The Dream Spheres (2 page)

She melted into the mist and shadows that clung to the alley wall as she considered her next move. A circle of greasy lamplight marked the alley’s end. Beyond that, the distant murmur of voices and laughter from the Soaring Pegasus tavern suddenly swelled as the door opened for what was certainly the last time that night. The congenial babble spilled out into the street and then broke apart, as tavern mates took their leave of each other to stride or stumble off into the night. Lilly’s experience indicated good odds that at least one of them would come her way.

The barmaid and thief pressed herself into the slim crevice between two stone buildings. Before long, a single set of footsteps began to tap along the cobblestone toward her.

A man, she surmised from the sound, and not a very large one. He wore new boots with the hard leather soles that marked the work of expensive cobblers. The uneven rhythm of his steps proclaimed that he’d imbibed enough to leave him tangle-footed, but he was still sober enough to whistle a popular ballad, more or less on tune.

Lilly nodded with satisfaction. One drunken man a night was her limit; robbing them was poor sport indeed. She drew a small, hooked knife from her pocket and waited for her mark to amble past.

And worth the wait he was! Richly dressed and fairly jingling with coin—a wealthy guildsman, or perhaps one of the merchant nobility. Lilly-started to reach for the purse that swung from his belt.

“Maurice? Ah, there you are, you hopeless rogue!”

The voice came from the alley’s end. It was female, dark with some exotic accent, full of laughter and flirtation and the sort of confidence that came only with wealth and beauty. Lilly gritted her teeth as “Maurice” spun toward the sultry speaker, his face alight and his purse strings now completely out of reach.

“Lady Isabeau! I thought you had gone on with the others.”

“Oh, pooh,” the woman proclaimed, packing so much drama into that small disclaimer that Lilly could almost see the artful pout, the dismissing little wave of a jeweled hand. “Cowards, all of them! Boasting of the dangers around them, while they ride in closed carriages with guards and drivers. But you!” Here the sultry voice dipped almost to a purr. “You alone are man enough to challenge the night.”

There was a world of meaning in the woman’s words. A bright, unmistakable flame leaped in the man’s eyes. The spark was quickly quenched by the return of his distinctly pinched expression.

Lilly smirked as she discerned the true reason for the man’s digression. He would not be the first to seek the comfort of a dark alley after a night’s hard drinking. No doubt he intended to take care of business, then hail down his comrades’ carriage when it turned the corner at Sail Street. Lady Isabeau’s arrival had thwarted his design, and he looked deeply torn between the demands of nature and the teasing promise in the noblewoman’s words.

Necessity won out. “Even the main streets are dangerous,” Maurice cautioned the lady. “These alleys can be deadly. I must insist that you go back with the others.”

But the dainty click of Isabeau’s slippers came steadily closer. “I am not afraid. You will protect me, no?”

No, Lilly answered silently and emphatically. Two pigeons were nearly as easy to pluck as one—not for a

simple pickpocket like herself, of course, but hadn’t the silly wench heard tell that many Dock Ward thieves were willing to cut more than purse strings? The woman came into view, and Lilly forgot her scorn.

Lady Isabeau was very attractive, with a dark, exotic beauty that was a perfect match for her voice. Thick, glossy black hair was coiled artfully around her shapely head, with enough length left over to fashion ringlets that spilled over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and velvety brown, her nose an aristocratic arc, her lips full and curved in invitation. Lavish curves tested the resolve of the laces binding her deep red gown, and an embroidered girdle decorated with precious stones encircled her narrow waist. Lilly sighed in profound envy.

Lady Isabeau quirked an ebony brow. For one heart-stopping moment, Lilly thought the noblewoman had heard her, but the woman’s eyes remained constant in their admiration of the heroic Maurice, never so much as flickering toward Lilly’s hiding place.

“If you say the danger is too great, then it must be so.” Isabeau tucked herself under the man’s arm. “You would not leave me here alone, surely?”

“I will see you safely to Sail Street, then I must be on my way,” he said grandly. “Certain matters cannot await the light of day.” His tone hinted at clandestine meetings, honor challenges, maidens languishing in prison towers.

Lilly lifted a hand to her lips to keep her smirk from bubbling into laughter.

Isabeau nodded, then produced a small silver flask from the folds of her skirts. “As you say. Let us at least share a last drink?”

The nobleman accepted the flask and tipped it up, and together they walked beyond the range of Lilly’s vision. The thief waited until all was silent. Then she ventured out, creeping stealthily toward the main street.

She almost stepped on Maurice. He lay sprawled at the end of the alley, face down, just beyond the reach of the lamplight’s dim circle. His fine clothing was stained with strong-smelling spirits, but Lilly doubted he had succumbed to drink. She cautiously stooped and touched her fingers to the nobleman’s neck. A thin but steady pulse leaped beneath her fingers. Curious, she smoothed her hand back through the man’s hair and inquired around for an explanation to his current state. A small knot was forming at the base of his skull. He would awaken with a fierce headache—and, of course, without his purse.

Lilly rose to her feet, angry now Noble or common, no decent woman turned tail and ran at the first sign of danger, leaving a friend alone! Why, the spoiled trollop hadn’t even taken the trouble to raise an alarm!

She silently padded into the lamplight and scanned the streets for a sign of the fleeing Isabeau. A flash of red disappeared into a nearby alley. Lilly set her jaw and followed. Though she rarely plucked female pigeons, this woman was the most deserving mark Lilly had seen in a month of tendays.

Following the noblewoman was easy enough. Not once did Isabeau look back, so intent was she upon the faint rumble of a carriage approaching the end of the alley. Lilly caught up to her near the midpoint and glided silently up behind. She noted the deep pocket attached to the woman’s bejeweled girdle: a large, smooth sack of the same deep crimson as Isabeau’s gown, and devised in such a way that it blended into the skirt’s folds.

A canny design, Lilly thought. Even though the pocket was full and heavy, a lesser thief might not have seen it at all. She sliced the strings, her touch as light as a ghost’s, and then fell back into the shadows to count her booty.

Her eyes widened as she opened the sack. Inside it nestled the richly embroidered coin purse recently worn by the unfortunate Maurice.

“You are good,” intoned that dark and sultry voice, “but I am better.”

Lilly’s gaze jerked up from the twice-stolen coins into the cold, level stare of her noble “pigeon.” Before Lilly could react, Lady Isabeau’s jeweled hands shot forward. The noblewoman seized the bag with one hand and dug the fingers of the other under Lilly’s shawl and into her hair. She yanked Lilly’s head forward and down, bringing the coin-filled bag up to meet it with painful force.

Lilly went reeling back, bereft of the purse and, judging from the burning in her scalp, at least one lock of her hair. She thumped painfully against the alley wall.

Blinking away stars, Lilly pushed herself off the wall, drew a knife, and charged. Isabeau set her feet wide and swung the heavy silk bag like a flail.

There was no time for evasion. Lilly slashed forward in what was half parry, half attack. She missed the woman altogether but managed to slice the dangerous bag open. Coins scattered with a satisfying clatter, but the bag was still heavy enough when it hit her to send her stumbling back. Her knife flew off and fell among Isabeau’s scattered booty.

Hissing like an angry cat, Isabeau pounced, her hands hooked into raking claws. Lilly seized her wrists and held on, dodging this way and that as she sought to keep her eyes beyond reach of those flailing hands.

Together they circled and dipped—a grim, deadly parody of dance that mocked Lilly’s still-bright dream. So frantic was their struggle, and so painfully poignant her memories, that Lilly did not realize her shawl had fallen off until she caught her foot in the fringe.

A small stumble, a moment’s hesitation, was all that Isabeau needed. The noblewoman wrenched her hands free and fisted them in Lilly’s hair. Down they went in a tangle of skirts, rolling wildly as they scratched and tugged and pummeled and bit.

Through it all, Isabeau was eerily silent. Lilly would have expected a pampered noblewoman to scream like a banshee over such treatment, not realizing that in this part of town the sounds of her distress could bring worse trouble upon her. Apparently this woman was more familiar with the ways of the streets than her appearance suggested.

Still, Lilly knew a few tricks that this overdressed pickpocket did not. Years of fighting off persistent tavern patrons had left her as hard to hold as a trout— she would wager that not even the elf lord’s gladiators could pin her if she were determined to wriggle free. Though she was smaller than Isabeau and lighter by at least a stone, the battle slowly began to turn her way.

Finally she managed to straddle the woman and pin her arms to her sides. Her captive, looking outraged and furious but still holding her preternatural silence, twisted and bucked beneath her like an unbroken mare.

Lilly sucked air in long, ragged gasps and prepared to hang on until the sun rose or her foe conceded. Not even for Peg’s sake would she have placed a wager on which might come first.

Isabeau’s struggles dwindled, then stopped abruptly as her eyes focused on something beyond the alley. Suspecting the oldest trick known to street urchins, Lilly merely tightened her grip.

After a moment it occurred to her that the expression in the noblewoman’s dark eyes was not cunning but naked avarice. Lilly hazarded a glance toward whatever had captured Isabeau’s interest.

A lone man approached the lamp, glancing furtively up and down the street as he went. He was a big man, heavily bearded, well but not richly dressed.

“Not a nobleman,” Isabeau assessed in a low voice. “A trusted servant, running an errand. At this hour, and in this place, surely the errand lies outside the law.”

Before she could think better of it, Lilly added, “He has not yet completed this errand. He is looking for someone.”

Isabeau slanted a look up at her captor. “Well said. That means he will still be carrying payment.”

“Most likely.”

They were silent for a moment. “We could split it,” Isabeau suggested.

“Aye, that we could,” Lilly scoffed softly. “An easy thing it will be for the two of us to separate that large and earnest fellow from his master’s money! You’ll forgive me for saying this, but you’re not much of a hand at fighting.”

Isabeau shrugged as well as she could under the circumstances. “No matter. I can always find someone to do my fighting for me.”

“Oh, and that would be me, I suppose?”

“Am I a fool to waste such talent?” retorted Isabeau. “You have good hands and quiet feet. I’ll distract this pigeon, and you pluck him.”

Strange words from a woman clad in silk and jewels. Lilly sat back on her heels and let out a soft, incredulous chuckle. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“Isabeau Thione, bastard daughter of the Lady Lucia Thione of Tethyr,” the woman said in a haughty, self-mocking tone, naming a branch of a royal family so infamous that even Lilly had heard of them. The noblewoman grinned wickedly and added, “Until recently, known only as Sofia, tavern wench and pickpocket. I’m new in Waterdeep and looking to do well, any way I can.”

A tavern wench, and a thief of noble birth! These words, this dual identity, struck a deep, poignant chord in Lilly’s heart.

Weren’t they much akin, the two of them? Yet Isabeau, with her jewels and silks and the open court paid her by fancy gentlemen, had achieved what she, Lilly, had experienced only in dreams. Perhaps she could learn how the woman had wrought this marvel.

Another, even more enticing possibility danced into her whirling thoughts. Was it possible that the Dreamspheres that both enchanted and tormented her were not an impossible dream but an augury into a possible future? There was great magic in the Dreamspheres— Lilly had felt this power in ways she could not understand or explain. Perhaps it was no coincidence that two misbegotten thieves had crossed paths this night.

Lilly slowly eased her grip and backed away. The two women rose to their feet and began to smooth their wrinkled skirts and wild hair. “If we’re to do this, we must move fast,” Lilly said.

Her fellow thief smiled so that her eyes narrowed like a hunting cat’s. “Partners, then. What do I call you?”

She gave the only name to which she was legally entitled. One word, nothing more. No family or rank, history or future. It had always pained her that her name was the sort that might be casually bestowed upon a white mare or a favorite lap cat.

The noblewoman seemed of like opinion. “Lilly?” she repeated, lifting one dark brow in a supercilious arch.

Lilly was of no mind to hear her shortcomings from the lips of this woman. The sneer on Isabeau’s lovely face prompted Lilly to give voice, for the first time in her life, to her deepest, most treasured secret.

She lifted her chin in an approximation of a noblewoman’s hauteur and added, “That would be Lilly Thann.”

Summer was rapidly fading into memory. In the skies over Waterdeep, the stars winking into view were the first heralds of the wintertime constellations: Auril Frostqueen, White Dragon, the Elfmaid’s Tears. Beautiful were these fey and fanciful star patterns, but few inhabitants of the great city took note of them, dazzled as they were by splendors closer to ground.

But the young nobleman hurrying down the shadowed streets was oblivious not only to the stars, but the city, the crowds, and everything else but the prospect of the meeting before him. The image of a half-elven woman was bright in his mind’s eye, almost bright enough to bridge the darkness of the many long months apart.