The Howling Delve
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"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?"
Yet that youngest Veshpel, said Cesira, so innocently lingering at the edge of the group, stands less than a whip crack from her father, and he from his wife, and she from—
"Lord Uskan," Morgan said, seeing the pattern emerge.
"So it goes with every family," said Laerin. "A living chain to see and hear everything in the room. Whatever their personal rivalries, good business benefits the whole family."
"Forced loyalty," Morgan muttered, shaking his head. "One of Morel's fine emeralds says in private they're one wrong word from slaughtering each other." He raised a fist, showing three of the Morel emerald and stone symbols between his fingers.
"Where did you pick those up?" asked Laerin, affronted. "I only received one."
Cesira rolled her eyes. As did everyone at the party, she said.
"Oh, wait, here's another," Laerin added. He smirked, drawing a handful of glittering green from his pouch.
Wonderful, Cesira muttered. Now, would you care to point out which ladies you lifted them from, or shall I wait until one of them gives me a look of horror when I try to speak to her?
Morgan pointed to a woman whose dress was a configuration of red silk scarves fastened in her hair and looping outwards, wrapping down around all the vital portions of her lithe body. "She was definitely one of them."
Thank you, the druid sighed. I think I can divine the others on my own.
Cesira slipped away to join Kall just as Lady Tanislove left him.
He's here—Lord Rays, she told him. He arrived while you were with Marstil.
"Is he still coherent?"
Barely.
"Wonderful. He'll be much more open to my proposal."
Cesira tapped a slender finger against her chin. Now, would that be another business venture, my lord, or the systematic murder of Bladesmile mercenaries? I do get the two confused, you know.
"The latter," Kall said dryly, "but I only intend to murder the ones who prove uncooperative."
You still think one of them will be able to lead you to Balram?
"Somebody knows," said Kall darkly.
As he started to walk away, Cesira took his arm. Relax, Kall, she said. The Morel name demands the merchants treat you as an equal, no matter the breadth of your debt. You have the manner and skills to fit in their world.
For some reason, the compliment made Kall wince. "What little talent I have comes from my father, and his father before." He grinned. "I'd rather you praised me on my skill with a sword, which you rarely do."
Oh, but I disagree. You make a fine adventurer—a talent inherited from your mother, no doubt, Cesira remarked lightly, waving and smiling at a lady across the room.
Kall sighed, thinking it wiser to ignore the path the conversation was taking. "Where is Rays?"
Cesira pointed across the ballroom to where a man swayed drunkenly against one of the marble statues. He used the brief loss of dignity to make lewd pantomimes with the statue and his body, much to the horror of a group of passing ladies.