Текст книги "The Howling Delve"

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His father nodded. "So it was Chadossa."

"No doubt the family is having second thoughts about dealing with the Shadow Thieves," Aazen guessed.

"But their son is not."

"What do you mean?"

"Chadossa broke off all contact with us just before their betrayal, all except the boy, the youngest son," said Balram. "He's still buying. There's an exchange tonight. I've left the location up to you. I trust you will be discreet."

Aazen shrugged. "Perhaps he was not privy to his family's intentions. Or they were not aware he was also our client and so failed to warn him. What do you propose to do?"

"I intend to send a message. Chadossa's son will bear it for me, and his sire will learn the price of betrayal."

"You risk the wrath of a powerful family," Aazen warned, but he already knew what his father would say.

"My own family's resources far outstrip any the Chadossas could gather," Balram said confidently.

"And will your family support such a bold action?" Aazen dared to ask.

Uncharacteristically, his father waved it off with a chuckle. "Even Daen could not argue with the profit already amassed in this venture. And if Chadossa acts anything like I expect him to, the authorities will never trace the message back to us." His father's expression changed as he looked on his son. "You'll have to deliver the item to him, Aazen." Aazen kept his face neutral.

"Is there no one else?"

"None of the others will touch the broken items," Balram said. "They're afraid."

So was his father, though the man would never admit it. He should be afraid, Aazen thought. Any rational person would be.

"I'll take care of it, Father," he said. "There is another issue."

"What is it?"

"When we retrieved the items, we encountered a woman in the Delve—a Harper."

Balram's lip curled. "They turn up in the most inconvenient places. Did you deal with her?"

"I left her to bleed out, but perhaps I shouldn't have. She knew the wizard. She may have been his apprentice. If so, we could have used her."

Balram shook his head. "Too risky. Secrecy is our best advantage in this, and it's possible she knows another way out. Your only mistake was in not making sure she was dead. We'll take care of that tomorrow."

Aazen nodded. If he had had his way, they would never have returned to the Delve at all. The memories it held for him were not pleasant ones. He still felt it—the distant menace, the sensation of being trapped—whenever he went down there. "What if more apprentices unexpectedly turn up?" he asked.

"As with the woman, they'll find the Delve a place much changed from what it was before," Balram said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Howling Delve

3 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Meisha opened her eyes to a blurry world of smoke and stink—the full, cloying smell of sweat and unwashed bodies, broken only by the pungent odor of some kind of herb.

She was still underground, lying on a pallet of blankets. She could make out the uneven rock ceiling by the light of a torch suspended on the wall above her head. Smoke from the brand drifted languidly in the air until it reached the ceiling, then it was swept away like river water to a darkened corner of the room. If Varan's magics still functioned, he must be nearby, Meisha thought.

She tried to sit up and felt pain lance through her lower back. The stab wound was still fresh. She should be dead. Someone must have found her and treated the wound—Varan?

Meisha felt a stiff bandage encasing her abdomen, which seemed to be the source of the herb scent. But she could tell at least some of the bones in her wrist had reknit while she slept. Whoever had treated her had done so with some magical aid, but not much.

She examined her surroundings. The chamber around her was wide, with a low ceiling that dipped almost to the ground in some corners and fluted upward sharply in others. This place Meisha recognized. She'd made her pact to become Varan's apprentice here, over a pit of flames.

As an apprentice, she'd taken meals here or used the space for study that did not involve casting. Despite the cold and damp of the underground environment, Varan had had the chamber richly appointed. Placed in the center of the room was a round, cherry wood table—with thicker legs than her own—surrounded by soft, wingback armchairs. Two couches with tasseled silk pillows had flanked a bookcase wedged along the wall. All of it had huddled around small fire pits, with Varan's ventilation magic handy to carry the smoke away through one of the carved flues in the ceiling.

But now the chamber was stripped of all furnishing. A sagging length of rope hung around her pallet and held a stained sheet for privacy. Meisha could make out dozens more of the boxed-off areas around the chamber. Distorted shapes moved within them like a complex shadow play. People, Meisha thought—a fair number, at that.

She could hear their voices, sometimes whispering in low tones, other times pitched loudly to carry across the chamber.

"I'm tellin' ye, pick one day for butchering, and we won't have that awful stink to wake to."

"Five toys just today—that's got it, my time's coming up. Always does when yer five times as likely to lose an eye."

"Where's Iadra? Somebody'd best tell her to be puttin' the mark up."

Footfalls tramped on the other side of her sheet. Meisha tensed, but the male voice that drifted over the thin cloth was somehow familiar.

"Tymora's best odds, all I'm saying. Tymora's best odds she don't live through the night."

"You said as much last night," an overly patient female voice answered him. "Return it, please."

"She's not gonna care! You didn't see this blood pool, Har. I pulled her out—no one else was there with her to do the honors. She'd want me to have it."

"Get out of my way, Talal."

"Fine. At least let's nudge her and see—see if she's still kicking."

Hands flung the sheet aside to reveal a pair of large eyes surrounded by a nest of dirty blond hair that had not been combed with anything more elaborate than fingers and spit for many years. The boy couldn't have seen more than two decades of life, and they'd been lean years. His wrists were the breadth of broom handles, and he crouched like a frog, his spindle legs thickening with muscle at the thighs, as if he squatted and crawled more often than he walked. He wore a baggy shirt and breeches. When he moved, the odor wafting off them made Meisha gag.

"It's awake," the boy said, too brightly, as if he were hiding disappointment. "See?" He pointed at her triumphantly, her Harper pin clutched in one dirty hand. "Did that last time. Thought she was dead and whew!" He waggled his fingers and pulled a ghoulish face at the woman who was attempting to push him aside with her hip. "Back to life again." The boy didn't seem to notice the woman's exasperated shoving. "No one dies reliably these days."

Meisha's hand came up, snagging the boy's wrist like a snake after a mouse.

"Ho, there!"

"That's mine," she croaked, squeezing the mouse until the boy dropped the pin on the ground.

"Got 'im worms for wits, but Talal doesn't mean any harm," said the woman. She was much older and not nearly as dirty as the boy. Her hair was stark white in the dim torchlight, and so thin Meisha could see patches of skin through the wispy strands. Her eyebrows had worn away long ago, but she had a quick, affectionate smile for the boy even as she chided him.

"Are you in great pain?" she asked Meisha. The same pungent herb smell wafted from her hands as she probed Meisha's bandage.

"Only when I move," Meisha grunted. Truth was, she hurt all over, but part of that was from the cold. Despite the blankets piled on and beneath her, the cavern floor was colder than Meisha ever remembered it being. Not all Varan's enchantments were working, she thought, and her heart sank a little. "Who are you?" she asked, stopping the woman in her ministrations. "Where's Varan? What's happened to this place?"

"Easy," the woman said. "One at a time. I'm Haroun." She pointed to the boy. "This one's Talal. Your wound is healing. The knife managed to miss everything vital. Still, you were far gone when Talal brought you in. We're allowed only a small number of healing draughts, and we had to use two just to keep you from death."

"You have my thanks," Meisha said with feeling. She sat up gingerly, and with Haroun's help, got to her feet. "My attackers, do you know who they were?"

"Yes." Haroun's voice was strained. "The Shadow Thieves. They come through the glowing doors once every few tendays—the time varies. They don't want us to know when to expect them. She leaned closer, her milky eyes intent on Meisha's. "Tell me, child, did you come through the doorways? Do you know how to open them?"

Meisha shook her head, and the woman's eyes dimmed. "I came by . . . other means." Before Haroun could ask, she said, "I can't return the same way, but there is a main entrance. It's kept hidden, but I can show you."

Haroun was shaking her head before she'd finished. "No need. That way is closed."

"Closed?"

"Tunnel's sealed off," Talal spoke up. "Bastards caved it in, put something on it when we tried to dig out." He made scooping and filling motions with his hands. "We dig—stays full."

"An enchantment," Meisha said, remembering the wizard from the raiding party. "Probably activated from the other side of the cave-in. All it would require is a new casting each day, perhaps not even that often." She looked at the boy. "They trapped you in the Delve? How long have you been here?"

Talal and Haroun exchanged glances. "I'll show her," the boy offered, shrugging.

Haroun hesitated, appearing almost upset, but finally she nodded. "Go. She'll need to see the places where it's safe to walk. Show her gently, Talal. Do nothing foolish."

The boy flashed an indignant, "do I ever" look and offered his sleeve to Meisha in imitation of a grand lord escorting his lady. Meisha suppressed a groan, selected the cleanest possible scrap of cloth to grasp, and they were off, weaving among the cubed warrens to a cleared central path that led to an attached passage.

Talal yanked a torch from the wall sconce. He ignored the shouts of dismay from the corner of the cavern subsequently plunged into darkness. "This way."

They walked a short distance down a passage Meisha remembered. It led to a series of carved out alcoves fitted with thick wooden doors.

When Varan had first come to the Delve, he'd used the spaces as storage, but later they became small, private quarters for the apprentices. The wizard's domain was only a small part of the tunnel system. Varan's magic had placed the age of some of the lower tunnels as contemporaries of Deep Shanatar. The wizard speculated the Delve might even have been an outpost of that great dwarven realm.

Talal tugged on her arm. Absorbed in her thoughts, Meisha hadn't noticed when they'd stopped. Framed by a pearly, flow-stone waterfall, Talal pointed behind her to a stretch of wall. Meisha turned and blinked.

Numbers covered the stone from floor to ceiling, arranged in neatly ordered columns like a moneylender's account. All were dates, marked with the change of month and the change of year. They ended Marpenoth 3 of 1374 DR.

"Iadra marks a new one every day," said Talal.

"1370," Meisha read from the top of the first column. "Eleasias 20. Four years ago."

"Date we found the entrance. Wish we hadn't," Talal muttered.

"You—all of you?" Meisha shook her head. "Impossible. Varan shields the entrance with magic and places a ward on the perimeter."

A shadow passed over the boy's face. "There was no magic. The way was just sitting there, open as you please. We wouldn't have gone in, but the brigands had started to circle. There were too many of us not to be noticed out in the open."

"What were you doing all the way out here?"

"Running," Talal said.

Meisha waved an impatient hand. "From brigands, yes, but what—"

"No—from Esmeltaran."

"Esmeltaran?" Meisha echoed. Then it hit her: 1370. Meisha didn't need to do the calculation. She knew. "The ogres," she said, and Talal nodded. "You're refugees from the war."

"We were headed for Keczulla when they started shadowing us."

"The men from the portal?" Meisha asked.

Talal actually laughed. "No, the brigands—soft bellies by comparison. There were a lot more of us then. We moved in a group, tight as Tyr's arse. Only thing kept us alive—they didn't want to take on the whole bunch of us. But they smartened up, the longer they stayed with us. Picked off the stragglers, set traps—that sort of thing. We never saw any of the cowardly bastards. Thought we could wait them out in the caves. We should've known something was wrong if damn brigands wouldn't follow us inside."

"Did you explore? Was there anyone living in the caves?" Meisha wanted to know.

Talal hesitated. He swung the torch at one of the alcoves.

Meisha went for the door, but the boy caught her wrist.

"Don't burst in like that!" he hissed. "You want to kill us all?"

"It's Varan, isn't it?" Meisha said. At his blank look, she pressed, "You found a wizard here."

Talal's lip curled. "Pity us, yes."

Meisha freed her arm. "He's the man I came to see—my teacher! He can get us all out of here."

The boy stared at her. "Certainly, Lady," he said, bowing her mockingly toward the door. "You go right on in and ask him to do that."

Dread welled inside Meisha, but she pushed past Talal. The door scraped the stone floor as she wrenched it open, dripping dirt and cold sediment down on her. She ignored it in the face of what lay within.

The room was littered with garbage. Broken bits of junk covered every available inch of floor space, like the aftermath of a child's tantrum. Varan sat in one corner of the squalid room, his back to her, arms moving as if in the midst of a complicated spell. Small, white maggots swarmed over an uneaten plate of meat and bread on the floor next to him.

Meisha slowly circled the rear wall, putting herself in the wizard's periphery so he would know she was there. Varan held an object in his hands, an opaque sphere caged in a knot of iron bands. Within the sphere, tiny lights winked and danced like trapped stars. Wherever Varan touched the bands, the lights would gather, drawn zipping across the empty space to swirl around his fingertips. The collected magic in the room was so intense it hurt Meisha's head to concentrate too closely on any one point. And the Art did not issue only from the sphere.

Meisha uttered a quick word and swept a fanning gesture the length and width of the room. As the spell took effect, the light nearly smote her blind. Most of the intact objects on the floor, with the exception of the food, contained magic—slight in some instances, dangerously strong in others.

"Varan, what have you been doing?" Meisha whispered, but no one answered. She glanced behind her, but Talal had not followed her into the room. He stood, framed in the crack of the half-closed door, watching Varan. His expression showed a mixture of hatred, awe, and fear.

Meisha took a step forward. She felt the boy make a restless motion. Her eyes shot a question at him, and a warning—don't try to stop me.

Talal appeared torn. Reluctantly, he stepped into the room, just far enough to whisper, "He won't answer you. He never talks to us."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Lady, you'd need a bucket full of scribes to make that list. Just come away," he pleaded.

Meisha shook her head. "I have to see him." She crept toward the wizard, carefully toeing aside the non-magical debris to make a path.

She knelt next to her former teacher, but he did not stir from his work. He smelled much worse than Talal. His gray-blue robes were stained—Mystra's mercy, in some places charred—and soiled by old urine and waste. Her eyes traveled upward, and Meisha gasped at the gaunt, cavernous husk that the wizard's face had become.

Varan had been aged when Meisha was young, but the man who sat before her was sucked dry, all his energy and vitality gone. His left eye was missing, and the flesh around the empty socket had melted, folding into itself like a pudding. His one good eye stared dully at the wall as his hands moved in a jerky rhythm over the sphere.

Meisha followed his gaze. A rough parchment drawing floated flat against the cavern wall, illuminated by green radiances. On it someone had scribbled—the hand was too spiky to be Varan's—a drawing of the sphere, with notes along the top and sides of the page.

The lights in the sphere flared, drawn to its center. Suddenly, a sound like shattering glass echoed in the room, and the lights went out. Gray mist tendrils flowed from the gaps in the iron bands, curling up sinuously to touch Varan's beard.

The wizard's hands shook, as if the sphere had suddenly doubled in weight. It dragged the old man's arms down, and the mist swirled and dissipated. The sphere hit the cavern floor with a thud that Meisha felt through her knees.

Distaste flickered in the wizard's eye. He pushed the sphere aside and tore the drawing from the wall.

"Broken."

Meisha's head snapped up at the sound of the wizard's voice. "Varan?"

"Hello, little firebird," he replied, but his gaze never left the drawing. Carefully, he tore it into strips of glowing green, flicking each aside like magical confetti.

Relief flooded Meisha at the sound of the old nickname. "Master. What happened to you, to your eye?"

Varan seemed not to hear her. "I broke another one." He selected a brittle piece of meat from the plate and tore off a bite.

"What do you mean, you 'broke' it?" Meisha asked.

"Broken," Varan repeated. "Some of them work, some break. And yet they cling to me, just like you did, firebird. Cling to me, wanting to be fixed. I suppose I'll fix them all, eventually."

"Varan," Meisha said, choking back her revulsion at the white, squirming maggots crawling in the hair around the wizard's lips, "where is Jonal? And Prieces—the other apprentices? Why didn't they aid you?"

"Oh, they're here," Varan said. He patted the small sack he wore tied around his neck. He reached inside and drew out three rings. He dropped them into her cupped hand one at a time. They were identical to the ring Meisha wore, but for the bloodstains.

"Dead?" Meisha couldn't believe it. Three apprentices, and even Jonal, the lowliest among them, bore powerful elemental magic, defenses known only to themselves and Varan. "How?"

But Varan had gone back to his drawing. Meisha picked up the sphere, but whatever magic it had held appeared spent.

What happened to the wizard? Her attacker's words drifted back.

"Talal, what. . ."

But Talal was no longer in the room. Meisha turned back and found Varan staring at her as if he'd only just discovered she was in the room.

"Firebird, it is good to see you," he said. He lifted a hand to touch her shoulder. The gesture of affection was so familiar it made Meisha's chest constrict.

"Master, how did this happen?" she asked, cupping the melted side of his face gently in her hand.

"This?" Varan twirled a finger in the empty socket. "I believe he took it—or I had to give it away—hard to remember. Bad things are here," he said. Then he shifted the finger, tapping his temple. "But here ..." He grinned at her. "Gods are at work."

"Oh, Master—"

"I'm glad you've returned, little one. Yes, you can help me fix them—the broken ones." He touched his hand to the wall next to where the drawing had been. His fingers passed through the rock as if it were water, until he'd sunk to the elbow in stone. When he pulled his hand out, he held a second sphere, smaller than the first and copper-hued.

"What is broken, Varan? Where are those coming from?" Meisha asked. She lifted the pouch away from his neck, slipping the rings back inside. "What happened to the apprentices?"

"I told you, they're here. Don't fret." His hand closed tightly over hers. With the other, he stroked her hair.

"But what—"

"I told you." Ancient muscles flexed with astonishing strength, slamming her head into the unforgiving stone wall. "Don't fret."

Meisha went down in a burst of red pain and horror. Blindly, she lurched to her back as her teacher towered over her, a terrible, crumbling column of rage and power.

"You should leave now, firebird," he said, his face dark. He murmured something inaudible, and the chamber sparked to life with newly kindled magic. "Leave me alone."

Gasping, cradling her head, Meisha opened her mouth in time to taste fire. The chamber darkened and blurred as if she'd been cast into a deep pool. She could no longer see Varan.

Trembling, Meisha raised herself to her knees and crawled to where she thought the doorway must be. Somewhere along the way the fire went out, but she could smell the smoke of things still burning: rotted meat, clothing, and hair—her own, of course. She slid onto her face and rolled jerkily to put the fires out.

Hands caught her armpits, and Meisha felt herself being dragged out of the room into cooler air. She heard the door grind shut, and Talal's terrified face filled her vision.

"He t-tried to kill me." Meisha coughed on the smoke from her own burnt clothing.

Talal nodded grimly. "The ball. You touched one of his toys. Shirva Tarlarin did the same thing. There wasn't enough of her left to show her husband. You should be dead," he said, half-accusingly.

Meisha shuddered. Her skin was unburned but red and raw, as if she'd stumbled through a bramble bush. "I'm protected—somewhat—against magical fire," she said, lifting a hand to touch her head. "I wish I could say the same for blunt trauma." She looked up at Talal imploringly. "What happened to him? How did—"

"We don't know," Talal said. "He was like that when we found him, but worse—starved nearly to death, and sick. We brought him out of it, but his head's gone.. . ." Talal still gazed at her suspiciously. "You believe me now? That thing isn't your teacher anymore, Lady."

"Then what is he?" Meisha snapped. "What has he become?"

Talal had a quick answer to that. "He's our doom."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Keczulla, Amn

3 Marpenoth, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

«But of course the family stands happy to extend whatever assistance young Lord Morel may require, provided he understands the weight of the favors his father has already accrued.»

"Your point is clearly taken, Lady." Kall bowed to the coldly smiling Lady Rothres and continued his trek across the ballroom.

Absently, he scanned the second floor balcony for Cesira. She was nowhere in sight, but that was hardly a surprise. With its open view of the main ballroom, the second floor was a popular spot, and thus quite crowded.

Kall left the echoing chatter of the ballroom and crossed the dark garden to the tower stairs. The double-arched windows of his father's former offices stood exactly as they had in Esmeltaran, though the current occupant of the tower hardly cared what view he had.

Syrek Dantane stood bent over a table, examining a book that was easily the length of his arm. The wizard had to shuffle a step left and right to read the text.

"I'd love to see the bookshelf that came out of," Kall said by way of greeting.

The wizard did not immediately answer. When he did, he lifted only his eyes from the tome. They were as clear and as blue as Kall's, with a matching sheen of barely concealed hostility.

"I'm sure it would astound you. One actually has to read books on a regular basis to appreciate that knowledge comes in many forms."

Kall ignored the insult. "Surely you can agree inscribing a tome that's impossible to lift borders on the absurd?"

"Whatever you say, Lord Morel. In fact, I was just about to gather my absurd bits of lore and be gone from your house."

Kall leaned against the doorframe. "I don't recall asking you to leave. Could be my mind is slipping. We Morels are famous for our scattered wits, you know."

"As it happens, I do," Dantane said. "No, you haven't asked me to leave, but judging from the fact that you've avoided my requests for an audience since you came here, I'm assuming my eviction cannot be far off."

Kall shrugged. "You may be right. Earlier today, I was going to throw you out without a conversation, but I changed my mind."

"What brought about that bit of charity?"

"I have questions about my father."

Dantane gathered his robes about him, perching on the edge of the table. "Ask."

"When did you come to him?"

"Deepwinter. I was traveling through the city and ran into a bit of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Dantane looked irritated. "The kind that comes when ignorance is allowed too free a rein."

Kall smirked. "Amnians are quite vocal about their wizard-hatred, aren't they?" he said.

"Your father was able to intervene on my behalf, although why he took the trouble—"

"Is the mystery I'm most concerned with," Kall interrupted. "My father hated magic more actively than most."

"So he took great pains to explain to me. Yet, he claimed a greater need drove him to hire me. He suspected someone close was using magic against him. He wished me to find the source."

Now Kall listened intently. "Did you?"

Dantane pushed away from the table. He strode to a locked cupboard in the corner and murmured something. A door creaked open, and Dantane reached inside, withdrawing an object that was unfamiliar to Kall: an ornate silver brooch set with a square, thumb-sized amethyst. "I removed this from your father's person, though its magic was already drained to nothing."

"What is it?"

"Exactly what it appears, but your father's blood is on the pin. That blood bore traces of a subtle mind-altering magic. I've seen similar pieces before. The spells make a person extremely susceptible to suggestion, but only from those they trust—friends or family. For instance, if the lady of the house doesn't approve of the way her husband is using the family finances, instead of throwing a fuss, she can use this to influence him in new directions."

"But the lord would be unaffected in business dealings with enemies and rivals?" Kall asked.

"Precisely. Tailored to fit any Amnian merchant, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed." So that was it, Kall thought. Magic had tainted his father's blood. "How did my father discover the spells affecting him?"

"He may have noticed when one or both elements of the enchantment began to break down," Dantane said, "the spells . . . and his own mind."

Kall nodded. It made sense. Over time, the enchantment had slowly destroyed his father's sanity. He'd seen it that night in the garden. "When my father hired you, was he . . ."

"Lucid?" Dantane smiled sardonically. "He had stretches, long enough to keep his business scraping by. I could prolong some of them, with magic. Do you have any other inquiries, Lord Morel?" he asked impatiently, "or may I go?"

Kall considered the man. He knew what Cesira would say if she were here. Dantane was young, tidy with his speech and possessions, but with an unkempt air about his person. His dark hair was too long and shaggy, his eyes perpetually jumpy and fatigued. And he was hungry, Kall thought. He'd watched the wizard poring over his books. The man was too eager for magic to have come willingly to a land so bereft of it. Kall had no doubt there was more to his reason for being here, but whether it had anything to do with the Morel family was what he needed to know.

He knew what Cesira would say. Cesira would send Dantane away without hesitation.

"I want you to watch the party," Kall said, surprising them both.

Dantane raised an eyebrow. "Watch it for what?"

Kall had no idea. "I have no mercenaries, no guards employed to see to the security of the house. You can act in that capacity."

Dantane hesitated. "Lord Morel, you claim a powerful druid as your companion—"

"Yes, but she's fairly intractable . . ."

"—so I fail to see what added benefit I can be."

"You're saying you don't want to continue to receive the impressive mound of coin my father paid?"

"I've seen your guest list, Lord Morel. It more resembles a creditor account. How long will you be able to retain my services once this evening's festivities are concluded?"

Kall had no notion of that either. "Start with the party. We'll go from there." On the heels of one problem settled, another occurred to Kall. He took out his mother's pouch, held the strings, then tossed the pouch to Dantane.

The wizard caught it, a puzzled frown crossing his face. "What's this?"

"A task for after the party," Kall said. "Search its contents for any dangerous magic." He still didn't completely trust Meisha.

"And if I find some?" Dantane asked.

Kall paused at the top of the stairs. "Destroy it."

* * * * *

Later, Kall sat at his father's desk, his arms folded behind his head as he listened to the muffled sounds of the party going on outside the study. He was still sitting when the door opened, and Lord Marstil Greve stepped inside.

Lord Greve was a handsome man just entering middle years, but his muscles had begun to soften. He wore a jeweled knife at his belt, inset with two gems—one a ruby in a nest of gold, the other a glimmering emerald.

"Lord Morel? I believe we had an appointment," said Marstil.

"My apologies, Lord Greve," Kall said, coming around the desk to offer his hand. "My mind was consumed by other thoughts—old memories."

The merchant nodded. "Understandable. It must be strange to come home after so long an absence. My sympathies on your father's death, he was—"

"Suicide," Kall corrected.

Marstil blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"My father took his own life," Kall repeated pleasantly. "In this study, as a matter of fact."

Marstil appeared extremely uncomfortable. "I hope you don't mind my speaking with you privately, Lord Morel. . . and speaking plainly," he added, watching Kall's face.

"Not at all."

"Being newly arrived in Keczulla, I'm sure you're unaware that among the merchants of the city, my family is growing in prominence, though we do not have the history associated with the Tanisloves, the Bladesmiles ... or the Morels." Marstil paused, waiting for Kall to comment. When he was met by bland silence, he continued, "Yet, I have been given to understand that the house of Morel has suffered from .. ." he paused again, and Kall almost smiled. Marstil was searching for a delicate way to say that Morel was a coin toss away from destitution.