Behind Dolly's back, Escevar and Vox rolled their eyes.
"Sword cut?" Tamlin felt the wound, thrilled at a badge of honor. "My, my. Will it leave a rakish scar?"
"Dolly, if it's not too much trouble?" Escevar hissed as he shucked his calfskin glove. Punctures in the crescent of a toothy jaw leaked red. "Could you summon Cale and his magic box of healing gook? While you dab Deuce's chin, they can lop off my hand and seal the stump with burning pitch."
Thamalon Uskevren the Second, called Tamlin or Deuce, studied his chin scar in a silver mirror. Seven sleepy servants shuffled into the echoing hall bearing hot food, mulled wine, bandages, and fresh clothes. Newly built, Stormweather Towers already felt ancient with jumbled rambling rooms with lofty ceilings that ate any heat and stone walls that echoed every cough and murmur. A fireplace big enough to roast an ox was kicked up, and the three ramblers crowded to the blaze. Gratefully they gulped warm mugs of Usk Fine Old, the sharp and spicy wine that Tamlin's father had originated in his vineyard vats.
Seen in firelight, Tamlin resembled his father, being middling in height and sporting wavy dark hair and deep green eyes. Escevar was rail-thin, red-haired, and profusely freckled, and looked underfed and twittery, which he was not. Vox was a hulk whose single black eyebrow and fierce beard hid a dark face that hinted at orcish or ogre blood. A black braid hung over his left shoulder to mask the white scar that had robbed him of speech. Hired years ago as Tamlin's fightmaster, Vox now served as his bodyguard. The foundling Escevar had been bought off the streets at a bargain, originally to be Tamlin's whipping boy and schoolchum, but now his companion, guard, 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."