Tymora continued to smile on Tal, perhaps enjoying the irony of a noble's son reduced to makeshift clothes and begging for food and rides. Just as he began to rue the decision to turn south, away from the scowling guards at the gate of Ordulin, he begged a ride from a southbound cart drover. The kindly fellow not only offered him a ride in his hay wagon but also gave him a warm meal each day. Tal resolved to repay the man a hundredfold.
Nine days after Tal's escape, the farmer's cart passed through the streets of the town of Overwater, the staging grounds for caravans arriving or leaving Selgaunt. In summer the place would be teeming with travelers and traders. Even in the dead of winter, it was spotted with tents, wagons, and pack animals snorting plumes in the cold air. Most of these were from nearby Ordulin, small merchant caravans keeping trade with the port city brisk. Their activity churned the dung and mud into a pungent morass that threatened to engulf them all on warmer days. To Tal's nose, the stink was welcome. He was coming home.
They emerged from Overwater to pass over the High Bridge. Aptly named, the seven-story structure was lined with shops, market stalls, taverns, and enough guardhouses to keep them all in line. At its far end, Tal saw the Klaroun Gate. Magnificent water horses were carved into its face, seeming to leap from the river to form the bridge of the central arch.
After long absence, Tal felt keenly aware of the city's pulse. He heard it in the chatter on the bridge, in the irregular clop of hooves on cobblestone. He smelled the human musk of the place, diminished but not hidden by Mulhorandi perfumes and Thayvian spices.
He peered everywhere for some sign of a friend, someone he could surprise with his miraculous return. The urbane citizens of Selgaunt were giddy for fashion, and a thousand colors and styles of clothing were paraded through the streets each day. The farmer had driven nearly the entire length of the bridge before Tal spied a familiar face.
Tumbling out of a little alehouse, a sandy-haired man nearly collided with a squad of Scepters, the city guardsmen.
With drunken grace, the man wove neatly among the five Scepters, barely disturbing their dark green weathercloaks. The guards looked formidable in their silver-chased black leather armor. One of them made a show of fanning the air before his face and wincing at the invisible cloud surrounding the drunk.
"Get yourself home, Chaney," warned the Scepter wearily. He'd obviously had this conversation with the man before. "Get off the streets, before you're run over by a night-carter."
Tal put a hand on the cart driver's arm. "Wait a moment," he said.
Duly chastened, Chaney swirled his own red cloak around one arm and made an elaborate, unsteady bow. His tousled hair fell over his eyes as he slurred, "I thank you, and I shall. Soon as I purchase a jug in which to drown…" Chaney's eyes lit upon Tal, and he stared in astonishment.
The Scepters glanced back at Tal, then turned back to Chaney, frowning their disapproval. One took Chaney by the arm. "Let's find you a nice pallet down-"
"Wait," called Tal, climbing down from the cart. The Scepters looked at him dubiously, while Chaney continued to stare in disbelief. "I'll make sure he gets home safely."
The Scepter holding Chaney's arm looked Tal up and down in obvious disapproval of his makeshift attire. One of his companions nudged the Scepter impatiently, and he relented.
Chaney continued to stare at Tal even after the scepters walked away. Tal grinned back at him. "Is it Tal?" Chaney asked, peering dubiously up at Tal's new beard. It had grown in thick, black, and curly.
"More or less."
"They didn't get you!" slurred Chaney. He reached carefully to touch Tal's rude imitation of a tabard, then clutched it to keep his balance. "They just stole your clothes."
Chaney seemed tiny beside his big friend. Where Tal was broad, Chaney was slight and narrow. His intelligent eyes sparkled even through the fog of ale, and his fine nose and pointed chin gave him a look of perpetual mischief. Softening his impish appearance were his smooth cheeks, preserving an illusion of youth that made him seem the younger of the two, though he was in fact a year older at twenty.
"How much money do you have with you?" asked Tal.
Chaney fumbled for his purse before Tal took it from him. Peering inside, he frowned at the contents before tossing the entire thing to the farmer.
"If you stay at the Outlook tonight," he said, "I'll have something more sent over to you."
"That's all my money!" complained Chaney, reaching after it long after the farmer had caught it. The farmer's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise at the heft of the purse.
"This is more than enough for what I done," said the farmer.
"All the same," said Tal. He had it in mind to reward the kind farmer with more money than the man had seen in a decade, and even that wouldn't put a dent in Tal's monthly stipend.
"I won't say no," conceded the farmer with a friendly nod. He snapped the reins and continued across the bridge.
Tal got an arm under Chaney's shoulders and turned him back toward the Klaroun Gate. "Let's get you wrung out."
Chaney needed sleep before he could sober up, so Tal delivered him into the care of a frowning housekeeper in Chaney's flat. Soon after, Tal stood before his tallhouse.
It was a narrow building of equal parts gray stone and brown vines, which in spring would smother the building in vibrant green. It stood amid five similar buildings, each divided from its neighbors by a narrow alley.
Tal ascended the short flight of steps and pounded cheerfully on the door. He couldn't wait to see the expression on Eckart's face when the fastidious valet saw Tal wearing a pair of old blankets and a twine belt.
After a few moments, Tal banged on the door again, to no avail. Of course, realized Tal, Eckart must be back at Stormweather Towers. He slipped around to the side alley, where stairs descended to the side entrance. Tal had hidden a key behind a loose stone there, despite Eckart's protests about burglars. He was pleased to see that it was still there.
As he turned to open the side door, Tal heard a sudden hiss. He looked up to see the neighbor's fat orange tabby perched on the ledge above. It was one of a dozen cats who haunted this street, and Tal often saw it near the steps, where Eckart often placed leftovers or a saucer of milk in the morning.
"Well again, kitty," said Tal. He reached up to let the little beast smell him, but the cat spat furiously and vanished.
Tal sniffed at himself and frowned at the sour odor. "Can't blame you," he muttered. "I do need a bath."
Inside, Tal was surprised to find the wine cellar illuminated by two bright lamps. More alarming was the sight of the empty wine racks and a stack of crates. One was still open and overflowing with packing straw.
"Don't tell me they've sold the house," muttered Tal wearily. He knew he'd been missing for a long time, but surely his family wouldn't have given up hope already. He reached into the open box and removed a bottle of Thamalon's Own, the precious pear wine his father gave him for his birthday earlier in the year.
"I must warn you," called a prim and tremulous voice from the stairs, "that I am armed and have no compunctions about shooting a burglar."
Tal put away his smile before turning around and adopting his father's own voice. "Put that toy away, and tell me where in the nine hells you've taken the rest of my wine!"
"Master Talbot!" squeaked Eckart, lowering his hand crossbow so quickly that he shot a bolt into the stairs. Glancing down, he paled at the bolt quivering neatly between his feet. Looking back at Tal, he whitened even more. "Bu-Bu-but we thought you were-"