The Dream Spheres (28 page)

Midnight had not yet come, and already Danilo had borne witness to the death of some twenty barrels of wine and the subsequent birth of two new betrothals, a dozen covert business deals, and three challenges to duels scheduled to be fought upon the morrow. By these measures, Galinda Raventree’s annual costume ball was its usual success.

Of course, there was the buzz created by Haedrak’s arrival. A city obsessed with nobility could not resist the lure of the young man’s claim to royalty. For many years, it had been common belief the royal house of Tethyr had been obliterated in the terrible wars. A few minor relatives survived, and from time to time one made a dubious claim, but Haedrak arrived in Waterdeep with unassailable credentials, not the least of which was the support of Elminster the Sage and the bard Storm Silverhand. Haedrak had expressed a desire to unite with Zaranda, the mage turned mercenary who had recently been acclaimed queen of the city of Zazesspur, and to join with her in uniting all of Tethyr. He was in Waterdeep gathering support for the Tethyr Reclamation from

the wealthy, the bored, and the adventurous.

Danilo supposed Haedrak would do well enough. A dark, thin man with a serious face and a small pointed black beard, he looked more like a scribe than a warrior, but Waterdeep, enamored as she was by royalty, would no doubt flock to his banner. It was almost amusing how the nobles tripped over each other in their eagerness to be seen in Haedrak’s shadow.

The most entertaining spectacle, in Danilo’s opinion, was Arilyn’s participation in this frivolous event. The shopkeeper who’d supplied them both with costumes had outfitted Arilyn as Titania, the legendary queen of the faerie realm.

This had proven nothing less than inspired, for it built upon the half-elf’s fey heritage, transforming her from somber warrior to a creature of heart-stopping beauty. The costume was a marvel of translucent wings and floating, glimmering silvery skirts, but the shopkeeper had not stopped there. She had dressed Arilyn’s black hair in clusters of ringlets dusted with silvery glitter. The half-elf’s eyes were remarkable to begin with—a deep vivid blue flecked with gold-but cosmetics made them appear enormous, exotically tilted at the outer corners, and startlingly blue against her white skin. Her face had been buffed with some iridescent powder, and it glowed like moonstone in the soft candlelight. In all, Danilo congratulated himself on having had the good sense to lose his heart to this marvelous woman years ago before the general rush began.

That was the second source of his private entertainment. More than a few of Danilo’s peers had started to pay court to the apparent faerie queen, only to reconsider the notion when the half-elf turned upon them a flat, level gaze more appropriate to a battlefield than a ballroom. Faced with a forbidding Arilyn, even the most intrepid or inebriated man suddenly remembered pressing business on the far side of the hall.

This amused Danilo to no end. He supposed that evinced some serious character deficit, but he saw no immediate cure for it. He had always enjoyed Arilyn from their unpromising beginning to the complicated present, and he could not get out of the habit. He gave a nod of mock sympathy to the latest of her spurned suitors, then flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from the ruffle at his cuff

“You’re looking smug,” remarked Regnet Amcathra.

Danilo’s pleasure in the evening deepened as he turned to face his longtime friend. “Why should I not? Winning that lady’s regard was no small accomplishment. I like to think that sterling personal qualities, which admittedly are well hidden, enabled me to accomplish this feat.”

The nobleman chuckled. His amusement stopped abruptly as two men disguised as a centaur thundered past in pursuit of a coyly fleeing nymph.

Danilo studied the strange tableau. The centaur’s head was undoubtedly that of Simon Ilzimmer, a black-bearded, broad-chested mage who looked so positively saturnine that Danilo would not have wagered whether or not the hoofs he sported were genuine.

The back end of the centaur was not quite as motivated toward pursuit, but he stumbled gamely along. Not nimbly enough, however, and the costume’s fabric tore as the “creature” broke in half. Simon, nothing daunted, pounded off in pursuit of the nymph. The centaur’s anonymous rump, a role undoubtedly played by a servant or possibly a family member of lesser rank and lighter purse, took a few staggering steps in pursuit of unity. He quickly abandoned the quest and went off in search of a full mug, apparently not overly concerned by the statement his partial costume made.

Regnet shook his head in disgust. “After that spectacle, I am almost inclined to believe what they are saying about the Ilzimmer clan.”

It was on the tip of Danilo’s tongue to ask what that might be, but it occurred to him that if he did, Regnet would probably tell him. Danilo and Arilyn had attended this evening’s affair for the express purpose of gathering information, but he saw little profit in the sort of salacious talk that Simon Ilzimmer inspired.

“Shame on you for spreading such tales! You have been spending too much time with Myrna,” Danilo pointed out.

His friend heaved a heartfelt sigh. “On that, we are in accord. Speaking of the lady, she appears to be searching the crowd for me. You will excuse me while I run shrieking into the streets.”

“Certainly,” Danilo replied. “I would offer to detain her, but the bonds of friendship go only so far.”

Regnet snorted with good-natured scorn. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do it for you, either. Farewell, coward.”

Danilo chuckled and turned back to survey the scene before him. He was truly of no mind for festivities, but this would be one of his last chances to study the peerage for signs of enmity deep enough to inspire Oth’s assassination. All of Waterdeep society gathered for the costume ball, which was one of the last large parties before many of the merchant nobility left for their country estates or southern villas. It was one of the most lavish affairs of the season, and one of Danilo’s favorites.

At least, it had been until this year. Usually he enjoyed the pageantry and silly excess, but this year there seemed to be a decidedly sylvan flavor to the costumes. In addition to the usual pirates, orcs, Moonshae druids, drow, and such like, there were an inordinate number of revelers dressed as forest elves.

Even Myrna Cassalanter picked up this theme—if only as an excuse to bare vast expanses of the creamy skin that was her best feature. Nearly every exposed inch of the woman was decorated with the swirling brown and green designs that represented some artist’s

conception of what wild elf tattoos must look like. Myrna had taken the notion of wild greenwood hunters a bit too far, perhaps. She had woven peacock feathers into her bright red hair and hung a necklace of porcelain beads shaped like dragons’ teeth around her neck.

All these imitation forest elves served to tweak at Danilo’s more painful ruminations. Arilyn’s response had been utterly unexpected and no help at all. She had taken one glance at Myrna and excused herself from the room. Danilo had found her in the cloakroom, clutching her sides and rocking with silent laughter.

“Not authentic, I take it,” Danilo had observed.

She’d wiped her streaming eyes and subsided to a chuckle. “Not even close.” She frowned and plucked at the diaphanous layers of her skirts. “Who am I to talk? When was the last time you saw a six-foot faerie?”

The answer to that, in Danilo’s opinion, was “not often enough.” He and Arilyn had decided to go separate ways for much of the evening, assuming that Danilo’s peers might be more forthcoming with gossip if the half-elf were not too close at hand. Her hearing was keener than any human’s, so she could gather information in a different fashion.

Apart from talk of Haedrak’s claim, most of the gossip Danilo had heard focused upon the party’s hostess. He watched Galinda Raventree as she glided about the dance floor, deftly steering compatible guests toward each other and just as skillfully heading off possible confrontations. The woman was a marvel—he had often remarked to his fellow Lords that she would be a redoubtable diplomat.

His fellow Lords, was it? Danilo grimaced as he realized that he had yet to return the Lord’s Helm to Piergeiron. So many other matters demanded his attention. He would be glad to get the city and its demands behind him and begin shaping his life in a pattern more to his liking.

This returned his thoughts firmly to Lilly and to the confrontation he intended to have with Lord Rhammas concerning duty to family—all members of that family, regardless of which side of the blanket they happened to be born on.

He handed his empty goblet to a passing servant and took off in search of his father. Not a difficult task—he merely followed the tang of pipe smoke to the room where Lord Rhammas and a dozen or so of his peers waged war with weapons of thick, painted parchment.

Danilo had never been one for cards, but courtesy demanded he wait and watch until Rhammas tired of the game. Finally the older man threw down a losing hand and announced his desire for air.

He did not acknowledge his son’s tacit request for conversation, but he fell into step and they walked out to the garden together. Neither man spoke until Danilo was reasonably certain they would not be overheard.

“All has been done as you requested, sir.”

The older man nodded. “Good. That’s settled, then.”

“After a fashion, yes. But I am curious: why has Lilly never come to light before? Did you not know of her?”

Rhammas sent him a quelling glance. “The matter has been handled. There are other, more important concerns to attend.”

More important than a newfound daughter? Danilo did not speak the words, but he saw from the flash of anger in his father’s eyes that he had not managed to keep the challenge from his face. Well, now that his opinion was known, he might as well be shorn for a sheep as for a lamb. “I cannot conceive of anything more important,” Danilo said softly.

“Then apparently you haven’t heard of the raid upon the consortium’s air caravan.”

This was the first time his father had ever mentioned the family business in Danilo’s hearing. The shock of this was quickly overtaken by the implication of his

father’s words. A feel of cold, creeping dread threaded its way through Danilo’s irritation.

“The caravan was a joint effort among several of the noble families,” Rhammas explained, oblivious to his son’s stunned reaction to this news. “Fine cargo—gems, swords, small statues, and the like—were flown to Silverymoon, with the intention of bringing back more of the same.”

Danilo’s mind raced with dire possibility. Foremost among them was Bronwyn’s safety. She had sent him word that she planned to join an air caravan organized by the Ilzimmer and Gundwynd families, in which both Elaith Craulnober and Mizzen Doar, the crystal merchant, had purchased passage.

“Flown,” he repeated.

Rhammas took this single world as a question. “Griffins, pegasi, large birds. Ingenious notion, but we all warned Lord Gundwynd that he stood to lose a fortune should things go awry. Those beasts were at least as valuable as the cargo they carried.”

“Were?”

This time Danilo did intend the question. The attack must have been devastating, if some of these fierce beasts had been lost in the fighting!

His father either missed the question or chose not to dwell upon such unpleasantness. “I must say, this economy of response is not your usual custom. Well done. Quite refreshing.”

Danilo shook off what might have been either compliment or insult. If Bronwyn had traveled in that caravan, and Elaith as well, either or both might be dead.

Were there survivors?”

“Oh, Lord Gundwynd came through just fine. Tough old bird—couldn’t kill that man with a meat axe. So did some of the mercenaries, and most of the merchants. The caravan lost a few guards and some hired hands. And the cargo, of course. Bad business all around.”

It was an unusually long speech. Lord Rhammas lifted his pipe in a gesture of unmistakable finality. He took a draw, frowned, and then held it out for inspection. The wisp of smoke had vanished. He murmured something unintelligible, then wandered off in search of fire.

Danilo scanned the room for a likely source of further information. Nearby, Myrna Cassalanter was busily plying her family trade. The gossipmonger spoke in low, hurried tones to a pair of young women—an incongruous pair, since one was clad as shepherdess complete with beribboned crook, and the other was wearing a fur wrap and carrying a wolf mask on a stick. The protector and the ravager of sheep listened with identical expressions of shocked delight, and the glances they slid toward their hostess left little doubt as to the subject of Myrna’s spiteful tale. Nonetheless, Danilo moved closer. Myrna might be annoying, but she served a purpose.

“Our Galinda has debts, you see,” explained the gossipmonger, “but to maintain appearances, she has been replacing her gems with false stones.”

“Her jewelry looks the same as ever,” observed one of the women, eyeing the emerald pendant that nestled in the hollow of Galinda’s throat.

“What would you expect? Even the faux pieces are fine work—if you consider counterfeiting an art.” Myrna paused to give weight to her next words. “Apparently the Ilzimmer family does.”

She glanced up at Danilo’s approach, and a shimmer of malicious delight crossed her face. “Lord Thann. You’ve heard about the air caravan, no doubt? But of course you have, since your family had an investment in its success.”

The emphasis she gave to the final word held a nasty insinuation. Of what, Danilo was not certain. He pasted a bland smile on his face. “Actually, I have come to inquire on that very matter. What more do you know than is commonly spoken?”

The woman cocked her bright head and considered him as a horse trader might size up a plow nag for possible resale. “I hear that this year’s spiced winterfest wine will be extraordinary. Ten bottles would be a reasonable exchange.”

Myrna’s companions frowned, clearly displeased by this blatant display of commerce at a social event. They withdrew with frosty little bows and flittered off to spread tales of their own.