The wizard took a step toward the stairs, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as silent magical wards hummed. The spell was not powerful, but the relative lack of magic in the room made it seem stronger—akin to tolling a bell in a tomb. Had this been a gala in Waterdeep, the resonant hum would have been lost in the greater cacophony of minor cantrips and protective spells.
Dantane looked to the dais. A young woman had stepped forward with a lute. She sang in a deep, pleasing alto, an unremarkable song, but she livened up the show by pausing in the middle of a verse to tell bawdy jokes or humorous stories, always deftly picking up the tune exactly where she'd left off. The crowd gathered, laughing, at the edge of the dais to listen.
Dantane's eyes fixed on the lute. The bard's instrument, or something inside it, was the source of the magic—an illusion, possibly glamour to conceal some defect on the part of the singer. Dantane scanned the crowd for Morel, wondering if he should inform the young lord.
When Dantane spied him, Kall was still speaking to the drunken man. The wizard headed for the stairs, but halted when he saw Kall's face blanch. Dantane traced the room, seeking a threat, but Morel simply stood, as frozen as one of the statues, staring at a spot beneath the balcony. He said something to the drunkard and stepped away.
Fascinated, Dantane watched him walk across the ballroom like a man caught sleepwalking out of a dream. Whatever Morel saw disturbed him greatly, Dantane thought. He couldn't describe all the emotions that passed over Kall's face, but the still, ravaged look, the vulnerability—that interested Dantane, so much so he forgot the lute player and her song.
* * * * *
"Seven—there it is!" The serving table quivered as Morgan slammed his handful of emerald-stone clusters in front of Laerin. "That you can't beat."
The half-elf flashed him a lazy smile. "Darling, must we compete? It's unseemly."
Morgan turned purple, clenching his fists as if he might cram the stones down Laerin's throat. "Empty your pockets. Turn 'em out, or by the gods I'll do it for you!"
Laerin fluttered his lashes. "Now you're just being saucy."
Morgan took a step forward, reaching for a weapon.
"Oh, all right." The half-elf sighed and emptied a pouch of stones next to Morgan's pile.
"Only six!" Morgan spouted triumphantly, as Cesira looked on with an expression of helpless bemusement.
Laerin raised a hand to either side of Morgan's head, and with a flourish produced two more stones from the man's hairy ears. "Your pardon," the half-elf said.
Morgan swatted his hands away, fuming. "Pretty-faced whore's brat—"
Quiet! Cesira hissed. Hide yourselves. Kall is. . . As she looked, she realized Kall wasn't headed their way. He'd stopped, frozen next to the drunken Bladesmile. At first Cesira thought he was listening to the bard, but then she saw him staring at something through the crowd.
I've never seen that look, she murmured. She traced Kall's stunned gaze across the room to a corner, where a man stood leaning sedately against a marble column. He ignored the rest of the room, and appeared to be listening intently to the lute player. Broken from whatever spell had smote him, Kall began walking directly toward the man.
"I've seen it," Laerin spoke up, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. "When I first met Kall, he had the same look."
Morgan nodded agreement. "Like he just lost his best friend."
Cesira paled, gripping Laerin's arm. Aazen, she whispered.
* * * * *
"Greetings, Lord Morel," said Aazen, as Kall came to stand between him and the dais. He offered Kall one of his rare, genuine smiles. "It is good to see you again."
Kall was at a loss. The man before him was older—and leaner, if possible—than the boy who'd been his best friend. His dark hair was short and shaved. He dressed in black leathers with a cloak of silky midnight blue thrown over one shoulder. The armor was stained, but the cloak pristine—a halfhearted attempt to blend with the throng. Despite the changes, he was still Aazen—a quiet, shadowed young man. Kall had imagined many fates befalling his best friend in the years since their last meeting, but seeing the man grown, greeting him here in his father's house, had never been among them.
When Kall remained silent, Aazen said, "You don't recognize me? I can't blame you. It's been a long while since we spoke."
"Aazen," Kall said, recovering himself. "You haven't changed so much. You were always more adult than child."
Aazen considered. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Are you well, Kall?"
"Well enough, but more than a little shocked to see you here."
"You've been looking for me?"
"Ever since I returned," said Kall.
"Most of Amn thought you dead," Aazen said. "But I doubted it."
Kall grunted. "Thanks. You had more confidence than I did, considering the condition I was in when we parted."
"Yet here you stand, in your house reclaimed."
"Such as it is. Aazen, you know I'm after Balram," said Kall bluntly.
"Of course. I'd be disappointed if you weren't, especially after that passionate speech you gave at our last meeting," said Aazen sardonically. "Have you enjoyed any success in your search?"
"You know I haven't."
"Unfortunately, I don't. My father and I parted company some time ago."
"Oh?" Kall didn't bother to hide his disbelief. "When you left, you seemed bent on staying by his side, in spite of everything. 'Don't come after him,' you said. 'I'll have to kill you, if you do.' "
"I was a child. I didn't know what I wanted." Aazen searched his eyes. "Can you grant me that, Kall? Can you believe I may have found other companions, as you have, or do you think I'll say anything to protect him?"
"I don't know," Kall said. "But I never held any hope or desire to get at Balram through you. I only prayed he hadn't killed you."
"But think, if you'd found me dead, you would have had yet another reason to slay him."
Kall didn't comment. There was too much tension in the room already. "If you can stay long enough, I'd like to introduce you to my companions," he said, changing the subject.
"I've heard many whispers about the beauty of the Lady Morel," said Aazen. "You've done well for yourself, even without my constant looking after you."
"Yes, Cesira is a beauty, and were she mine, I'm sure my manhood would be subjugated to her will within a tenday," Kall said, laughing. "Luckily for me, her affections are not settled on me."
"Aren't they?" Aazen seemed surprised. "Then why—"
"She's playing the part of my wife until affairs here settle down," Kall explained. "Two other friends are looking out for my physical well-being. I'm sure we can find them if we look. They haven't managed to conceal themselves all evening—I don't see why they should start now."