Клейтон Эмери - The Halls of Stormweather

Of course, one danger always gives way to another. There had never been anyone in Selgaunt, Thamalon included, who could keep Shamur silent.

As if to belie Thamalon’s dark thoughts, the hall grew suddenly still, as if everyone in it were holding their breath. With stately solemnity, his footfalls almost inaudible, the butler came into the heart of that heavy, waiting silence bearing the Quaff of the Uskevren on a silver platter.

It stood alone, a large and plain-looking goblet. It looked old, and somehow strong, as unyielding as the old foundation stones of Stormweather Towers. Erevis Cale, evidently well aware of the importance of the occasion, raised the platter high before him and slowed, so that all eyes could look long and well upon the Burning Chalice.

Iristar Velvaunt pointed a peremptory finger at him then at the table, indicating that the butler should set it down in front of him, but Cale stepped smoothly around the mage and brought the platter to his master.

Thamalon gave him a slight smile of approval, and with a gesture of his own indicated that the butler should take the goblet to the man who wore the name of Perivel Uskevren.

The pretender looked at him in surprise. Thamalon gave him a wider smile and gestured at him to take up the goblet.

The pretender stared suspiciously into its depths. It was empty and a little dusty. As if its appearance had suddenly struck the young maid who for some time had been silently gliding around the far reaches of the hall, dusting, she turned and glided forward, a dust rag ready in one slender hand. Thamalon waved her back into the shadows. She inclined her head in a silent nod of acknowledgment, and returned to her work.

Perivel hesitated, and turned his head a trifle, as if looking for some signal from the mage. Presker Talendar stirred, smiling faintly up at the balconies from whence the silent Uskevren stared down—but if the sorcerer Velvaunt gave any sign to the pretender, Thamalon did not see it.

Suddenly the man who claimed to be Perivel Uskevren stretched forth a hand to the platter Cale, as patient and unmoving as any statue, was holding out to him. The pretender stretched out a hand, hesitated, then swooped to snatch up the goblet like a hawk striking at prey.

He caught hold of it, lifted… and held on high, up for all to see: a chalice that was not ablaze, but just an old, empty goblet.

“Well?” Perivel Uskevren asked the hall, in triumph. Unburned but not waiting for an answer, he set the chalice back on the table.

The lawmaker, carefully staring across the table at no one, asked formally, “Saer Velvaunt, is this indeed the true Uskevren Chalice?”

The mage inclined his head with a smirk of his own, a bare moment before he passed his hand in front of the cup in an intricate flourish. “Indubitably,” he replied firmly.

The Lawmaker of Selgaunt lifted his eyes at last to meet Thamalon’s gaze. “Well, it seems clear enough,” he said, his voice gathering strength with each word. “This is Per—”

The name was chopped off as if by an axe as their host in Stormweather Towers lifted one hand in a signal, and murmured, “Cordrivval?”

The curtains behind him parted, and a gaunt, white-bearded man who moved with the painful shuffle of aging hips appeared through them. “I attend, lord,” he announced calmly.

“Mage,” Thamalon asked, “before Saer Velvaunt, just a moment ago, has any spell been recently cast on the Burning Chalice?”

“Oh, yes. The Saer cast a spell on it just before he—” Cordial pointed at the man claiming to be Perivel Uskevren “—reached forth his hand to touch it. Velvaunt removed that spell just now, when he pretended to identify the chalice. He—”

A sudden spasm shook the old mage, and a shadow passed over his face. “My-lord!” he gasped, voice suddenly thick, “he—”

Cordrivval Imleth had probably not intended to end his days toppling like a felled tree onto an imported Tashlutan carpet woven with a scene of two dragons locked in mortal combat, but it was a splendid carpet. He’d admired it many times, exhibiting superb judgement. So thick and soft was it that his crashing fall made barely a sound.

“Too many lies can kill anyone,” Saer Velvaunt remarked smoothly. “His heart must have been weak. Perhaps he was older than he appeared. I hope he didn’t owe you over-many coins, Lord Uskevren?”

Thamalon’s eyes were as hard and as sharp as two drawn daggers as he met the hired sorcerer’s mocking gaze. “So, too, I’ve heard it said,” Thamalon replied, “can the casting of too many ill-considered spells ‘kill anyone.’ Has that also been your experience, Saer?”

The wizard moved his shoulders in a careless little shrug. “I’ve seen both faults result in death, before—but hope not to see such things again.” He raised his hand as he spoke, and everyone saw that tiny stars of light were winking and circling about it. “I’ll just purge the minds of everyone here of all doubt, by casting a magic on the chal—”

Thamalon’s left little finger barely moved, but Cale was very attentive. The butler took two steps forward and bent to heave at one leg of the sorcerer’s chair in one lightning-swift movement, spilling a startled Velvaunt onto the floor. Motes of spell-light scattered in all directions as various diners half rose, froze, then sat down again. Half a dozen men in full black armor with the gold Uskevren horse head bright upon their breasts appeared through the curtains, drawn swords dripping with sleep-wine ready in their hands. Velvaunt had, after all, been very well paid to deal with just this sort of unpleasantness.

The well-paid sorcerer came snarling furiously to his knees, lifting one hand to point at the butler—but that hand came to a sudden halt as four house guard swords slid eagerly forward to ring it with their glittering points.

“Casting uninvited spells in a private household?” Cale murmured. “I’m sure you weren’t trying to do anything of the sort, Lord. After all, the penalty for that is two years in irons on the docks… and the Lord Lawmaker is sitting right there.”

He bowed his head and added smoothly, “I do apologize about the chair. I’ll have whatever went wrong with its leg fixed immediately, and in the meantime would be pleased to offer you another seat.”

Iristar Velvaunt growled wordlessly at him and regained his feet, face dark with rage.

Anger and fear could also be seen in the faces of the other guests. Saclath Soargyl was growling deep in his throat, his knuckles white and quivering on the hilt of his blade. The lawmaker shot him a quelling glance and asked loudly, his voice glacial but firm, “Is the chalice enspelled?”

“It must be,” Thamalon said heavily, “and I will not accept here, this night, the results of any magic worked by this hired sor—”

The Flame of Lathander held up one pudgy hand, a spectrum of rings gleaming in the candlelight. “You need not do so, Lord Uskevren. My skills can determine what the Lord Lawmaker seeks to know. If I may?”

He looked with careful formality to Lawmaker Loakrin and to Thamalon, collecting their nods before turning deliberately to meet the eyes of the butler standing with the swordsmen. Cale gave an almost imperceptible nod of his own before wordlessly turning away to pluck up another chair for Saer Velvaunt, lifting it with silent grace.

Thamalon’s eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar and intricate prayer that spilled from the fat priest’s lips then. It sounded like no supplication after truth or revelation that he’d ever heard, but a binding of some new magic to old.

Before he could stir or say anything, it came to an end, the priest raising the flat palms of his hands in unison to the vaulted ceiling. Everyone looked at him in eager, expectant silence.