Mistshore (23 page)

“Yes, Master,” Bellaril said.

Icelin turned to leave, but Arowall held up a hand. “Morleth, a word with you in private, if you please?”

Icelin started to speak, but Ruen shot her a quelling glance. “I’ll be along soon,” he told her.

“If you say so.” Icelin nodded to Arowall and climbed the ladder. She wondered if she would spend the rest of her life passing from the belly of one strange ship to another.

“Well,” Ruen said to Arowall when they were alone. “What is she?”

“Your friend is a human girl and nothing more,” Arowall said. “I detected no concealment magics, nor modifications to erase her memory. No wizard, in the Watch’s employ or any other, has tampered with her.”

“Why is she so powerful, then?” Ruen said. “Is it the spellplague?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Arowall said, waving an impatient hand. “She is spellscarred, just like you; and like you, her powers are debilitating. But her condition is perhaps more serious.”

“In what way?” Ruen demanded.

“I can sense the spellplague as clearly as you smell the rot coming off the harbor. I have met few individuals living with so strong a taint in them. To put the matter bluntly, you and that

girl are rotting with spellscars; but while you can live with brittle bones, Icelin is dying.” “What?”

“Gods’ breath, haven’t you touched her yourself?” Arowall took in his expression. “If you did, you’d doubtless find her frigid.”

Ruen lowered himself into a chair, in the way a cat sinks into a wary crouch. “Why is she dying? Explain.”

“I am only speculating, of course, but I believe that whatever ability Icelin gained as a result of her brush with the spellplague is interfering with her magic. Her spells go wild more often than they succeed. Am I correct?”

“You are,” Ruen said.

“Then, in effect, every time she casts a spell, her body wages war on itself—the spellscar fighting the ordered forces of magic. Her scar must be a powerful talent, to cause such a chaotic reaction. What is it, exactly, that Icelin can do?”

“That’s for her to say.” Ruen stood. Tension hummed in his blood. His body must be readjusting to the ring, he thought. He held up his hand. “Is there any magic like this ring that can calm the forces in her, make the spellscar sleep?”

Arowall smiled. “That’s why I like you, Morleth. You think of it as a living thing, just as I do. It surrounds the city, weaving into the wood and stone. Folk think they’re safe here, but they breathe the plague every day. They just don’t realize it. You and I are the only ones who know how doomed the world is.”

“You’ve spent too long in the harbor rot,” Ruen said, “and you’re wasting my time. If you can’t help me—”

“There is no magic that can stave off the spellplague forever,” Arowall snapped. “You know that as well as anyone.”

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Ruen said. He turned away from Arowall. “Stronger than you.”

Arowall laughed. “Yet I would not trade places with her for the world. My men will bring your disguises. Bring them and Bellaril with you when you return to the Cradle to fight for

me. I’ll give you a tenday before I hold another tournament. A tenday, Morleth. You’ve tried my patience more than any other man and lived. Don’t displease me again.”

Ruen nodded. A question burned on his tongue, but he did not ask it. He climbed the ladder and left the ship, but the thought haunted him.

How long does she have? He’d have to touch her—the bare skin of her hands—to know for sure. He could touch other parts of her and get impressions, but they wouldn’t be as strong.

He’d never known why it had to be so specific a touch. The monks of his order believed the hands were the links that most strongly connected mortals to the world. A warrior’s hands could take a life; a midwife’s could bring a babe into the world. Ki manifested through the hands.

It didn’t matter. He would never touch her. His hands—his whole body—were abhorrences, mistakes of nature. The gods alone were supposed to know how long a being had left to live, not mortals.,.

Especially not a cutpurse from Mistshore.

“Everywhere we go has a name,” Sull said. “Mistshore, the Hearth, Whalebone Court; now it’s the Isle.” He gazed at the latest jumbled wreck of a ship. This one, a cog, had been hollowed out, the decking torn up to form one high-walled chamber at the bottom of the ship.

“There’s a ladder here,” Bellaril said, stepping onto a short gangplank off the raised dock. She pointed to a rickety ladder laid against the inside of the ship. It descended into the cog’s belly, disappearing from sight. “That’s our way down.”

“We’re at the nether end ofWaterdeep, yet they still get around to namin’ everythin’ here,” Sull babbled on. “Unsettlin’, that’s what it is.” He shot a quick glance at the ladder. “Unnatural.”

Ruen handed Sull a rolled bundle of cloth. “Put it on,” he

said. “You’ll feel better once you’re protected. Arowall said even the stench is blunted by the magic.”

“Why does he have these?” Icelin said, taking her own bundle and unrolling it. A simple cloak of layered rags, it hardly looked like it could stop a swift breeze, let alone be magical.

“He’s never told me, but I suspect he uses them for spying,” Bellaril said. “His own man poses as a beggar, then the master sends him wandering around the Cradle. Folk try to ignore him. They don’t see him as a real person, with ears and a tongue that can tell what he’s seen.”

“So after he’s done spyin’, the guards grab him and throw him on the Isle, just like a staged play,” Sull said, shaking his head. “Everyone serves a purpose. Tidy little business he keeps. Too bad someone hasn’t killed him.” He ignored Bellaril’s narrowed eyes.

“He’s offered us shelter,” Icelin said, trying to head off the confrontation, “such as it is.” She donned her cloak and felt a warm wave as the magic flowed over her. “How do I look—any worse than before?”

Sull turned green in the face. He looked like he might gag. “You could say that, lass. I wouldn’t go searchin’ for any mirrors if I were you.”

“Some gallant gentleman you are,” Icelin said. “Let’s see yours, then.”

Ruen and Sull and Bellaril donned their cloaks together. Icelin knew instantly when the magic had taken hold.

“That’s… effective,” was all she could think to say.

Open sores blossomed from Bellaril’s and Sull’s faces. Yellowish fluid seeped from the bulging skin. Sull’s red hair turned gray and lifeless, and his skin had a distinctly wasted tinge. Ruen looked no better. His red eyes sank into his skull, and his already gaunt face looked skeletal. Icelin could see the crooked blue veins just below the surface of his skin.

“No one will recognize us,” Icelin said. And indeed, she did

feel better. Cerest’s gaze would never linger on creatures like this. “We’ll be safe, even in broad daylight.”

“If we’re so well disguised, why do we need to stay here at all?” Sull said. “We can walk about Mistshore as we wish.”

“No,” Ruen said. “They’ll start searching magically for such disguises, if they haven’t already. I don’t want to test the limits of the cloaks in daylight. At night, perhaps. Besides, we need to sleep sometime, and I’d like to be as protected as possible.”

And I’ll be able to read grandfather’s letters, Icelin thought. It was fast approaching dawn. She had until nightfall to find some clue as to the nature of Elgreth’s relationship with Cerest. She had no idea if such knowledge would aid her in defeating the elf, but she had to know the truth. She had to know if Elgreth had been Cerest’s friend.

“Dawn is coming,” she said, putting her hands on the ladder rungs. “Let’s get this over with.”

She descended the ladder. Shapes moved below her—brown humps that stumbled and pushed each other out of the way in the small space. The farther down they went, the more she could distinguish the babble of voices.

“All at one end, you know better than to crowd the stage, Hatsolm, you old fool.”

“I want to be able to hear the music this time. I’m a full ten feet back. You mind your own seat; it’s wide enough to demand your full attention.”

“I’m not fat, you imbecile!”

The voices died when they reached the bottom of the ladder. Icelin could see dozens of rag-cloaked figures angling for a space at the far end of the ship’s belly. They all stopped what they were doing when Icelin’s foot touched the ground.

A tense silence followed. Icelin stepped forward, raising a scarred hand in greeting. “W-well met,” she said.

“Well met.” A man with a crooked back ambled over to take her hand.

It was like greeting a skeleton. His ringers had no meat. Real sores peppered his arms and bare legs. Icelin swallowed hard and tried not to pull her hand away.

“You look like you could use a rest, friend,” the man said eagerly. “I’m Hatsolm, and I won’t bother you with the rest of the names for now, just you remember mine. Taken together, we’re the Drawn Cloaks. Lovely and mysterious-sounding, isn’t it? I came up with the name myself. Come and sit over here. We’ve some food and drink to spare.”

Icelin let herself be led over to the others. Hands patted her on the back and guided her to a seat on the ground. Immediately, a cup of water was pressed into her hand, and a bowl of some unidentifiable substance appeared in front of her. Similar treatment greeted Ruen, Sull, and Bellaril.

Icelin sniffed the food and looked at Sull. Her mouth was already watering, but she wanted to be sure the meat wouldn’t kill her. Sull sniffed his own bowl and nodded slightly. Icelin scooped up a handful of the stewlike substance and ate.

She tasted stringy meat and hard potatoes, liberally seasoned with grease that pooled at the bottom of her bowl. Not a king’s feast, by any standard, but it was more substantial fare than her body had taken in days, and did much to clear her head and soothe the raw churning in her belly. She’d been so hungry, her hands shook when she brought the food to her mouth. She looked at Hatsolm, unable to speak, grateful tears standing in her eyes.

“Yes sir, that’s what they all say.” He chuckled. “Now then. Where do you come from?”

“We… don’t hail from Waterdeep,” Icelin said quickly. “We came in on a caravan. Our village was dying. Everyone was leaving, so we thought we’d come here, to start anew.”

Hatsolm nodded gravely. “Aye, that’s the story among many of us. And here we are”—he waved his rag-draped arms expansively—”in Waterdeep mighty, a city that looks precious

little like a city and smells a bit like the rotting bowels of a once-fine ship. Alas, the bards, how cruelly they exaggerate!”

There was a smattering of applause and rude gestures from the beggar folk. Shouts of, “Save it for the real performers!” had Hatsolm throwing up his hands and laughing.

“Eat hearty, all of you,” he said, and he waddled off to find his own bowl. “We’re fed and clothed and grateful, and the troupe’s comin’ in. What more could kings ask for?”

“The troupe?” Icelin said. But Hatsolm was gone, and the others were immersed in their own conversations. The temporary distraction of their arrival had passed; the people seemed to be waiting for something. They kept shooting glances at the bow of the ship, but Icelin saw nothing except a stack of rotting crates. Rats weaved among the loose boards.

“Surely Arowall doesn’t provide food and entertainment for ‘em,” Sull said. “Not when he’d just as soon be killin’ ‘em.”

They looked to Ruen, but the monk shrugged. “They seem in high spirits, which is more than I expected. Perhaps one of them is a musician.”

Hatsolm came around again to collect their bowls. Icelin tugged on his rag cloak. “Are they waiting to see a show?” she asked politely.

He grinned. “Aye, lass, the best in Waterdeep, though we’re the only folk knows it. Sit you all right here and see what there is to see.” He patted her arm and settled back on the ground.

A crow flew over their heads, descending into the ship to pluck a rat from one of the crates. The bird was large and sleek, with oily black eyes that watched the beggars even as it snapped the rat’s neck. Icelin cringed.

The sun had risen outside the ship, but a shadow fell across Icelin and the rest of the crowd. She looked up; more crows were flying in an uneven formation, clustering close and snapping at each other as they dived down into the belly of the ship.

Instinctively, Icelin ducked. The birds flew over her head

and landed on the rotting crates. The air filled with restless caws, but a hushed silence had fallen over the beggar folk. Every face, including Hatsolm’s, was tuned in rapturous attention to the crows.

“What’s going on?” Icelin whispered to Ruen.

“Halt your lips, you ungrateful lot!” shouted a voice that made Icelin jump.

A crow’s head stretched, its black feathers shrinking into pale flesh. The bird stood up on two spindly legs, which lengthened and shed more feathers. The creature shook itself, and was suddenly not a bird any longer, but a boy, a boy grown from the body of a crow. The ungainly creature hopped up on one of the crates and surveyed the crowd.

“Are we the show this night or not?” the boy demanded. He looked to be about eleven years old—human—with greasy black hair tucked under a brown cap. A crow’s feather rested behind his ear like a quill. His eyes shifted around like restless insects, never settling on one object. “Answer me, dogs! Are we the entertainers?”

“Ho!” A chorus erupted from the beggar folk. For a breath, Icelin thought she was back in the Cradle.

“They’re new arrivals, Kaelin, not true Drawn Cloaks,” said Hatsolm. “Give them a chance.”

The boy regarded Icelin’s group with interest, his gaze fixing on each of them in turn. “They’re false fronts,” he said.

Ruen glanced up sharply. He’d avoided eye contact with the boy until that instant. “We’re refugees, the same as any person here,” he said. “What of you? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

The boy hopped from crate to crate, his arms spread. “Do you hear, friends? He wants to know who we are.”

The crows flapped their wings in a grim chorus, and suddenly the air was full of feathers. When the black shades fell away, a dozen men and women stood where the crows had been.