As Aileen scurried away down the hallway, Cale marched Larajin to the study. As his hand fell on the door latch, a snatch of conversation came from behind the door.
“… such drastic measures,” the master was saying. “Surely the Merchant Council must realize the reaction this will prompt. It came as no small surprise to me that the Hulorn encouraged this folly.”
Cale paused, obviously reconsidering the wisdom of an interruption. As a frown creased his brow, Larajin allowed herself a tentative shred of hope. Perhaps the butler would be forced to wait until morning to bring her to the master. By then, both their tempers might cool.
From the study came a second male voice, this one with a slight wheeze to it.
“The Hulorn was not the only one to cast a vote in favor. The council will stand behind its decision, come what may. Your opinion is that of the minority-even the Overmaster recognizes the necessity of responding to the attacks with swords, not words. The Dales have declared themselves neutral, and Cormyr has shown no interest in the squabble.”
The voice paused, then added in a seductive tone, “Thamalon, I hope you will give this matter careful thought. This may provide Sembia’s only chance to push the Red Plumes north. It may even provide an excuse to march on Hillsfar itself-an opportunity you’ve long been waiting for, or so I’m told.”
The master’s voice grew thoughtful. “We shall see.”
From inside the study came the clink of a glass being set upon a metal tray. It was followed an instant later by the rustle of robes and the thunk of a staff against the floor as someone approached the door. Cale’s hand dropped from the latch, and he moved away from the door, pulling Larajin with him as he made room for the departing visitor.
As the door swung open, Larajin’s eyes widened in alarm. The master’s visitor was a tall, dark-skinned man wearing smoke-gray hose and a doublet with crimson-slashed sleeves. Perhaps fifty years of age, he had eyes that glittered like polished jet, dark, wavy hair, and a neatly trimmed beard that was no more than a thin line framing his jaw and chin-a Sembian affectation he had adopted, together with the doublet, since the last time Larajin had seen him. He leaned on a knotted bloodwood staff studded with dark thorns that had been pushed point-first into its blood-colored wood like tacks, forming a spiral design. A halo of upturned thorns crowned the top.
A tiny corner of Larajin’s mind screamed at her to drop her eyes, as Erevis Cale was doing, to play the part of servant, to avoid drawing attention to herself. Instead she stared, mesmerized, at the staff. She had seen first-hand the deadly black bolts of magical energy that staff could produce, had watched in horror as they reduced a wild elf to a smoking husk in the Hunting Garden-and all because Larajin had seen what the Hulorn had done to himself with his foul magic.
Please, Goddess, don’t let him recognize me, Larajin silently prayed, dropping her eyes at last and staring hard at the carpet. I’m a servant, only a servant. Invisible and silent.
If only she had stopped a moment to put her turban on. Perhaps he would not recognize her, even with her hair unbound. She’d been wearing different clothes then, had…
The Hulorn’s wizard paused, directly in front of her. Ice flowed through her blood as his gaze slithered down, then up her body, coming to rest on her face.
“You look familiar to me, girl,” he wheezed. “Do I know you?”
Somehow, Larajin found her voice. “I do not think so, sir. I’m just a servant. Perhaps you saw me waiting tables, during a previous visit to Stormweather Towers.”
“This is my first visit to your master’s house.”
“Or you might have seen me on the streets or in the market,” Larajin quickly added. “I’m often sent to do the shopping.”
The wizard’s eyes grew bored. “Perhaps that was it,” he agreed.
Inwardly, Larajin sighed with relief as the wizard turned to leave, but just then, a familiar sound echoed down the hall.
Mrrow?
The tressym padded out of the open library door, into the hallway. Head turning, she looked in Larajin’s direction-and her ears flattened as she spotted the wizard. Baring her teeth in a hiss, she backed slowly away, then suddenly spun and leaped into flight, her brilliant wings flapping furiously. Landing delicately on a window ledge, she batted at the latch with a paw, opened the window with a shove of her head, then disappeared through it.
Erevis Cale muttered, “That’s enough of you, cat.”
He strode down the hall to snap the window shut.
Larajin froze, unable to speak, as the wizard turned back to her with narrowed eyes. He tipped his staff until the head of it was under her chin. Its thorns pricked her skin, causing her to flinch and jerk her head up.
Recognition burned in the wizard’s eyes as they met hers.
“Does your master treat you well?” he asked in a whisper. “Would you like to come and serve the Hulorn, instead? Perhaps you could feed his pets.”
Larajin’s mind flew back to the rats she’d encountered in the sewers under the Hulorn’s Hunting Garden. Misshapen monstrosities, they’d been altered by the Hulorn’s dark magic to grow hooves, wings, horns-even a tiny human head. Larajin shuddered at the memory of their sharp teeth worrying her flesh. She’d fought them off once-and didn’t want to face them again. The Hulorn’s wizard was subtly letting her know what her fate would be, now that he knew who she was.
“Sir, I…” was all she could manage in response. Gods, was this all she could do-cower before him, meek as a mouse? At last she found her voice. “My master is too fond of me. I am like a daughter to him. He would never allow-”
“A pity,” the wizard answered, withdrawing his staff from under her chin. “You seem like a good servant-one who knows the value of being seen and not heard.” His voice dropped. “Of course, there are other, more certain ways to ensure silence, aren’t there?”
He turned away with a chuckle as Erevis Cale strode back to where Larajin stood. Cale gave the wizard a sharp look, and followed him with his eyes as the wizard made his way down the hall.
A moment later, the master appeared in the doorway. He appeared not to have overheard the exchange and merely nodded at the departing wizard’s back.
“Erevis,” he said, “please see Master Drakkar to the door.”
Cale glanced up sharply at this command, then turned and walked smoothly down the hall. The moment he was out of sight, the master said, “Larajin, a word if you please.”
Still shaking from her brush with the wizard, Larajin immediately launched into a defense of her actions. Now, more than ever, she needed the master’s goodwill.
“Master Thamalon,” she said, “I only meant to leave the tallow untended for a moment. The fire in the stove had burned down to coals. I didn’t realize it would-”
The master held up a hand, demanding silence. Deep green eyes blazed down at her from under a thick crop of wavy, snow-white hair. Surprisingly, though the conversation Larajin had just overheard seemed like a matter of state, the master was casually dressed, wearing a doublet with solid sleeves and soft leather house shoes over plain white hose. He’d obviously not been expecting a visitor so late at night. He closed the door of the study, then turned and spoke in a stern voice.
“Larajin, I would ask that you refrain, in the future, from describing my affections for you in the terms you used tonight.”
Braced as she was for a reprimand about the kitchen fire, Larajin was surprised by his words.
“Master, I don’t-”
“You don’t understand? No, I suppose not. I shall have to put it plainly, then. I am asking that you not, at any time or in any company-noble or common-describe my feelings toward you as being like that of a father for a daughter. People might draw … the wrong conclusions.” Heavy eyebrows frowning, he let his eyes bore into hers. “Do you understand me now?”