Finally Sudacar spoke. “Thought I’d seen a ghost when I saw you on the opposite bank, in those boots with that cloak. You haven’t got Cole’s face, but you have his shape, his stance, his walk.” Sudacar cast his line again. “If you’d care to talk about your father,” he offered, “stop in at the Fish later, and we’ll raise a mug in his honor.”
Giogi grinned with pleasure. “If I can escape Aunt Dorath’s clutches, I’ll do just that,” he agreed. Just then, a sudden chill made him realize the warmth had gone with the sunlight. He pulled his cloak closer to his body. “I’d better be going. They’re expecting me up at the castle.”
Sudacar nodded without taking his eyes off the lure he tugged through the water.
Giogi left the Lord of Immersea by the water and hurried up the trail. It was dark and cold by the time he reached the walls surrounding Redstone Castle, but he still didn’t relish the thought of entering. The castle was wrapped in shades of gray and black. The reddish pallor of its stonework, which gave it its name, was absent in the darkness. The castle squatted on the low hill overlooking the Immer Stream, the town of Immersea, and the Wyvernwater—a great lake east of Cormyr—beyond, like a dragon watching a merchant road.
Looking up at the brooding monstrosity as he approached, Giogi was reminded again of the dragon that had fallen on Westgate and the earthquakes and underworld power-struggle that had ensued. Having dealt with all those things, Giogi assured himself, coping with this family crisis shouldn’t be too difficult.
2
Family
Giogi circled the castle walls to the front gate, strode into the courtyard, and tapped on the hall door. An unfamiliar footman opened the portal a crack and peered out at the shaggy, gangly noble dressed in yellow pants and a red-and-white striped shirt covered with a black tabard. The tabard was emblazoned with the Wyvernspur coat of arms, but the man who wore it looked more like a traveling juggler than an Immersea noble. The servant stood waiting impatiently for the man to speak.
Giogi was unaccustomed to having to announce his business at the doorstep of his own family’s ancestral home. He, too, stood in silence, waiting to be recognized.
Finally the footman spoke. “Well, what is it?” he asked, his face creased with irritation.
“I’m here to see my Aunt Dorath.”
The footman opened the door an inch wider. “And you are?”
“Giogi. Giogioni Wyvernspur.”
The footman’s facial creases retreated just a fraction. “Oh,” he said without enthusiasm. He held the door open so that Giogi could enter the main hall. As the noble clomped in, the footman eyed Giogi’s clodders; his attention was not lost on Giogi.
“Great boots, aren’t they? Bought them in Westgate.”
The servant maintained his stoic expression and did not comment on the boots. He held out his arm for Giogi’s cloak and said, “The gentlemen are still in the dining room having their brandy. The ladies are in the parlor. I presume you know the way.”
“Yes,” Giogi replied, handing over his cloak.
Laden with Giogi’s outdoor gear, the footman disappeared through a small door.
Left alone again, Giogi felt hesitant to return to the bosom of his family. There had been a reason he’d moved from Redstone to his parents’ old townhouse. His family thought him a fool and made a habit of reminding him of it. He was branded for life just because, as a boy, he’d accidentally let an evil efreet out of a bottle in Uncle Drone’s lab and had once tried to fly off the stable roof with pigeon feathers—and had gotten himself locked in the family crypt—which had really been Cousin Steele’s fault.
If only he could get them to forget the foibles of his youth and judge him on his behavior as an adult—except for when he’d lost Aunt Dorath’s pet land urchin in the provisions wagon of the seventh division of His Majesty’s Purple Dragoons and the time he’d gone skinny-dipping in the Wyvernwater on Midwinter Day. After all, he had no idea a land urchin could eat so much, and no one as inebriated as he on that Midwinter Day would have passed up such a profitable wager.
He hadn’t done anything that foolish since—well, not since last spring, when he’d done his impersonation of King Azoun and ended up in a brawl with the crazy Alias of Westgate, knocking down a tent on top of two hundred people and nearly breaking up Frefford’s wedding reception. He hadn’t wanted to do the impersonation, but his girlfriend, Minda, had nagged him into it. If his family could only forget that incident, and if no stories of his exploits in Westgate reached their ears, they might just begin treating him like a normal person. Granted, that was more luck than the goddess Tymora usually dealt anyone, but it was still possible.
Prepared to make a fresh start with his family, Giogi considered whether to go straight to the parlor to pay his respects to Aunt Dorath, or to join the gentlemen in the dining room for some brandy. If he entered the parlor while the ladies were still discussing “female things,” his Aunt Dorath would be annoyed with his intrusion. He did want to speak with Uncle Drone, but the old wizard would not be alone in the dining room. Giogi’s second cousins, Frefford and Steele, would be with him, and, while Frefford might tease him a little about the wedding reception fiasco, Steele’s taunts would be as mean and vicious as possible.
Giogi liked a room full of people to serve as a buffer between Steele and himself. Of course, Steele’s sister, Julia, would be with the ladies. She could be mean, too, but she wasn’t so bad when she wasn’t in Steele’s company. Giogi decided that he might as well break in on the ladies. That way, Aunt Dorath couldn’t accuse him of lapping up her brandy whenever her back was turned. Besides, Frefford’s new wife, Gaylyn, would no doubt be with the ladies, and she was the cheeriest, most amusing woman Giogi had ever met.
The nobleman knocked timidly on the parlor door, just in case they were discussing petticoats or something equally personal, then he entered.
Redstone’s parlor had not changed since Giogi’s last visit, nearly a year ago. It was warmer and drier than the parlor in Giogi’s townhouse, but it was quite a bit shabbier. Faded tapestries depicting ancient events covered the flaking stone walls. The once-rich carpets were stained. The furniture coverings were worn thin. Giogi’s mother’s money had refurbished his townhouse, but the Wyvernspur fortune was shrinking, and servants, horses, and clothing had a higher priority than Redstone’s fashionable appearance. Some generation soon, the family would need a new source of revenue, though the decision to find one was unlikely in Aunt Dorath’s lifetime.
Aunt Dorath sat perfectly erect in her chair by the fire. She looked up from her knitting and squinted at Giogi. She was a tall, robust old woman with the classic Wyvernspur face, thin lips, hawklike nose, and all. Her black hair, which she wore in a severe bun, was streaked with steel-gray strands. More streaks had appeared since Giogi had last seen her, and her squint had grown more pronounced, but, otherwise, time had not touched her much. It wouldn’t dare, Giogi thought.
Gaylyn and Julia were immersed in a game of backgammon and did not notice him until a gasp from Aunt Dorath alerted them.
“Giogioni! Sweet Selûne! Just what are you doing in those ridiculous boots?” Aunt Dorath demanded. Her voice boomed like the thunder of a god’s wrath. That part of Dorath had not changed in the least.
“These boots?” Giogi replied, his voice cracking slightly. “They’re just something I threw on to walk over.”
“You should consider throwing them away. Whatever did you walk for? What happened to your carriage?”