it looked back toward the dressing table. Silently, holding his breath, Jak tried to back away toward the far corner of the room, near the hearth. He froze when the demon darted toward him, quick as a cat. Though it could not see him, it knew he was there. It prowled around the corner of the room, holding its arms and wings out, feeling for its prey. Jak fought off tears as the demon's claws swept through space and drove him inexorably backward. The thump of his back against the wall made him squeak in terror. With nowhere to run, he held his holy symbol to his chest, tight.
The demon continued to sniff for him, drew nearer. Sweat poured from him by the bucketful. Surely the thing could hear his heart! It stood right before him now and he could do nothing but wait for death. Fear washed over him. He watched it sniffing, sniffing, its evil eyes searching. Jak's hair stood on end and he felt so cold that his teeth nearly chattered.
Suddenly, the demon looked down on him with eyes that bored into his soul like daggers. There you are, said a soft voice in his head, and he shuddered uncontrollably. Gently, the demon reached out a claw, a soft caress that brushed his shoulder.
At that touch, Jak felt his soul-that essential thing that made him himself-come loose from its moorings and flow toward the empty shadow before him. Terrified, he wet himself.
I'm going to die stinking of piss, he thought, and would have laughed but for the tears. The demon reared back and raised its claw high for the kill. A scream raced up Jak's throatThe door to the sitting room burst open with a crash.
'Lord! Lord!' Boots stomped toward the bedroom. The startled demon halted in midkill, whirled, and then streaked toward the door. Jak sensed it hiss in frustration. Barely coherent, Jak sagged to the floor.
The demon blew past the startled house guards as they charged into the bedroom.
'There! Get it!' But the shadow flew past them before they could bring their blades to bear-if blades could even harm such a creature. Three men in the green and gold of House Soargyl hurried to the bed and stopped cold. One turned away, covering his mouth. Horrified, the other two poked with their swords at the remains scattered across the bed.
'Gods,' the taller guard oathed. 'Call the priests,' he ordered over his shoulder, 'and get a mage in here. And send for Master-make that, Lord Rorsin.'
Still invisible, Jak rose unsteadily to his feet. He had to get out. A thief caught in a murdered nobleman's bedroom would not be treated mercifully. Dazed and wracked with shame, he picked his way through the milling guards and into the sitting room. Shouted orders and frightened conversations sounded all around him but he couldn't make out the words. Everything blurred into an inchoate roar. Two stout guards stood near the broken window he had entered through, talking and pointing-his silence spell had expired.
He waited for them to step away, then squirmed past and jumped through the window. With a whispered magical word, his fall turned into the gentle descent of a feather. As he floated earthward, he felt his soul clinging to his body by only the merest of threads, a tattered cloak that the cold winter breeze threatened to tear from his being. A vision of living darkness, boundless emptiness, and hate-filled yellow eyes haunted his mind's eye. Again, he relived a portion of his soul being jerked from his body; relived his essence being torn in two. Halfway to the earth below he began to scream. When he hit the ground of the courtyard, he ran pell-mell from the grounds, unmindful of guards or spells, still screaming.
CHAPTER THREE
The vast Uskevren feasthall overflowed.with the glittering grandeur of Selgaunt's assembled Old Chauncel. Having completed the five-course feast, the guests, in accordance with Sembia's social custom, now stood or sat about the feasthall in small groups, laughing, drinking, smoking, and talking.
Cale despised their perceived self-importance. To him, the room seemed an ocean of arrogant faces and empty-headed chatter. He strived to keep the contempt from his expression as he maneuvered through the thick crowd and dutifully refilled wine chalices.
A bewildering array of silk gowns, jewelry, and silver-laced stomachers-the latest fashion among the city's noblewomen-shimmered in the soft, aromatic candlelight. Though he recognized the faces of many of the nobles in attendance, many more were strangers to him. It seemed his lord had invited half the city to celebrate Perivel's birthday. This, despite the fact that Perivel Uskevren is forty years dead, he thought.
Every year on the thirtieth of Hammer, Thamalon held a birthday ball to honor his lost older brother, Perivel Uskevren. Cale had never known Perivel, of course, but based on what he had heard of the elder Uskevren over the years, he thought he would have liked him. Perivel had died plying steel against three foes while the former Uskevren manse, Storl Oak, had burned down around him.
Though he would have done the family a service by leaving behind a recognizable body, Cale thought.
After the inferno, the ruins had been carefully searched and the bodies of the dead dutifully removed, but there had been no way to tell if any of the charred corpses pulled from the ruins had been Perivel. Rumors persisted to this day that he had survived.
So it seemed that at least once every few years, a man claiming to be Perivel Uskevren showed up at Stonnweather's doors and asserted the rights to primogeniture. Invariably, Thamalon and Cale exposed such claimants as imposters sponsored by rival families and turned them away. Still, the problem never seemed to go away entirely.
Nevertheless, despite the problems that it created by reawakening rumors of Perivel's return, Thamalon kept his brother's memory alive with an annual celebration, a feast and ball that had become a fixture in Selgaunt's social calendar. That the invitees did business in the process seemed only natural. For such is Selgaunt, Cale thought with a smile.
Though held in Perivel's name, the birthday ball had long ago become as much about making deals as it was about honoring the elder Uskevren. Thamalon used the fine wine, excellent food, and general good feeling as a platform to discuss trade alliances and business deals with the rest of the Old Chauncel patriarchs. Cale felt certain that Perivel would approve.
Making his rounds with a bottle of Storm Ruby, he spotted his lord seated in a sequestered corner of the feasthall engaged in earnest conversation with Nuldrevyn Talendar. Cale could guess the topic of their discussion: a contract to arrange shipment of Uskevren wine to the southern lands of Faerun. House Talendar dealt in fine furniture and frequently shipped to the kingdoms of the far South-Amn, Calimshan, and Tethyr, where the demand for Archendale walnut and Sembian mahogany seemed infinite. Thamalon thought the Uskevren house wines would also sell briskly in the south-particularly the full-bodied Storm Ruby-and had long sought an economical way to move bottles. Renting space on a Talendar caravan would be ideal.
Seeing the opportunity Thamalon had instructed him to watch for, Cale maneuvered through the crowd and walked toward the two men. Like the other noblemen in attendance, both wore finely tailored attire -Thamalon's fit frame covered in a twelve button doublet of crimson with black under-sleeves; Lord Talendar's ample belly draped in a doublet of purple with silver under-sleeves and a lace collar. As well, both wore fitted hose and polished Sembian high boots. Neither wore visible steel. As was his custom, Thamalon had forbidden weapons at Perivel's ball-even dress blades. The agenda was business, not blood, though the two frequently crossed paths in Selgaunt.
As he approached, Cale plucked uncomfortably at his own black butler's doublet and pants. Despite his best efforts, he had never been able to retain a tailor competent to fit his towering frame. If his clothing was too short, it exposed his ankles and made him look an imbecile. If it was too large, he looked like a pale scarecrow swimming in a sea of black cloth. With only those two options, he had finally surrendered to the god of the ill-fit and decided on too large rather than too small, and resigned himself to the mediocrity of his tailor.
He had not worn his leather and steel for over a month-since his would-be ambush of a Night Knives' kidnapping team had turned instead into a Zhentarim ambush of he and his friend Jak-and Gale had never longed for them more than now. He felt more than just uncomfortable in his ill-fitting attire; he felt false, as if he wore a lie for all to see. That night in Drover's Square a month ago had resurrected the old Gale, and Erevis the butler had not
