The Howling Delve - Jaleigh Johnson

"Ten families seemed a modest number for a welcome home party," said Laerin. "What harm is there in adding two more guests?"

"We didn't come in under 'flattering idiots,' " Morgan grinned. "We're in disguise."

"Obviously, it's working well," Laerin said dryly, but he sobered quickly enough. "We're here to keep eyes on Kall."

"Too many debt-collectors in the room," said Morgan.

Laerin looked at her askance. "Surely you don't object?"

Not at all, Cesira said. But Kall will—with fervor. I welcome you, so long as you stay silent and invisible.

"Not two of Morgan's greater talents, but we'll do our best," Laerin assured her. He took a step back, surveying the druid's gown. A wide belt at her waist gathered layers of skirts in subtle shades of earthen red. Worked into the belt's dark leather was the figure of an oak leaf, the symbol of Silvanus. Slashed sleeves revealed tanned arms and matching leather bands encircling each of her wrists. "I'll say this, since I'm certain Kall hasn't thought to," the half-elf said, "these fine Amnian frill-lovers have nothing on you, Lady of Mir."

Cesira inclined her head to hide her smile. My thanks, O flattering idiot.

Laerin laughed. "How fares the Lady Morel?"

Her eyes on the swirling crowd, Cesira did not immediately reply. Hired minstrels—she had no idea where Kall had found them—had begun a circle dance, which had drawn many of the guests from the balcony to line up in colorful half-moons across the floor. They were all smiles and good-natured jesting on the surface, but Cesira knew why the merchants were here. They wanted to see if Kall could hold his own among them.

Everything in Amn was a test, a measurement of investment and potential gain. If Kall's manner and surroundings showed promise, the merchant families would give him time to pay the debts of his father. That's why Cesira had agreed to serve in the role of the lady of the house, however much it galled her. She had no intention of letting the wolves eat Kall alive.

She'd directed the servants in gutting and cleaning the house with the same thoroughness she displayed when scourging an army of goblins. The results may not have rivaled the Tanislove estate, but there would be no chink in Morel's armor from this front.

Have you watched them? she asked, nodding to the dancing throng.

"Glaring peacocks, the lot," Morgan said dismissively.

"No." Laerin shook his head. "She means the merchant families."

"What of 'em?"

"They announced them at the door, each according to his station," said Laerin. "I watched them separate immediately, almost as if they couldn't stand to be in each other's company."

Morgan nodded sagely. "Reminds me of my family."

"It's what they prefer you to think. Look." Laerin pointed with his glass to a group of women gathered near the staircase. Their ornate turbans shimmered with glitter dust and bobbed together like a star storm with the force of the women's back and forth whispering. "The younger lass, standing at the edge of the crowd—she's Seyana Veshpel, a niece of Lord Uskan Veshpel—patriarch of his house. I saw her announced last in her family. See how she's treated as such?"

Yet that youngest Veshpel, said Cesira, so innocently lingering at the edge of the group, stands less than a whip crack from her father, and he from his wife, and she from—

"Lord Uskan," Morgan said, seeing the pattern emerge.

"So it goes with every family," said Laerin. "A living chain to see and hear everything in the room. Whatever their personal rivalries, good business benefits the whole family."

"Forced loyalty," Morgan muttered, shaking his head. "One of Morel's fine emeralds says in private they're one wrong word from slaughtering each other." He raised a fist, showing three of the Morel emerald and stone symbols between his fingers.

"Where did you pick those up?" asked Laerin, affronted. "I only received one."

Cesira rolled her eyes. As did everyone at the party, she said.

"Oh, wait, here's another," Laerin added. He smirked, drawing a handful of glittering green from his pouch.

Wonderful, Cesira muttered. Now, would you care to point out which ladies you lifted them from, or shall I wait until one of them gives me a look of horror when I try to speak to her?

Morgan pointed to a woman whose dress was a configuration of red silk scarves fastened in her hair and looping outwards, wrapping down around all the vital portions of her lithe body. "She was definitely one of them."

Thank you, the druid sighed. I think I can divine the others on my own.

Cesira slipped away to join Kall just as Lady Tanislove left him.

He's here—Lord Rays, she told him. He arrived while you were with Marstil.

"Is he still coherent?"

Barely.

"Wonderful. He'll be much more open to my proposal."

Cesira tapped a slender finger against her chin. Now, would that be another business venture, my lord, or the systematic murder of Bladesmile mercenaries? I do get the two confused, you know.

"The latter," Kall said dryly, "but I only intend to murder the ones who prove uncooperative."

You still think one of them will be able to lead you to Balram?

"Somebody knows," said Kall darkly.

As he started to walk away, Cesira took his arm. Relax, Kall, she said. The Morel name demands the merchants treat you as an equal, no matter the breadth of your debt. You have the manner and skills to fit in their world.

For some reason, the compliment made Kall wince. "What little talent I have comes from my father, and his father before." He grinned. "I'd rather you praised me on my skill with a sword, which you rarely do."

Oh, but I disagree. You make a fine adventurer—a talent inherited from your mother, no doubt, Cesira remarked lightly, waving and smiling at a lady across the room.

Kall sighed, thinking it wiser to ignore the path the conversation was taking. "Where is Rays?"

Cesira pointed across the ballroom to where a man swayed drunkenly against one of the marble statues. He used the brief loss of dignity to make lewd pantomimes with the statue and his body, much to the horror of a group of passing ladies.

The Bladesmiles are among the most powerful and respected families in Keczulla and greater Amn. Why does this one play the fool? Cesira asked absently.

"His wife died," Kall said, drawing the druid's gaze and a noise of sympathy. "A year ago. He cares nothing for status and position now."

Then perhaps Lord Rays has more wisdom than us all. Cesira watched Kall cross the ballroom, weaving purposely among his guests, on to the next stage of his plan.

Suddenly uneasy and feeling eyes upon her, Cesira looked up at the balcony and met the clear blue gaze of Syrek Dantane.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Keczulla, Amn

3 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Dantane inclined his head respectfully to the druid. Her eyes registered surprise, but she concealed it quickly.

So Morel hadn't told her he was here. Dantane wondered why. If Morel distrusted him so thoroughly, wouldn't he wish to have the eyes of those he did trust tracking him constantly?

The wizard took a step toward the stairs, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as silent magical wards hummed. The spell was not powerful, but the relative lack of magic in the room made it seem stronger—akin to tolling a bell in a tomb. Had this been a gala in Waterdeep, the resonant hum would have been lost in the greater cacophony of minor cantrips and protective spells.

Dantane looked to the dais. A young woman had stepped forward with a lute. She sang in a deep, pleasing alto, an unremarkable song, but she livened up the show by pausing in the middle of a verse to tell bawdy jokes or humorous stories, always deftly picking up the tune exactly where she'd left off. The crowd gathered, laughing, at the edge of the dais to listen.

Dantane's eyes fixed on the lute. The bard's instrument, or something inside it, was the source of the magic—an illusion, possibly glamour to conceal some defect on the part of the singer. Dantane scanned the crowd for Morel, wondering if he should inform the young lord.

When Dantane spied him, Kall was still speaking to the drunken man. The wizard headed for the stairs, but halted when he saw Kall's face blanch. Dantane traced the room, seeking a threat, but Morel simply stood, as frozen as one of the statues, staring at a spot beneath the balcony. He said something to the drunkard and stepped away.

Fascinated, Dantane watched him walk across the ballroom like a man caught sleepwalking out of a dream. Whatever Morel saw disturbed him greatly, Dantane thought. He couldn't describe all the emotions that passed over Kall's face, but the still, ravaged look, the vulnerability—that interested Dantane, so much so he forgot the lute player and her song.

* * * * *

"Seven—there it is!" The serving table quivered as Morgan slammed his handful of emerald-stone clusters in front of Laerin. "That you can't beat."

The half-elf flashed him a lazy smile. "Darling, must we compete? It's unseemly."

Morgan turned purple, clenching his fists as if he might cram the stones down Laerin's throat. "Empty your pockets. Turn 'em out, or by the gods I'll do it for you!"

Laerin fluttered his lashes. "Now you're just being saucy."

Morgan took a step forward, reaching for a weapon.

"Oh, all right." The half-elf sighed and emptied a pouch of stones next to Morgan's pile.

"Only six!" Morgan spouted triumphantly, as Cesira looked on with an expression of helpless bemusement.

Laerin raised a hand to either side of Morgan's head, and with a flourish produced two more stones from the man's hairy ears. "Your pardon," the half-elf said.

Morgan swatted his hands away, fuming. "Pretty-faced whore's brat—"

Quiet! Cesira hissed. Hide yourselves. Kall is. . . As she looked, she realized Kall wasn't headed their way. He'd stopped, frozen next to the drunken Bladesmile. At first Cesira thought he was listening to the bard, but then she saw him staring at something through the crowd.

I've never seen that look, she murmured. She traced Kall's stunned gaze across the room to a corner, where a man stood leaning sedately against a marble column. He ignored the rest of the room, and appeared to be listening intently to the lute player. Broken from whatever spell had smote him, Kall began walking directly toward the man.

"I've seen it," Laerin spoke up, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. "When I first met Kall, he had the same look."

Morgan nodded agreement. "Like he just lost his best friend."

Cesira paled, gripping Laerin's arm. Aazen, she whispered.

* * * * *

"Greetings, Lord Morel," said Aazen, as Kall came to stand between him and the dais. He offered Kall one of his rare, genuine smiles. "It is good to see you again."

Kall was at a loss. The man before him was older—and leaner, if possible—than the boy who'd been his best friend. His dark hair was short and shaved. He dressed in black leathers with a cloak of silky midnight blue thrown over one shoulder. The armor was stained, but the cloak pristine—a halfhearted attempt to blend with the throng. Despite the changes, he was still Aazen—a quiet, shadowed young man. Kall had imagined many fates befalling his best friend in the years since their last meeting, but seeing the man grown, greeting him here in his father's house, had never been among them.