"I-I have no idea." Marstil's eyes flicked to the mask and back to Kall's face. There was no lie in them, only terror. "Kortrun and I parted company long ago, when I set out to build my business. Please ... listen," he said. "I h-have not been Balram's man ... in years," he stammered, swallowing against the steel at his throat. "I am a merchant now. I've made a family."
"A family," Kall echoed. "Oh, dear. That's the death card, is it? Now I'm required to have mercy." He leaned in close to the man's face. "Tell me, Marstil, do your wife and children know how their father earned his fortune? Do they realize the manse they sleep in at night was paid for with Morel blood? If I tell them that, after I've killed you, do you think they'll forgive me? I like to believe they will." Kall pressed down, and Marstil shrieked. "What else have you got to offer me, Marstil? Please, don't mention your family to me again."
"All that I have!" The merchant trembled as a drop of blood ran down the knife's blade into his field of vision. "Whatever you want!"
Slowly, Kall eased the knife away and lifted something in front of Marstil's eyes.
The merchant focused on Gertie's gold medallion, flecked with old blood. "Wh-what is that?"
"The symbol of our new alliance," Kall answered, putting the chain around Marstil's neck. "Your commitment to the service of Morel. The house of Greve is now the benefactor of Morel's servants. They will be paid generously from its coffers, for the whole of their lives, whether they stay with Morel or not, whether the house thrives or burns to the ground. And upon their deaths, every guard, maid, cook, and steward will be buried with the highest honor at Greve's expense. It's not so large a thing to ask, in exchange for your life. Don't you agree?"
Marstil nodded wordlessly.
"Most importantly, you will wear this medallion always, Marstil," Kall said, in a voice of quiet menace. "If ever I see you've taken it off, I will take off your head. You may be assured I will enjoy that far more than I enjoy letting you live."
He stepped back. Marstil fled the study, taking Lathander's sun and leaving his jeweled blade.
Kall followed him out into the ballroom. A lady standing nearby scuttled aside to avoid colliding with the running merchant. She watched his retreating back in consternation.
Kall swept up to her and bowed grandly. "Lady Tanislove," he said, smiling his most charming smile, the one that never worked on Cesira, "might I request a dance?"
* * * * *
"Try this one," Laerin suggested, snagging a flute of a bruise-colored liquid from a passing tray. "If you sip it with a bite of cheese, the flavor becomes blueberry tart." He sipped and chewed thoughtfully. "Uncanny."
Morgan wedged a morsel of cheese between his cheek and jaw and took a gulp of wine. "Save a lot of trouble if you just eat the tart." He wrinkled his nose. "Probably tastes better, too."
"Yes, but you have to get in the spirit of things," Laerin chided him. "Tethyrian Blueberry Blush is much more expensive."
"Silly name too." Morgan's eyes were on the crowd. "Didn't know you were a wine snob."
"I am a man of many tastes and talents."
"Good thing shovelin's near the top of the list, 'cause you're knee-deep in sh—"
"Zzar," Laerin cooed, reaching for another tray.
"Careful!" Morgan grabbed a fistful of the half-elf's hair, hauling it and the rest of his friend behind one of the ballroom's marble statues.
"Morgan, why are we hiding, and do I happen to have any hair left, or did you take it all?" Laerin asked calmly.
"Shut it." Morgan pointed across the ballroom, where Kall strode along on the arm of a lady in a green silk gown with fine silver chains encircling her arms from shoulder to wrist. The woman lifted her lips to Kall's ear to whisper something that made him chuckle.
Morgan shook his head. "That'll get him a punch in the bowels—two silver on it."
Laerin sighed. "Cesira would never maim him for flirting with Lhynvor Tanislove. The lady has more sense than that."
Well said. Cesira's arm slid companionably around Laerin's waist, accompanied by a scent that was both flower and herb, exotic and completely removed from the heavily perfumed bodies in the ballroom. I don't believe you flattering idiots were on the guest list.
"Ten families seemed a modest number for a welcome home party," said Laerin. "What harm is there in adding two more guests?"
"We didn't come in under 'flattering idiots,' " Morgan grinned. "We're in disguise."
"Obviously, it's working well," Laerin said dryly, but he sobered quickly enough. "We're here to keep eyes on Kall."
"Too many debt-collectors in the room," said Morgan.
Laerin looked at her askance. "Surely you don't object?"
Not at all, Cesira said. But Kall will—with fervor. I welcome you, so long as you stay silent and invisible.
"Not two of Morgan's greater talents, but we'll do our best," Laerin assured her. He took a step back, surveying the druid's gown. A wide belt at her waist gathered layers of skirts in subtle shades of earthen red. Worked into the belt's dark leather was the figure of an oak leaf, the symbol of Silvanus. Slashed sleeves revealed tanned arms and matching leather bands encircling each of her wrists. "I'll say this, since I'm certain Kall hasn't thought to," the half-elf said, "these fine Amnian frill-lovers have nothing on you, Lady of Mir."
Cesira inclined her head to hide her smile. My thanks, O flattering idiot.
Laerin laughed. "How fares the Lady Morel?"
Her eyes on the swirling crowd, Cesira did not immediately reply. Hired minstrels—she had no idea where Kall had found them—had begun a circle dance, which had drawn many of the guests from the balcony to line up in colorful half-moons across the floor. They were all smiles and good-natured jesting on the surface, but Cesira knew why the merchants were here. They wanted to see if Kall could hold his own among them.
Everything in Amn was a test, a measurement of investment and potential gain. If Kall's manner and surroundings showed promise, the merchant families would give him time to pay the debts of his father. That's why Cesira had agreed to serve in the role of the lady of the house, however much it galled her. She had no intention of letting the wolves eat Kall alive.
She'd directed the servants in gutting and cleaning the house with the same thoroughness she displayed when scourging an army of goblins. The results may not have rivaled the Tanislove estate, but there would be no chink in Morel's armor from this front.
Have you watched them? she asked, nodding to the dancing throng.
"Glaring peacocks, the lot," Morgan said dismissively.
"No." Laerin shook his head. "She means the merchant families."
"What of 'em?"
"They announced them at the door, each according to his station," said Laerin. "I watched them separate immediately, almost as if they couldn't stand to be in each other's company."
Morgan nodded sagely. "Reminds me of my family."
"It's what they prefer you to think. Look." Laerin pointed with his glass to a group of women gathered near the staircase. Their ornate turbans shimmered with glitter dust and bobbed together like a star storm with the force of the women's back and forth whispering. "The younger lass, standing at the edge of the crowd—she's Seyana Veshpel, a niece of Lord Uskan Veshpel—patriarch of his house. I saw her announced last in her family. See how she's treated as such?"