Vraggen frowned. Had Cale and Riven allied? Had Riven's hostility been only a cover? Maybe this Cale had learned what the globe was. Maybe he and Riven had murdered Thamalon to take it for themselves. It seemed too coincidental that the Uskevren patriarch would buy the globe with Cale at his side and die soon after. That work stank of Drasek Riven.
Vraggen looked to Azriim and Dolgan and said, "This complicates matters." While a simple divination attuned to the Shadow Weave could reveal if the globe was in the family's mansion, dealing with Cale and Riven would not be as simple. "Cale and Riven are professionals," he said simply.
Azriim smirked and chewed his apple.
Dolgan gave a hard grin and asked, "Mean looking, huh?"
Vraggen faced Alkenen and gave an insincere smile.
"You've been of immeasurable help, friend Alkenen." Vraggen took ten platinum suns from his belt pouch, gave them to the peddler, and added, "For your trouble."
Alkenen stared wide-eyed at the coins, a small fortune by his standards.
"Take it. You've been a great help to me."
Alkenen said, "You're too generous, Vraggen. Anything else I can do—anything—you need only ask. I'll be in Selgaunt another few days, then I'm off to Marsember for the Festival of the Hart."
"Thank you, my friend. But nothing more for now." Vraggen forced himself to hold the smile. "Promise you'll spend the coin well, and soon. Otherwise, it'll chew a hole in your pouch."
Alkenen promised that he would and they parted ways.
When they had walked a block or two away from Alkenen, Azriim said, "Helpful fellow, your friend Alkenen. Maybe you two should get together for tendayly games of sava. Chess maybe. I suspect he'd give you a good game."
Vraggen resisted the urge to smack the smirk from Azriim's face, and said, "We'll track Cale and Riven for a few days. Once we've located the globe, we kill them and take it."
"Easy enough," Azriim replied.
"We'll need to involve a few more men."
"I know just the woman," said Azriim with a smile.
Vraggen looked a question at the half-drow. He wasn't sure this was woman's work.
"Don't worry," Azriim said with a laugh. "She's no lady. And she's only a woman when it suits her."
Vraggen nodded. He would trust Azriim's judgment. Azriim had brought him Dolgan, after all, and the Cormyrean mercenary had been a perfect addition to the core of their team.
"What is this globe anyway?" Dolgan asked. "What's it do?"
Azriim patted him on the broad shoulder and said, "You're only asking that now? Where've you been for the last three tendays?"
The half-drow laughed at Dolgan's dull frown. "It doesn't do much of anything, my big friend. It simply is."
"Enough," Vraggen ordered.
There were people all over the street. Azriim's careless tongue was infuriating.
Dolgan continued to frown, obviously perplexed.
"Never fear, Dolgan," Azriim said. "There's a little man with a real brain hidden in that big body somewhere. I'm sure of it. He'll figure it out in time."
Dolgan gave the half-drow a good-natured thump on the shoulder.
Vraggen glanced back the way they had come. He could no longer see Alkenen's cart.
"The charm on the peddler will wear off late this evening. After that, his loose tongue will be a danger to us. Follow him. After he's spent the coin, kill him."
Azriim raised his eyebrows and stared at Vraggen. Was that respect in his mismatched eyes?
"Seems you're not such good friends, after all, eh?" said the half-drow.
Vraggen stared back meaningfully and asked, "Why would you say that?"
The staff took the news of Cale's departure well. Only Brilla the kitchen mistress had cried. Seeing stalwart Brilla blubbering like a child had almost undone Cale. He had fled the kitchen with a knot in his throat and only some of his dignity.
Word had spread to the guards quickly, and many had come up to his room to wish him well. He would leave that very night.
Alone once more, Cale gathered a final bit of gear. Glorious orange light cascaded through his window. The sun was setting on Faerun, as the sun was setting on his time in Stormweather Towers.
He collected up a few necessities—some candles, a coil of rope, tindertwigs, flint and steel, a few favorite books—and placed them in his worn leather backpack. A peculiar numbness overcame him as he did so. It was as though his skin had grown thick.
With insensate fingers, he peeled off his butler's attire—hose, doublet, vest, tailored but still ill-fitting pants and shirt—and piled each article neatly on the bed. Next to them lay his leather armor, boots, weapons, and other traveling clothes. The two halves of his soul lay side by side on the bed: fine cloth on the one hand and worn leather on the other.
From now on, he vowed, he would wear only the leather, the clothes that fit the man.
He reached for his breeches, tunic, leather vest, and boots, and pulled each on in turn. After that he strapped on his armor. Each fastened buckle was a nail in the coffin of Mister Cale the butler. When he snapped on his weapons belt, he could not help but smile at the familiar, comfortable weight of steel on his hips. His coin purse, which was filled with the hundred or so platinum suns Tamlin had insisted he take as severance, he stuffed into an inner pocket of his vest.
Fully dressed and in his proper skin, Cale gathered up his cloak and backpack. He felt... true, for the first time in a long time. He would pick up the sphere from the parlor on his way out. Most of the staff would be involved with dinner preparations, so he would be able to exit the manse without further ado or commotion. That was how he wanted it.
He took a last look around his quarters.
A tentative knock on his door turned him around.
He composed himself then said, "Come."
Thazienne pushed open the door. She wore an informal, sleeveless green dress and a soft frown. As always, she looked beautiful. Her skin shone in the light of the setting sun. Cale fought down the pangs of hurt and desire that he felt when he saw her.
She started to say something, but stopped when her gaze took in his weapons and attire, the cloak and backpack he held in his hand. Her frown deepened.
"You weren't going to say good-bye? To me?" Her voice was soft, diffident, the timid voice of the uncertain teenage girl she once had been.
He could not look her in the eyes. His hands fumbled absently with the straps of his pack.
"I hadn't decided yet," he said.
That was true. For two days he had vacillated between a need to see her one last time and a fear of what he might say if he did.
She looked at him sharply, and her voice changed into that of the confident woman she had become.
"You hadn't decided? What is that supposed to mean?"
He returned her sharp look and snapped, "It means I hadn't decided."
She took a step back, surprised by his harshness.
Hurt made Cale's words sound more callous than he intended.
"We said good-bye months ago, Thazienne. You did, at least."
He thought of the day she had returned to the manse with Steorf, the dolt whose bed Cale was certain she shared. His knuckles whitened around the straps of the backpack.
She understood what he meant. They knew each other too well for her not to know. A flash of red colored her face from chin to ear, though from shame or anger, he could not tell. She spun as though to leave, but stopped herself, turned, and faced him.
She took a deep breath and said, "You were my friend, Erevis. My dear friend."
She could not have known that those words cut him more deeply than if she had said she hated him. Her friend? Only her friend? He swallowed the emotion that threatened to burst from him. He knew that he had misread her for years, that he had been a fool. He felt his own face color.