secretary, and best friend.
As the trio were bandaged and brushed, Escevar asked in a hush, 'Is the old owl still up hooting?'
Servants piffed to hear Thamalon Uskevren the First so nicknamed. Dolly, who kept the pulse of the mansion, recited, 'The master and mistress have retired. Master Talbot has embarked on a short hunting trip to the hills. He hopes to fetch a hart to the table for the Moon Festival. Mistress Tazi attends a play at Quickley's.'
Escevar frowned. 'Deuce, maybe we should stay within walls 'til daylight and see what your father advises. Those kill-crazy dog-creatures, whatever they be, were sicced on us by human huntsmen. If we meet Zarrin-'
'We shall meet her.' Tamlin pointed his toe as a kitchen boy yanked on his knee-high boot. 'Father's entrusted me with a mission, and I'll see it carried out, and damn the riffraff.'
Escevar and Vox sighed in mutual suffering. The youth said, 'Damning riffraff can lead to early death, friend. Why can't the meeting wait until dawn, though that's hours off since it's winter.'
'Father insisted on secret.' Tamlin tugged on a quilted doublet of red embroidered with the gold horsehead- and-fouled-anchor badge of the Uskevren clan. Over it he strapped a broad black belt with scabbards for sword and smatchet. An armorer's apprentice roused from bed had fetched a new sword. Servants silently waited for the master to leave so they could return to bed. Dolly brushed Tamlin's dark unruly hair.
The Young Master went on, 'Of course, everything in Selgaunt is done in secret. What with the Soargyls dropping out of sight, now's the time to snatch up their neglected properties and contracts, Father says. And so we shall, once we strike the stockyards. Uh, where are the stockyards, anyway?'
Escevar rubbed his face and muttered under his breath.
The looming Vox raised a finger for a short lesson, then borrowed Escevar's smatchet. Thick-bladed, with a checkered grip of teak and a thong to circle the wrist, it looked like a gardener's tool for slashing brush. The blade's throat was queerly cut with a deep slot. As an old weapons master, Vox hated the groove for weakening the blade, but new experiments in swordfighting were the rage with Selgaunt's youngsters. This 'blade-breaker' slot was designed to replace a cumbersome shield. Carried left-handed, a fighter slashed down to both fend back an opponent and to hook his blade in the groove. Twisting the smatchet locked or broke the enemy blade, thus exposing him to the right-hand long sword. Escevar and Tamlin had practiced the maneuver, but Vox had proclaimed that 'clowning around with toys by day' was no real test of alley fighting in pitch darkness when half- drunk.
Vox demonstrated once more how to cock the smatchet up while pointing the long sword down, and how to windmill a 'circle of steel' in lieu of a shield. Obeying the fightmaster, Escevar practiced a while, swiping and slashing the length of the hall.
Tamlin fussed with pins and medallions brought on a velvet pillow. As a frequent target of kidnappers and assassins, he had a superstitious awe of good luck charms. One gewgaw featured an imp clutching a gold coin, a charm for business, and that one Tamlin pinned over his heart. From his baldric buckle he hung a tiny chain with a gauntlet symbolizing strength, and to his hat pinned a silver arrow spearing two hearts, in hopes Zarrin succumbed to his own charms. Tamlin donned the round blue hat with a gay pheasant feather and swirled around his shoulders a blue cloak edged with ermine, then struck a pose, hands on his swordbelt. Servants clapped at his smart appearance, and Tamlin smiled and bowed.
'What do you think?'
Vox swiped hands down his front, then mimed circles around his eyes. Escevar interpreted, 'I agree. The white fur will make you luminous in the dark.'
Escevar tugged on his hat and a borrowed cape. He wore fine clothes but plainer than Tamlin's, while Vox wore a plain brown smock and leather vest under his bearskin cape, and went bareheaded. Both wore small horsehead-and-anchor pins denoting servitude in the Uskevren household. The two waited by the door.
Preening in the mirror, Tamlin scoffed. 'Piffle. I haven't any enemies. Only tons of friends. Well, we're off. Wish us well in our venture at the, uh…'
'Stockyard,' supplied Escevar.
'Yes, jolly good.'
A footman opened a big double door that unleashed a blast of frigid air fresh off the sea, then shoved it shut after the trio left. Shivering servants trooped off to bed. Dolly took along Tamlin's torn cloak to mend, knowing he'd probably never wear it again.
'Tamlin! Young Master Uskevren, a word, please!'
'Wheel of the wizard!' groaned Escevar. The trio toiled against a stiff wind that howled off the Sea of Fallen Stars and sizzled right through their bones. Nightal was the coldest month, and more than once the nightwalkers slipped on patches of ice criss-crossing the rutted streets. Yet the streets were busy as dozens of parties meandered from tavern to tavern. For young folk, the night was still young.
Many waved to Tamlin and his bodyguards.
Now a lone man trotted up. Padrig Tuleburrow was called 'Padrig the Palmer' because his hand was always out and always empty. Always he had some scheme brewing. Tamlin was a soft touch, the conniver knew, and never could his companions dissuade him.
'Master Tamlin!' Padrig was tall but soft, in a foolish lop-eared fur hat, fur coat, and the layered robes of a prosperous middleman. 'You look dashing tonight, a veritable scion of Selgaunt and proper heir to your father's throne!'
'Oh, stop, Padrig.' Tamlin smiled at the flattery. 'My dear father is hardly a king, just a canny merchant.'
'Brilliant merchant!' oozed Padrig, 'and it's obvious that canniness carried to his eldest son. Mark my words, Master Tamlin, you'll rule this city some day! And I know how to help you gain those celestial heights! There's been talk…'
Escevar muttered to Vox, who always stood behind Tamlin, 'First you butter the biscuit, then you bite it.'
'… a special deal for only my closest friends and best customers, Master Tamlin. I can't slip any details, it's all very hush-hush, but this plan-'
'Scam!' hissed Escevar.
'-plan,' Padrig plowed on, 'involves only the best families of Selgaunt. Master Tamlin, if you invest a mere thirty ravens-'
'Thirty ravens?' objected Escevar. 'I don't get paid thirty ravens in a year!'
Ignoring the peasant, Padrig went on, 'A paltry sum, to be sure, but with great potential for growth. You'd be sorry to miss this opportunity, Master Tamlin. When it comes back five-fold, everyone will know who's the smartest bargainer in town-'
'We know who,' grumped Escevar, 'and may he sink in the bay to feed the fish and do something useful for once in his life.'
'Oh, pay him, Escevar, and stop fretting,' said Tamlin. 'Once I've sealed tonight's bargain, we'll be awash in coin.'
Grumbling, Escevar counted out thirty silver pieces from a purse but held them until Padrig signed their receipt in Escevar's little red-leather book, marking them 'investment.' Even as he counted the coins again, Padrig's ears perked. 'What mission are you bound to tonight, Master Tamlin? It's clever of your father to entrust you with family business.'
'We're bound for the stockyards. We have a secret meeting with-Ulk!' Tamlin jerked as Vox's finger jabbed his spine like a dagger. 'Uh, that is, we're bound to carouse up one side of Sarn Street and down the other. So much ale, so little time, you know! Ha, ha!'
'Don't I know! Ta, ta!' Laughing, coins in hand, Padrig melted into the shadows like a djinn into smoke.
Rubbing his back, Tamlin groused, 'Drat the dark, Vox! I'll pass pink for a tenday from a bruised kidney!'
'If your father hears you blabbed his secret plans,' warned Escevar, 'you'll be bruised all over from getting hurled down every staircase in Stormweather Towers.'
Tamlin had no retort, so they marched on.
