mustache and the dim light made lip-reading impossible, so Gale approached them, wine bottle in hand. They fell silent as he drew near, further piquing his interest.
'My Lords?' Gale held the wine bottle aloft.
'None for me, butler,' Owyl replied dismissively.
Gale swallowed the urge to punch the smugness from Owyl's blotchy visage and instead turned to Thildar, who acknowledged him only by holding forth a silver goblet. Deferentially, Gale refilled it, walked a discreet distance away, and pretended to observe the crowd. Only then did Thildar and Owyl renew their conversation.
This must be interesting, Gale thought.
He tuned out the crowd noise and focused his hearing on the two men. When he heard them speaking Elvish, he had to contain his surprise. No doubt they felt secure in speaking the language of the elves-few Selgauntans had ever even seen one of the fair folk, much less understood their tongue. Gale silently thanked them for their arrogance. He had learned the expressive, intricate language of the elves at nineteen. A long tune ago, when he had been a very different man.
'Body sucked as dry as a Chondathan raisin,' said Thildar, drunk and too loud. 'My man in the household guard tells me a shadow streaked out the window just as the guards burst in.'
At Thildar's overloud tone, Owyl glanced about in irritable nervousness. The mage-merchant's eyes fell on Gale but passed over and by him as though he didn't exist. Unnoticed furniture, Gale thought with a smile.
Owyl slipped back into the common tongue. 'Did you say a shadow?'
'Yes,' replied Thildar, again hi Elvish. 'Or at least so he tells it.' He waved a hand dismissively and gulped from his goblet. 'But you know servants. In any case, that is neither here nor there, as they say. The important thing is this: with Boarim Soargyl and the Lady dead, you'll need someone else to move your wares across the Inner Sea. I can help with that. No doubt we can reach an amicable agreement…'
Gale ignored the rest of the conversation, mere commercial negotiations of no interest to him. He found the news about Lord and Lady Soargyl only mildly surprising. The Soargyls had not made a public appearance in over a tenday, a rarity for them, and rumors had been flying. Through his own sources, Cale had heard a story of murder in Sarntrumpet Towers, though nothing about a shadow. He would have to relate this news to Thamalon. With Boarim Soargyl dead and his untested son Rorsin heading the family, the rest of the Old Chauncel families would scramble to take over any vulnerable Soargyl interests.
Like vultures, he thought, eyeing Thildar with contempt. Perhaps Thamalon could offer Rorsin an alliance? Cale could not hide a grim smile at the thought. Boarim would spin in his casket. The Uskevren and Soargyl lords had long been bitter enemies. But times change, thought Cale, and so do men. Despite the acrimonious history, he had no doubt that Thamalon would offer Rorsin an alliance, if it was in the Uskevren's interest.
Thildar's description of the bodies stuck in Cale's mind and sounded alarm bells in his head: Sucked dry as a Chondathan raisin, tie had heard disquieting rumors recently that some of Selgaunt's underworld leaders had died similarly-three Zhentarim fished out of Selgaunt Bay, their bodies pruned by more than immersion in the sea. Zalen Quickblade, former leader of the Redcowls, found dead in an alley with his body collapsed in on itself. Too many similarities for a coincidence and too well targeted for a random predator. A new player looking to establish himself? he wondered. Or an old one grown bold?
He knew that murder within the walls of Sarntrumpet Towers would make things difficult for everyone. Such a daring attack on a noble's home indicated recklessness, stupidity, or fearlessness. Selgaunt's Scepters- the city's watchmen-would be prowling the streets for the culprit, and they wouldn't be overly careful about who got caught in the melee.
He would have to warn Jak so that the little man would know to lie low. Independent rogues always suffered the most when the Scepters went on a purge, Guilds could bribe Watch Captains and buy safety; independents had to hide or hang. Cale would also have to leave word with Riven to arrange a meeting with the Righteous Man. The Night Knife guildmaster might know more about what was going onHis stream of thought abruptly stopped. Disbelieving, his gaze followed a blond haired, handsome young man moving casually through the crowd. Dressed in a finely cut tan doublet with green under-sleeves, black hose, and high boots, the man looked much the same as every other young noble in attendance. Except that he was casing the attendees. He moved among the young noblewomen, flashed a smile, laughed, and no doubt commented on the beauty of their jewelry.
He was picking his marks! Cale could not believe it. Professionally, he had to admit that the would-be thief had skills. Only Cale's long experience and trained eye allowed him to notice anything amiss.
Spotting Larajin nearby again clearing dishes, he hurried over to her.
'Larajin-'
She jumped as though he had poked her with a pin. The tray of chalices she bore shook alarmingly. %›h! Oh.' When she turned and saw him, her voice quavered. 'Yes, Mister Cale?'
'Give me one of those.' He nodded absently at the tray, his eyes still on the young thief
'Mister Cale?'
'A chalice, girl,' he snapped. 'Give me a damned chalice.'
She recoiled, green eyes wide, and he felt a swift pang of guilt. She was just a girl, after all, and she was trying. He softened his tone. 'I'm sorry, Larajin. Something else is on my mind. Here.' He removed a chalice from the trembling tray and filled it from the bottle he held. 'And you take this.' He placed the wine bottle on the tray. 'Remove it all to the kitchen and take your dinner.'
'But-'
He turned on his heel and walked across the hall toward the thief. Waiting until the boy stood alone, Cale approached with the chalice. 'A drink, young sir-oops.' Feigning a stumble, he bumped into the boy, quickly felt him for steel-one buckleknife beneath his belt-and dumped the wine over the boy's doublet.
'Oh, forgive me, young sir.' He pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and daubed at the stain. 'Forgive me, I'm so sorry.'
'It's all right,' replied the blushing thief, looking about in embarrassment and trying to push Cale away. A few heads turned their way, curious, but quickly turned back to their own conversations. That the boy had not exploded at Cale for such clumsiness-as any of Selgaunt's nobility would have-only confirmed his suspicions.
Cale continued to apologize and daub awkwardly at the stain while the boy continued trying to push him away. 'It's aH right, butler. You can go-'
Cale looked up abruptly as though struck with an idea. 'Young sir… that is, if the young sir will be gracious enough to allow me to escort him to the kitchens,
Brilla the cook will see to the stain. I'm sure she will be able to remove it entirely.'
'That won't be necessary-'
'Please young master, I insist you allow me to correct my clumsiness. Please?'
The boy looked down at his stained doublet, hesitated, then gave a shrug. 'Very well then, butler. But let's be quick.'
'Follow me, young master. The kitchens are this way.'
Cale led him through the double doors into the fore-hall, but rather than turning right to go through the parlor and into the kitchen he turned left and strode toward an unoccupied receiving room.
The thief looked about absently as they walked, no doubt noting portable valuables. 'How far are the kitchens, butleaaggh-'
Without warning, Cale whirled on him, gripped him by the throat, and pinned him against the wood paneled receiving room wall. The boy kicked and gagged but Cale held him fast. He stared into the boy's wide brown eyes and slowly lifted him from his feet. Desperate wheezes squeaked from the thief'sthroat. His red face began rapidly to turn blue.
'I know exactly what you are and what you're doing here,' Cale hissed into his face. The boy feebly shook his head in the negative so Cale squeezed harder. The wheezes stopped altogether. The boy thrashed but Gale's iron grip could not be broken. 'Don't deny it. I can always spot an amateur.'
Indignant at first, the asphyxiating thief at last nodded. Satisfied, Cale eased his grip, but only slightly. The wheezes returned while the thief'sblue face faded back to flush red. Cale stared straight into his frightened eyes. 'Boy, if your left hand moves one inch closer to that buckleknife in your belt, I promise you that you've already taken your last breath.'
