The Howling Delve
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"Yes, thank you," Marstil murmured.
Kall opened a drawer in the desk. He tossed a black cloth to Marstil. The merchant caught it absently, and was wiping his fingers before he realized what he held. He unrolled the silk hood and let it fall between his hands, revealing two crudely cut eyeholes.
"It's not the original, I realize," said Kall. "But it matches my memories closely. What do you think, Lord Greve?"
Marstil dropped the mask and spun toward Kall in one lightning movement. His arm came around, taking the decanter off the desk. Kall dodged, and glass shattered against the wall. Marstil went for the knife at his belt, but Kall locked a hand around his wrist.
"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" he asked, his pleasant tone unchanged. "That I wouldn't know you as soon as I saw your blade? You're a fool, Marstil, a dead fool."
Marstil struggled, but he'd spent too many years away from hard fighting, and Kall was no longer a stripling boy. He held the man without breaking a sweat.
Kall eased the knife from Marstil's sheath and laid it against the merchant's throat, starting at the ear.
"Shall I give you the same death you gave her?" Kall asked. He waited for the man to answer, to plead, but saw only fear and confusion in Marstil's eyes. The bastard didn't even remember the ones he'd killed. "Gertie never saw her death coming, but you will. I'll savor that time, and the pain, until I'm ready to let you go, unless you tell me where Balram is."
"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.