The Shattered Mask

Chapter 9

Tamlin had just succeeded in luring the giggling Nenda and Vinda, the buxom twins who served ale, wine, and liquor at the Laughing Gamecock, into the closet, when someone rudely took hold of his shoulder and shook him. He turned, opened his eyes, and the closet turned into his own spacious featherbed, just as, judging from the sunlight streaming through the casement, night had changed to morning.

Tamlin's head pounded, and his mouth was dry as dust. Squinting against the glare, he scowled at the freckle-faced, pug-nosed fellow who'd awakened him. "I could have you flogged for this," he said, and then regretted it, a little.

If Escevar resented this reminder that, although Tamlin's closest friend, he was also a mere servant, no one could have told it from his unwavering smile. "You told me to wake you," he said.

"Impossible," Tamlin said, "for you jolted me out of a beautiful dream into a hideous nightmare. Weeping Ilmater, my head!"

"I have the remedy," Escevar said, his auburn curls shining in the light from the window. "Hair of the dog." He gestured to the nightstand, and the uncorked wine bottle and silver goblet sitting atop it.

"You torturer!" Tamlin exclaimed. "Why didn't you point it out before?"

Disdaining the cup, he fumbled the bottle into his unsteady hand and guzzled from the neck. Usk's Fine Old, the spiced clarry his father made, slid down his throat to ease his hangover. It amused him to think how disgusted the old man would be to see him gulp it so. The bottle was half empty when he finally took it away from his lips.

"Better?" Escevar asked.

"Marginally," Tamlin said. In truth, he felt quite a bit better, but wasn't quite ready to relinquish the martyr's role. "Why in Sune's name did I want you to wake me?"

"You and I, Gellie Malveen, and some others are going hawking, and we're likely to be late if you don't hurry."

"I'm not going to be late. I'm not going at all. Gellie's an ass to plan an outing before noon." He made a show of settling back down on the bed.

"As you wish, Deuce. Sleep well." Escevar turned toward the door.

"No, wait," Tamlin forced himself to throw back his covers and sit up on the side of the bed. Though a fire still crackled in the hearth, the parquet floor was cold against the soles of his feet. "We were going to take Brom along, weren't we? And collect Fendolac along the way?"

"Your memory is improving," said the redhead.

Brom Selwick seemed a nice enough fellow, albeit possessed of a tedious zeal which reminded Tamlm unpleasantly of Father and the old man's faithful butler Erevis. Unfortunately, thanks to his declasse upbringing, the wizard lacked the graces of a gentleman, and while that might be tolerable in a groom or scullion, it was inappropriate in a highly placed retainer whose position required him to mingle on familiar terms with the nobility. Tamlin had thought it might be amusing to teach Brom how to behave, and had intended this morning's excursion to contribute to his education.

While Fendolac, of course, had just lost his father. Tamlin had hoped a little sport would distract him from his grief.

"Then I suppose the excursion is an act of charity," the noble said, taking another swig from the bottle, "and I'm stuck. Not that Father will appreciate my sacrifice. He'll keep on calling me indolent and worthless, same as ever." He grinned. "Anyway, I'd better get dressed."

"I'll ring for your valet," Escevar said.

"No, please. I can't stand to see another face or listen to another voice just yet. You help me."

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.

Though Tamlin had no particular love of fighting, either for sport or in deadly earnest, every nobleman was schooled in the martial arts, and his training now took over. Guiding his steed with his knees, he dropped the wineskin and reached for his sword, remembering only as he grasped the hilt that it was a blunt, fragile ornament of glass. He wouldn't even be able to wield it unless he freed it from the loops that secured it to his belt, and then it would almost certainly break into pieces on the first swing. Useless!

A crossbow bolt whizzed past his head.

As a ragged child who seldom had a penny in his pocket, Brom Selwick had loved the puppeteers, storytellers, and itinerant players who provided free entertainment in the plazas and markets of Selgaunt. And in the tales of high adventure and bloodcurdling terror the young Brom had relished most, wizards, whether good or evil, had all been of a certain type. Keen of eye, aquiline of countenance, and luxuriant of beard, the mages uniformly possessed an imperious manner, even as they fairly reeked of awesome powers and secret knowledge.

Brom knew full well that he did not measure up to this popular stereotype. Most people saw him as bookish, awkward, and diffident, and he had to admit that in many situations, it was all true. But if casual acquaintances inferred from his mild demeanor that he was useless in a fight, in that they were very much mistaken.

Upon completing his apprenticeship in the mystic arts, Brom had taken service as a ship's mage, and as he sailed about the Sea of Fallen Stars, honed his battle sorcery in numerous clashes with corsairs from the Pirate Isles and later the savage sea creatures called sahuagin, when they waged their war upon mankind. He most certainly could acquit himself well in combat.

Ordinarily, that was. When he didn't have a wild killer bird screeching and flapping on his wrist, and a frightened mare shifting and heaving beneath him more treacherously than, it seemed to him now, any storm-tossed cog ever had.

The horse tried to lurch into a gallop, though Mystra only knew where it thought there was to escape to. Nearly thrown from the saddle, Brom heaved on the reins with all his strength and forced the animal to stand. The wretched tiercel screeched again, and clutched his wrist so tightly that it hurt despite his thick falconer's glove.

Brom surveyed the battlefield and spied swordsmen and their ilk charging up the snowy street, crossbowmen in windows, and, perched high above the action atop a roof, a masked figure in dark blue clothing with a vague, murky shape crouched at his side. No doubt it was the wizard who'd produced the wall of ice, attended by some sort of familiar.

Brom decided he must trust Vox and Escevar to fend off the attackers on the ground, for only his magic could reach the others. And since the masked wizard didn't appear to be conjuring at the moment, the crossbowmen posed the more immediate threat.

Wishing he'd brought his staff-it had no magical attributes, but he always felt more wizardly when he had it in his hands-Brom shouted a word of power and thrust out his fist, springing his fingers open as his arm became fully extended. Though the tiercel's weight hampered him, the gesture nonetheless adhered to the proper form. Shafts of scarlet light leaped from his fingertips, and, their trajectories diverging, struck five of the crossbowmen. Two of the bullies fell from their windows and slammed down on the ground. The others were thrown backward out of sight.

Brom needed the materials tucked away in his pockets to work most of the rest of his spells, and he couldn't take them out, juggle the hawk, and control the agitated palfrey at the same time. He abruptly remembered Master Cletus explaining that if he unhooded the tiercel and flipped his arm, the bird would fly. He hastily released it to go wherever it wanted, and then one of the surviving crossbowmen shot his mare in the head.

The animal dropped. Brom frantically kicked free of the stirrups, and, thanks more to luck than athleticism, a quality of which he had little, flung himself clear of the falling carcass.

Even though the greater portion of his body lacked grace, his hands were deft enough. Even as he floundered in the cold, much-trodden snow, he snatched a wisp of cobweb from a pocket, recited an incantation, and used the gossamer to trace a mystic symbol on the air.

A thick swatch of meshed gray cables materialized across the row of windows from which attackers were still shooting. Suddenly trapped amid the sticky strands, the crossbowmen struggled vainly to extricate themselves, then called to the mage on the roof for help.

Ah yes, thought Brom, his teeth bared in a fierce grin that would have amazed any acquaintance who had never seen him in the heat of battle, our friend on the roof. He glanced about, making sure he was in no immediate danger from any of the enemy swordsmen, then began sending the masked wizard a little token of his regard. He snatched out a tiny ball composed of sulfur and guano, murmured a couplet, and tossed the orb into the air. The ball hurtled up at the spellcaster in blue, and as it did so, swelled in size and burst into crackling yellow flame, so it resembled a missile of blazing naphtha hurled from a catapult.

Brom expected that the other mage would die in the impending blast, but the detonation never happened. Evidently the masked man had warded himself with some manner of defensive enchantment, for the burning missile winked out of existence a yard or so before it struck its target. Brom couldn't be sure at such a distance, but he thought he saw the shadow creature leer at him.

It seemed to Tamlin that with the crossbowmen out of commission, the enemy was having a harder time of it. Then Tamlin saw his bodyguard. His black braid streaming out behind him, revealing the ugly scar on his neck, Vox rode among the bravos like an avenging fury. His bastard sword flashed up and down, up and down, and it seemed that every time it descended, a foeman perished. His huge mount was scarcely less formidable, kicking, biting, and trampling the fallen beneath its hooves.

Escevar lacked the advantage of a trained war-horse, but he was a skilled rider, and evidently his chestnut palfrey was game, for its master seemed to have no difficulty guiding it amongst the bravos. Whooping as if the fight were nothing more than some sort of roughhousing game, the redhead hacked and slashed with a will, and while he was scarcely the warrior Vox was, something, his sheer audacity perhaps, had thus far kept him safe from harm.

After a futile attempt at slaying the masked wizard, Brom too had turned his attention to neutralizing the attackers on the ground, blinding some with a handful of sparkling golden powder and choking others with a vile-smelling greenish vapor. Tamlin suspected that if one of the bravos could only close with Brom, he could put an end to the unarmed mage and his troublesome spells in a trice, but so far, none of them had managed it.

Meanwhile, the scion of the House of Uskevren sheltered helplessly between his friends and the barrier of ice with his ridiculous pink crystal bodkin at his side. It made him feel vaguely ashamed, and he scowled and reminded himself that after all, these people were paid to protect him.

Bubbles of purple light appeared among the combatants, swelled, and burst, leaving in their place gaunt, mottled green things that would have been half again as tall as a man had they stood fully erect. Their limbs were long and graceless, and masses of iron-gray tendrils writhed atop their heads. Their black eyes were round and sunken, their noses, grotesquely long, and their wide mouths were lined with yellow fangs.

The enemy swordsmen instinctively shied away from the trolls. Vox, Escevar, and Brom maneuvered frantically to engage these new and far more formidable foes. But four creatures had materialized, and the Uskevren retainers only managed to intercept three of them. Despite its clumsy, ill-made appearance, the remaining troll shambled toward Tamlin fast as a man could run, its clawed, four-fingered hands dragging through the snow.

Tamlin's dappled gelding went wild with fear, and as he fought to control the animal, he felt on the brink of panic himself. With the ice barrier behind him and the troll in front, there was nowhere to run. Even if by some miracle he could dodge around the creature-and he was all but certain that one of those long, thin arms would whip out and pluck him from the saddle if he tried-he doubted any unarmed man could ride unscathed through the band of bravos behind it. Finally, he realized there was one place to go, even if it would only buy him a few seconds.

He snatched off Honeylass's leather hood and sent her toward the troll's head. The gyrfalcon had never been trained to attack such monstrosities, and, winging to the left, she sensibly veered off at once. Even so, the troll apparently considered the hawk a threat, or perhaps the conjured creature was simply startled. At any rate, it stopped charging long enough to swat Honey-lass from the air, then took another moment to shake the bird's carcass off its long, curved claws.

Meanwhile, Tamlin spurred the gelding toward the open entrance to someone's shop. He ducked beneath the lintel of the doorway, and the horse knocked over a rack of men's hats, which fell to the floor with a crash. Soft caps, high-crowned copotains, and other examples of masculine head-wear tumbled about, some of them to be immediately trampled by the gelding's stamping feet.

Tamlin tried to straighten up, bumped his head on the ceiling, cursed, and stooped once more. His scalp smarting, he peered about the shop. As he'd feared, there didn't seem to be another exit, certainly not one he could take a horse through, and if he attempted to flee on foot, he suspected the nimble, long-legged troll would run him down. The hatter, a stout, black-bearded man with orange dye stains on his fingertips, evidently knew why Tamlin had ridden into the shop, for he gaped up at the aristocrat with horror in his eyes. "Get out of here!" he wailed. "A weapon!" Tamlin replied. All shopkeepers kept weapons on the premises to fend off thieves, didn't they? Term's fist, he hoped so!

"Get out!" the merchant repeated. "The troll will burst in here in a matter of seconds," Tamlin replied. "One of us will have to fight it. Unless you want to do it, give me a weapon!"

The hatter threw up his hands and raced for the counter at the back of the shop. Deciding he'd be better off on foot than trying to maneuver his terrified horse through the clutter of hat racks and tables, Tamlin dismounted and followed the other man.

The hatter reached around under the counter, produced a cudgel, and thrust the weapon at Tamlin, who regarded it with a feeling not far from despair. A blunt little stick like this might rattle the brains of a common rogue, but it would be virtually useless against a troll. But the club was still, he reflected, marginally better than the glass sword; at least people wouldn't laugh so hard when they saw it in his cold, dead hand. He reached for it, the horse screamed, and the troll made a horrible, wet slobbering sound as it hurtled through the door.

Tamlin whirled to face his pursuer, and it was only then that he glimpsed the rusty single-bitted axe leaning in a shadowy corner. It wasn't a battle-axe but a tool for hewing wood to fuel the stove in the center of the room, which was probably why the panicky dolt of a hatter hadn't thought of it, but it would serve Tamlin better than a cudgel if he could only get to it in time.

He dashed for it, hoping the troll would stop to slaughter his horse, but no such luck. Crouched as it was, the creature had no difficulty maneuvering under the comparatively low ceiling, and it charged straight at him, yellow foam flying from its jaws, the claws at the end of one long arm stretched out to rend him.

Tamlin thrust out his own arm and knocked over a rack of beaver and ermine hats. It fell in the troll's path, and, as he'd prayed, the creature stumbled over it, affording him the final second he needed to grab the axe.

That was the good aspect of his situation. The bad was that the troll had him in a corner. He fought better with a sword, the gentleman's arm, than an axe, and the implement in his hands wasn't even a proper weapon.

He tried to control his breathing, tried to be calm, tried to remember the combat training that he'd often attended so grudgingly, tried it all in that last instant and then the troll was on him.

The creature raked at him with both hands simultaneously. He swayed back, and the filthy claws at the end of the long green fingers missed him by an inch. The rending motion rocked the troll forward, and, following through, it brought its mouth down to bite. Its maw gaped wide enough to engulf his entire head, and its breath was so foul that his stomach turned.

Tamlin thrust upward with the axe as if it were a spear. The steel head cracked against the troll's jaw, breaking fangs and jolting the creature back. The noble immediately chopped a gash in its breast, then cut at its knee and nearly severed its leg. The moss-green horror fell backward, and as it did, Tamlin seized the opportunity to spring past it and extricate himself from the corner.

Though the wounds Tamlin had inflicted would have incapacitated any human being, the troll was scarcely that, and the aristocrat knew his stalker wasn't finished. Sure enough, still quick despite the injury to its leg, the black-eyed thing spun around and flung itself at him with claws outstretched.

Tamlin scrambled backward and kept retreating as the troll crawled after him, its claws splintering the floorboards.

Tamlin reckoned that if he wanted to survive this encounter, he'd better finish the brute off fast. He stopped retreating, giving the troll another chance to grab at him, then met the creature's arm with a stroke of the axe. The bit crunched into the troll's wrist and sheared off its four-fingered hand.

Instantly he rushed in to attack the troll's body and head, while the creature reared up, supported by its remaining hand. It bit at him, and he dodged. It clubbed at him with its raw, bloody stump, and he parried with the axe, meanwhile shifting into position to chop its good arm.

The axe cut into the stringy muscle just above its elbow, whereupon, suddenly unable to support itself, the troll crashed facedown on the floor. Bellowing with rage, Tamlin hewed at the creature's head and spine.

The troll heaved itself over onto its side, where it tried to fend off the axe with its handless arm, kick Tamlin with its three-toed feet, and thrash and flop itself into position to bite his leg. He avoided its flailing legs and gnashing fangs and kept on hewing until something grabbed hold of his ankle.

He let out a startled gasp and looked down to see the troll's severed hand clutching his leg. In the instant he was thus distracted, the troll finally landed a kick to the side of his head, flinging him backward and into another display rack. The collision knocked it over, and he sprawled to the floor amid an assortment of felt tricornes.

For a second, the world seemed silent and empty of significance. He realized dimly that the kick had stunned him, that he might even be in danger of passing out, and he struggled to break through the daze. By the time he managed it, he felt a crawling on his thigh.

The troll's hand had clambered up his leg. Though still a little addled, he realized that it might have found it difficult to plunge its claws through his thick leather boots, but would have no trouble with the velvet breeches higher up.

Somehow, Tamlin had kept hold of the axe. He used the butt of the haft to knock the severed hand off his thigh and followed up with a chop. The hand hopped backward, avoiding the stroke, and then a shadow fell over him.

He looked up. The troll had gotten back on its feet and was now bending over him, its fanged, reeking jaws hurtling down to tear his face off. He whirled the axe up to meet them.

The bloody bit thudded deep into the creature's head. The troll lurched sideways and collapsed. Tamlin studied it for a second, making sure it truly had stopped moving, then wrenched himself around to see what the severed hand was doing. It was inert as well.

Tamlin floundered to his feet, gave the troll a few more axe strokes for good measure, then turned to the hatter, who was cowering behind the counter.

"Burn this thing," the noble panted. "Otherwise, it will come back to life."

A soft slurping sound came from the troll's mangled body as its hand began to regenerate.

"Me burn it!" the hatter replied. "What about you?"

Tamlin realized it was a good question. He could tell from the noise that the battle still raged outside, and it would be perfectly reasonable for him to chop an exit in the rear wall and avoid the rest of it. He doubted anyone would blame him. As he'd already observed to himself, when necessary, retainers were supposed to sacrifice themselves to cover their lord's retreat. Still, now that he finally had a weapon, he found he couldn't quite bring himself to decamp.

"I have to go help Escevar," he said.

He noticed that the gelding was still present. He'd always heard that horses were rather stupid beasts, and perhaps the palfrey had lacked the wit to find its way back out the exit, or perhaps it had been as afraid of the commotion outside the shop as of the troll within. Whatever the reason, Tamlin was glad the steed was still available for his use. He crossed the room, grabbed the balky animal by the halter, and dragged it toward the exit.

"Who's going to pay for all this damage?" the hatter called after him.

Scrambling backward, wishing fervently that he hadn't squandered his ball of flame on the wizard atop the roof, Brom snatched two small vials and a tiny speaking trumpet fashioned from the tip of a ram's horn out of his pockets. He anointed the horn with the contents of the vials, swirled it through an intricate mystic pass, lifted it to its lips, and shouted.

The blast of sound that erupted from the trumpet's bell was far louder than any voice augmented by mere mechanical means. It jabbed painfully into Brom's ears, and the troll that was scuttling after him, and at which he had aimed the magical noise, fared worse. The creature clutched at its ears, swayed, and collapsed.

Mystra grant the ugly thing would stay down for a minute or two before rising to menace him anew. Wheezing, mentally reviewing which of the spells he'd prepared had already been cast and which were still available, Brom surveyed the battlefield.

One troll, its upper body crisscrossed by long cuts presumably delivered by Vox's bastard sword, lay crumpled in the snow, and the black-bearded bodyguard was furiously battling another.

His chest and thigh bloody, Escevar strove to defend himself from half a dozen bravos. Evidently some of the ruffians had overcome their wariness of the trolls and advanced up the street to reinforce them.

Tamlin was nowhere to be seen.

Moving in a leisurely way, the masked wizard raised his arms to commence another spell.

Brom suspected that if he and his companions didn't escape this trap before the enemy wizard completed his next conjuration, they were going to die. Which meant he had to create a way out. It took priority over everything, even locating Lord Uskevren's missing heir or assisting the hard-pressed Escevar.

He turned his back on the battle to face the wall of gleaming, translucent ice. He was half deaf from the shouting magic, and now he was glad, for with the clamor of the battle muted, he would find it that much easier to concentrate.

It had become apparent early on that the man in blue was an accomplished wizard, and nothing he'd created would be easily dispelled. But, Brom told himself, if he performed the abjuration perfectly, it could be done. Refusing to hurry, he stood tall, recited the incantation with impeccable clarity and cadence, and swung his arms apart with perfect timing.

The ice vanished.

"Run! This way!" Brom called.

Vox drove his troll back with a two-handed sweep of his sword, then wheeled his destrier and rode for the open path. Escevar looked as if he understood and was likewise trying to break free, but the bravos kept him hemmed in.

Intending to cast a spell to help his fellow retainer, Brom reached into his mantle for a small iron bar. Before he could fish it out, Tamlin led his horse out of a shop entrance, looked wildly about, and swung himself into the saddle. Shouting a war cry, the young aristocrat charged his friend's assailants and scattered them with strokes from a gory axe. Tamlin, Escevar, and Vox raced on out of the broken killing box toward safety. Leaving Brom afoot and alone.

As the enemy advanced on him, he wondered if any of his companions had even realized he was still alive, his horse was dead, and they were abandoning him to die. With his most potent magic already spent, he couldn't fend off all these attackers alone. He preferred to believe that none of them had known, although Vox and Escevar might well have felt that their first duty was to escort their master safely away, while Tamlin, Brom suspected, was rather too fond of himself to risk his skin for a retainer whom he'd only known a short time.

A grinning troll slunk toward him, claws poised to rip. Bubbles of violet light swelled as the masked wizard summoned new minions, though Brom couldn't believe that the conjuror truly thought he needed them. Then, though with his abused ears, he couldn't hear it, through the soles of his buskins he felt the rhythmic shocks of something pounding up behind him.

Brom spun around. Tamlin was racing toward him, evidently guiding his mount with his knees, for he had one hand outstretched and the woodcutter's axe grasped in the other. The dappled gelding's flanks were bloody from his spurs, and its hooves threw up puffs of snow.

The nobleman wheeled the horse, slowing of necessity, but not stopping. Brom scrambled forward, clutched at Tamlin's hand and the tooled red leather saddle, and tried to hoist himself up onto the moving animal. His right hand fumbled and slipped away from the pommel, and he felt himself begin to fall. Grunting with the strain, Tamlin held him in place until he achieved a firm grip. The gelding ran back up the street with the wizard half draped across its neck and half dangling beside its shoulder.

Brom looked back. Their enemies were sprinting after them, and the troll in the lead was nearly close enough to reach out and grab the palfrey's streaming tail. Certain the pursuers were going to catch up, the wizard wondered if he could possibly cast a spell from his present precarious position, and whether he should drop back into the street and let the gelding race on unencumbered by his awkward and unbalanced weight. Then Tamlin dug in the spurs, shouted encouragement, and somehow the horse found the strength to gallop even faster than before, leaving their foes behind.

They rounded a corner and almost collided with Vox and Escevar hurtling back in the other direction. "I've got him!" Tamlin cried. "Follow me!" The retainers turned their steeds around.

They kept galloping until, Brom judged, there was no danger of their adversaries catching up with them, at which point Tamlin called for a stop in a spacious plaza. At the other end of the square, urchins were flinging snowballs at one another and any passersby unwary enough to wander into range.

Brom gratefully abandoned his uncomfortable perch and peered up at his companions. Though a troll's claws had twice shredded his armor and lightly scored the flesh beneath, Vox was as stolid as ever. The more seriously wounded Escevar, however, was pale and shaky, in marked contrast to his exuberance earlier on. Ruddy-faced and breathing heavily, Tamlin was clearly having difficulty calming down, although whether he was seething with anger or fear, Brom couldn't tell. Probably a mixture of the two.

"I didn't mean to abandon you," said Tamlin to the wizard. "I just lost track of you in all the chaos. I rode back as soon as I realized you weren't with us."

Or else you did intend to forsake me, but had a change of heart, thought Brom, but even if that was true, he wasn't inclined to hold it against Tamlin. In the end, the aristocrat had risked his own life to rescue him, and that was all that mattered. "Thank you," the wizard said.

Vox tapped his massive chest with his forefinger.

"I know," Tamlin said, "I should have told you to go. But I was excited, and I figured every second counted. Are you all right, Escevar?"

The redhead gave him a jerky nod. "We'll get you to a healer as soon as the horses have had a moment to rest," Tamlin said, and then a quaver of agitation entered his voice. "Ilmater's tears, it just came home to me that Honeylass is dead! The other birds are lost. And the poor greyhounds! I forgot all about them until this second. Did anyone see what happened to the dogs?"

"No," said Brom. "As you said, all was confusion. I'm afraid it's likely they're slain or run away for good."

"Curse it!" With trembling hands, Tamlin extricated his glass blade from the loops on his golden sword belt. The ornament had miraculously emerged unscathed from the battle, but now its owner lashed it against the wall of a vendor's kiosk, shattering it into tiny fragments. "Did that make you feel better?" Brom asked. Tamlin smiled. "A little."

"Then we'd better think about what just happened," the spellcaster said. "Obviously, that ambuscade was no haphazard affair with robbers assaulting the first gentleman who happened along. That was a carefully planned attempt to assassinate the heir to the House of Uskevren, and I daresay it's no coincidence that it happened the morning after your parents vanished."

TamUn grimaced. "I hate to admit it, but you're probably right. Damn my father for disappearing! It's his province to deal with this sort of unpleasantness, not mine. But since he's gone, I suppose we'd better get back to Stormweather Towers and confer with the others."