The silence coming from down the hall-rather than the rattle of pans and Brilla the kitchen mistress's shouts-indicated to him that the exhausted cooking staff must have finally settled in to take their own dinner. Cale's growling stomach reminded him that the floor staff, himself included, would eat only after all the guests had gone.
Spotting a nearby wine valet, he walked over and replaced his near empty bottle of Storm Ruby with a fresh bottle of Usk Fine Old-a light, pear wine suitable for late evening-and prepared for what often proved to be his most interesting work during celebrations- information gathering.
Eavesdropping, he chided with a smile. At least call it what it is.
Surveying the hall, he noted the locations of the Old Chauncel patriarchs and planned a route from one to the other. In his time at Stormweather, he had learned that Lord Uskevren's food and drink tended to loosen otherwise tightly reined noble tongues. Especially in t?e presence of a mere servant. With his keen hearing, Gale had overheard innumerable incriminating facts while casually refilling after-dinner drinks. Over the years, he had been able to keep the Righteous Man satisfied with such information-information embarrassing to this or that noble family, but harmless to the Uskevren.
Generally meticulous about his posture, he deliberately slouched when making his rounds. He had found that guests went silent if the keen-eyed, towering butler approached, but did not seem to notice him at all if he shrank in on himself and softened his habitually hard expression.
The best servants are like old furniture, he thought, recalling an old Sembian adage, there when you need them,* but otherwise not to be noticed.
Wearing his best furniture disguise, he wove his way through the crowd. He refilled drinks as he went, casually spoke the praises of Usk Fine Old, and kept his keen ears attuned to nearby conversations. As expected, most was simply the mundane, after-dinner chatter of silly nobles.
"… hear Lady Baerent had taken an interest in the work of a young artist, if you take my meaning," said Lord Colvith with a laugh.
"… the Boaters sure are a strange lot," Lord Relen-dar was saying to a plump young woman Gale did not recognize. "I hear they sacrifice…"
Gale moved along, smiling, filling drinks, listening for anything that might be of use to the Righteous Man or to Thamalon.
In a quiet corner he noticed Thildar Foxmantle- partially drunk as usual-engaged in an earnest conversation with Owyl Thisvin, a fat mage-merchant who worked primarily in the neighboring city of Saer-loon. Thildar's heavy 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