon's younger son was somehow still growing. He loomed over Cale, who was notable throughout the city of Selgaunt for his height. Yet where Cale was lean as a scarecrow, Talbot was built like a dock porter. He also dressed like one, with rough leather trousers and a homespun shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Fresh paint stains on his clothes showed that Talbot had come from the Wide Realms Playhouse, where he served as actor, manager, and general handyman. Thick black hair curled on his arms and chest, and his whiskers looked three days old, though Thamalon had seen him clean-shaven just that morning.

There were days when Thamalon might have doubted he had sired the boy, except that he saw his wife's gray eyes beneath his own strong brow on Talbot's face. While he didn't look much like his elder brother, Talbot strongly resembled both his great-uncle Roel and Thamalon's late brother Perivel, another big man who moved with unaffected, predatory grace.

Talbot set the coffer on the floor before the desk. Thamalon felt its heavy impact even through the sturdy floor.

"I don't recall your being in trouble," said Thamalon, "and you have missed my birthday by seven months. What is this gift?"

"It's the loan," said Talbot.

Thamalon started for the second time since he'd entered his library, which he'd once considered his sanctuary from unpleasant surprises. With a glance, he dismissed the butler. While Cale was privy to all household business, the loan was an unusually personal matter. Cale slipped silently out of the room, and Thamalon knew the butler would stand guard against further interruptions until he and Talbot were finished.

Thamalon left his desk and beckoned his son over to the chessboard, where they settled into the matching chairs. They hadn't played in over a year, but the proximity of the board was a reminder of one of the few things they enjoyed together.

"You have until Tarsakh to make the first payment," said Thamalon. He tried to strike a jolly tone. "You are far more prompt than most of my debtors."

"It's the full amount," said Talbot. His eyes flicked over the mahogany and ivory chess pieces.

"What about your-?"

"It didn't work out," said Talbot.

"They wouldn't resurrect-?"

"They couldn't."

"But the High Songmaster assured me-"

"Yes, well, he was mistaken."

"Damn it, Talbot, stop interrupting me! And look at me when you speak to me."

Talbot was only a mediocre actor, despite a talent for mimicry. Thamalon saw anguish beneath his son's barely composed expression.

"The clerics couldn't even contact his spirit?"

Talbot shook his head.

"I am truly sorry, son," said Thamalon, because it was true.

He'd never liked the idea of spending so much Uskevren gold to resurrect Chaney Foxmantle. The gods granted clerics such power only for the most divine purposes, and Thamalon felt that mortals had no business making a business of restoring life.

For months after his friend's death, Talbot bargained without threatening, pressed without cajoling, and finally won a compromise from his reluctant father. On condition that High Songmaster Ansril Ammhaddan approve the casting, Thamalon agreed to lend Talbot the coin with the Wide Realms playhouse as security. Father and son drew up a private contract and agreed upon a modest interest and payment schedule based on future playhouse profits.

Still, despite his best efforts to teach his offspring the principles of sound financial dealings, Thamalon knew that coin meant nothing to this boy who'd lost his closest friend. The dark intrigue that had cost Foxmantle his life had still never been explained to Thamalon's satisfaction, and he was sure that Talbot harbored a few more secrets about the affair. Cale had suggested a few possibilities based on street rumors, but Thamalon found them too fantastic to accept.

A werewolf, indeed.

Father and son watched each other a while in silence, and Thamalon's eyebrows leaped as he combined those rumors with the titles of the books he'd just seen on his desk.

"Werewolf?"

Talbot nodded with a sad smile and a little snort, as if to say, What took you so long?

Thamalon took several long moments to form his next questions.

"You don't…"

"No."

"So you…"

"It's under control."

"Ah," said Thamalon. "That's good."

He couldn't think of anything else to say while his mind still reeled with the absurdity of the revelation. Best not to think on it too hard, he decided.