Tamlin kept nipping at the clarry while he and Escevar retired to his wardrobe. They rummaged through trunks and armoires to create a suitable outfit that the nobleman had never worn before, at least in the sense that he'd never before combined this particular cambric shirt with that branched velvet doublet, or that scarlet riding cape with these crimson lugged boots. By the time the bottle was empty, there was only one element still lacking.
Tamlin had never shared his siblings' passion for weapons and fencing. He liked to think that was his mother coming out in him. Still, no gentleman was properly dressed without a sword. It needn't be a functional sword, however, and for the stylish young nobles of Selgaunt, who had guards to protect them and tended to favor whimsy over practicality, it often wasn't. Moved by that same frivolous spirit, Tamlin selected an object d'art; a long, slender blade, spun from rosy glass, in a scabbard. The delicate ornament had been specially enchanted to a resilience sufficient to withstand casual bumps and jostles.
He attached the crystal trinket to his favorite gold sword belt, and then he and Escevar walked to the kitchen, where squat Brilla, who presided there, bustled about to provide them with fragrant, fresh-baked manchet bread, marmalade, and ale. Tamlin had once overheard the maids Dolly and Larajin complain of Brilla's harshness, and to this day, he couldn't understand it. The woman was always sweet as a sugar-sop to him.
With food in his belly, he felt better still, and as he and Escevar made their way to the courtyard, he was actually smiling in anticipation of the day ahead.
When he stepped outside into the bracing cold, he found that all was in readiness. The grooms had the horses saddled, and a pair of greyhounds roamed excitedly about the cobbles. Master Cletus, the falconer, had two hooded hawks waiting on their conical wooden blocks, while a third already perched on Brom's gauntleted wrist. It was a tiercel, ordinarily a hawk for ladies and boys, but as much bird, Tamlin had thought, as the wizard should try to manage his first time out. Judging from the leery way Brom was handling the bird, his arm extended to keep its beak and talons as far as possible from his face, Tamlin had been correct. Meanwhile, aloof from all the commotion, Vox lounged in a doorway.
Vox was Tamlin's personal bodyguard, and few who saw him doubted his fitness for the task. A hulking, swarthy, middle-aged mute with a shaggy black beard and long hair tied in a braid, he wore studded leather armor. A bastard sword rode sheathed on his back, a short sword and dirk hung at his waist, and he'd tucked another dagger into each of his high boots where squares of bronze were riveted to stop an enemy's blade.
When the greyhounds spotted Tamlin, they dashed up to fawn on him. He crooned to them and petted them for a moment, then advanced to greet his human retainers. The dogs romped along at his heels.
"Good morning!" Tamlin said. "It's a meeting of the masters, I see, master falconer and master magician, too. It looks like you're all ready to go, Brom."
"Uh, yes," the skinny young wizard replied. "Master Cletus insisted that I start becoming accustomed to the bird, and vice versa. But in truth, I wonder if this outing is wise. We might be needed here."
Tamlin grinned. "You just want to stay indoors, where it's warm." He'd noticed Brom's aversion to the cold on the very day that Father brought him into the household. "But I promise you, once the birds start flying, you'll forget all about the chill. Falconry is the grandest game on earth, or at least the grandest you can play without a pretty girl."
"It's not the cold," Brom said. "Are you aware that Lord and Lady Uskevren didn't come home last night?"
"I wasn't, and now that I am, I say, so what?"
"Master Cale is quite concerned."
Tamlin snorted. "He would be. Any excuse to be glum and grim! But the fact of the matter is, Father is frequently gone overnight, and sometimes Mother is too when she visits her friends."
"I understand that," said Brom, his cheeks ruddy above his patchy beard, "but according to Erevis, when Lady Uskevren is going to sleep elsewhere, she always informs him in advance, and if you'll excuse my commenting on their personal habits, it's extremely unusual for your mother and father to spend a night away from home in one another's company."
"Well, maybe the old goat is finally starting to appreciate her. Look, wizard, as I understand it, Father was busy with those dreary emissaries from the other side of the sea all morning, and in consequence, he and Mother didn't depart until mid-afternoon. They probably couldn't make it back before dark, and it was truly cold last night, and snowing as well. Rather than ride all the way home through the worst of it, they likely stopped at an inn, or one of the family tall-houses closer to the bridge."
"That does sound plausible," Brom admitted. The tiercel shifted its feet, jingling the bell attached to its ankle, and he flinched just a little. "But I had a bad feeling when they rode out without an escort, and without any of us knowing precisely where they were headed, or why."
"You're every bit as bad as Erevis, fretting over 'feelings'! I guarantee you, nothing happened to my parents, and even if it had, Father can take care of himself. Believe me, I know. I spent my boyhood stupefied with boredom at the umpteenth retelling of his exploits, his doomed but valiant defense of the first Stormweather Towers, his daring trading expeditions into Cormyr and the Dales, his defiant return to Selgaunt, and all the rest of it."
"So you're not worried at all?"
"Why should I be? That's why my family employs retainers, to worry for us and sort our problems out. Retainers like you, but you won't do any sorting today. Today you're going to learn hawking!"
Brom smiled wryly, "Very well, sir-" "Deuce, please." "Deuce, then. I hear and obey."
The wizard had to give the tiercel back to Cletus while he clambered onto his mount. Meanwhile, Escevar collected the saker he was fond of, and Tamlin took Honey-lass, his bronze gyrfalcon, onto his wrist.
"I think we'll ride by the river," he said, stroking the hawk's feathers. "Perhaps you can take a crane."
When everyone was in the saddle, the hawking party headed out the gate into the busy street, the greyhounds loping at the head of the procession. Tamlin, Escevar, and Brom rode palfreys, while Vox, bringing up the rear, sat astride a massive black destrier strong enough to bear his weight.
Tamlin soon noticed that Brom managed a horse almost as awkwardly as he did a hawk. He started giving the magician pointers, alternating between expounding on equestrianism and discussing the art of seduction with Escevar, who was jogging along on his other side. So much talking quickly dried his throat, but fortunately, the grooms had performed their duties well. They'd hung a wineskin from his pommel, and no doubt tucked a flask of brandy or aqua vitae in his saddlebag as well.
Tamlin was just tugging the leather stopper out of the wineskin, the action made a trifle more difficult by Honey-lass's weight on his wrist, when a barrier of glistening ice, its edges momentarily nickering with blue and violet light, sprang up to bar the way. It materialized just in front of the greyhounds, who yelped and recoiled, while the horses whinnied and shied. Brom's mount reared, and the spell-caster nearly fell off. The tiercel on his arm screamed and spread its wings.
"Watch out!" Escevar shouted.
Dropping the wineskin, Tamlin wheeled his dappled gelding around and perceived that he and his companions had ridden into an ambuscade, with the barricade of ice conjured to hold them in the killing box. Men with crossbows were leaning out of upper-story windows, while others with naked blades scrambled from doorways and the mouths of alleys. The other innocent folk unfortunate enough to be trapped on this particular stretch of street at this particular time scurried to get out of the waylayers' path.