The Dream Spheres (30 page)

The reasoning was logical enough, but Arilyn shook her head. “Do you know who died in that ambush? Elves, mostly. Among them were four young warriors not long from Evermeet. They were Eagle Riders and among the most respected elven warriors. Whatever else Elaith might do, whatever he might be, I cannot believe that he would condemn those lads to certain death.”

“Why not? If there is any truth at all to the legends and tavern tales, Elaith Craulnober has slain hundreds in his misspent life and barely stopped to clean his blade.”

“Never an elf,” Arilyn persisted. “As far as I know, never that. I admit that might be scant virtue in this claim, but there is a pattern. Everything I know about Elaith Craulnober leads me to believe him guiltless in this matter.”

Cassandra sat back and regarded the younger woman with an icy gaze. “You know what you are saying, of course. You are accusing at least one of the noble families of betrayal, theft, and murder. That is a very serious accusation.”

The half-elf did not flinch. “Someone knew the caravan route well in advance, and laid ambush. Someone is responsible for the death of those elves. It is my business to see that they pay for it. If for some reason I do

not, Elaith Craulnober most likely will. For once, you should pay heed to what rumors say. Do not take either of us lightly.”

The woman’s lips twitched. “I am put on notice,” she said with an unexpected touch of dark humor. “I suppose I ought to thank you for the warning.”

“Don’t bother. Just don’t pass the warning along.”

“Bargain made,” the noblewoman agreed. “In any event, I would hardly put about the fact that my son’s companion-a suspected assassin, as you have taken great pains to remind me—is hounding among the peerage for a traitor. There is scandal enough without this returning to my door!” She gave Arilyn a wry, sidelong glance. “Is there any hope of turning you from this path?”

“None.”

Cassandra nodded as if she had expected this. “In that case I, too, have a warning. Nothing good will come of this inquiry, either for you or for Danilo. If you must persist, keep your eyes open and your sword at hand, and see that you keep good watch over my son.”

“As I have done for these past six years,” Arilyn said stiffly.

“Really? That is a marvel, considering that you are so seldom in Danilo’s company. Think nothing of that. Your dedication to the elven people is admirable, I’m sure. Ah, we are back at the gate. You will return to the party, of course.”

It was an order, not a question. Since she could see little profit in prolonging the interview, Arilyn descended and watched the departing carriage.

Lady Cassandra’s words troubled her deeply. Until now, she had shrugged aside Cassandra’s small digs and genteel sarcasm as easily as she might wave away a persistent gnat. Arilyn was well accustomed to slights. When it came to subtle insults, not even the most supercilious noble could hold a candle to an elf, and half-elves were favorite targets for elven slings and arrows.

However, this time things were different, and the noblewoman was letting her know that beyond doubt. Like a master swordsman, Cassandra had slipped past Arilyn’s guard and gone straight for her heart. She had used the sharpest sword that anyone could wield—the painful truth, plainly stated.

“Truth is the sharpest sword,” Arilyn murmured. Those words steadied her resolve as she gathered up her shimmering skirts and headed for the Raventree mansion. She and Danilo would find the truth, and that weapon would serve to cut through the deceit and intrigue. That would put things to rights.

A small, fluttering movement drew her eye. The autumn wind was brisk, and one of her discarded wings had been blown against the stone wall surrounding Galinda’s garden. It lay there like a dying bird, ghostly amid the darkness of the stone and the swirling dry leaves.

Arilyn was not superstitious, but it seemed to her that the false wings spoke augury She had cast off illusion, and the result was death. Though she did not waver in her determination to find her way to the truth, she could not help but wonder who might yet fall to that sharp sword.

Lilly hurriedly packed her belongings in preparation for the trip from Waterdeep, and to freedom. It was not a large task—a few pieces of clothing, her precious Dreamspheres, an ivory comb missing only a few teeth, a dented pewter mug, and a small but well-kept assortment of knives and picks.

She hesitated a moment before placing her thieving tools in her sack, for they seemed ill suited to the bright future ahead. Upon consideration, she tucked them inside and folded the bundle securely shut. A girl never

knew what might need doing.

The door flew open so hard that it slammed against the wall. Lilly jumped and reached for a weapon. Too late, she remembered they were packed away.

Isabeau blew in like a leaf on a gale, more disheveled and wild-eyed than she’d been in the heat of battle.

“You’re looking as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Lilly commented, “and not a particularly friendly one at that.”

That brought a faint, sickly smile to the woman’s pale lips. She collected herself somewhat, but she continued to prowl about the small room as if seeking something of vital importance. The burlap sack seemed to be of special interest to her. As she eyed it, she began to toy with the strings that held her own purse to her waist.

“You’re leaving?”

Lilly thrust the burlap sack behind her, “Just taking some things to the laundress, is all.”

The woman studied her for a moment, then smiled. “A man and woman were inquiring for you downstairs.”

Lilly’s heart sank. Isabeau knew of the planned escape!

“Of course,” the woman continued, “when I learned what they intended, I pretended to be you. I have reason to leave the city for a few days. You won’t mind if I take your place, will you?”

Before Lilly could move, the woman swung her purse and dealt Lilly a painful, ringing blow to one ear. The room spun, and she suddenly felt the hard floorboards beneath her knees.

Isabeau hiked up her skirts and delivered a kick that landed just below Lilly’s ribs. Too winded to draw breath, the thief could not fight as Isabeau stuffed a scented handkerchief in her mouth.

The woman knelt beside her. She held her palm up to her lips and blew, as if she were blowing a kiss. Red powder puffed toward Lilly’s face.

Lilly drew in a startled breath. Instantly she realized

her mistake. A languorous haze spread swiftly through her, obscuring the path between her will to act and her ability to move. It was like being in the throes of a Dreamsphere but without either the pleasure or the oblivion. Though Lilly could not command her body, she could definitely experience everything that happened to it. She registered the second stunning blow to the head, and she felt a cord tighten around her wrists. She smelled the dry scent of dust as the woman shoved her under the cot.

Through the immobilizing haze, Lilly heard the creak of the old wooden stairs announce the approach of her intended savior. She struggled without effect to find some way to make her presence known. Finally, she listened with growing despair as Isabeau fell into her role and took her place.

The Harper woman was as small and slight as Lilly, and although her red hair was not as thick and pale and lustrous, at least it was a reasonably good match. She donned the extra dress that Isabeau took from Lilly’s bag and gave Isabeau the overtunic and trews she had worn to the tavern. Cynthia expressed puzzlement over Isabeau’s dark hair, but she readily accepted Isabeau’s story of a sudden impulse to disguise herself, abetted by a mage’s apprentice and a five-copper spell. Lilly did not blame the Harper for her credulity. She knew, to her sorrow, how convincing the thief could be.

When the women had changed places, Isabeau slipped down the stairs to the alley, and the carriage waiting beyond.

The cot sank dangerously low as the young Harper sat on the edge. She hummed idly to herself to pass the time until the tavern closed and the streets grew dark enough for her to hold her guise as she slipped off.

Again the stairs creaked, this time with more protest. Cynthia rose and crept to the door. She stood with feet braced as the portal began to swing slowly open.

Lilly saw the creature first, and she knew it from the enormous clawed feet. She threw her will and strength into a futile effort at screaming a warning.

The silence was broken, not by her voice, but by the sudden scuttle of tren footsteps. The creature darted forward, pivoted, then grunted with the effort of a single, massive blow.

There was no time to scream, even if Lilly had been able to. The Harper hit the floor hard. Lilly’s eyes widened in horror as Cynthia’s lifeblood spilled out into a spreading pool. The red stain reached out toward her in wide rivulets. To the terrified girl, it looked like tattling fingers pointing the way to her hiding place.

Even so, she was startled when a large green hand thrust under the cot and seized a handful of her skirts. The creature dragged her out with a single tug, then jerked her onto her feet.

In some mist-veiled corner of her mind, Lilly realized that she could stand on her own. The poison Isabeau had administered was beginning to wear off. Her terrible fear, however, was nearly as immobilizing. She stood frozen like a mouse facing a raptor, staring with a wide, dry, unblinking gaze into the fanged smile of a tren.

“You have some very interesting dreams,” observed the creature in a musical voice. “It is almost a shame to end them. However, it is necessary, you see. A step toward an end I highly desire. As is this.”

The tren held up a bit of parchment. It was the note Isabeau had stolen from the bearded man. On it was written the details of the air caravan’s route. A signature had been added to the page. The name was that of her secret love. “They will find you, and they will know what you did. Of course, they will blame your gallant lover. He will pay for every loss, every death. And your family, of course. Oh, yes, the Thann family will pay as well.”

- -

Lilly shook her head, a tiny movement of anguished denial. Her secret love had had nothing to do with this! She was the thief, not he! Never, never had she intended anyone to die!

Even as she tried to shape air into protest, the creature before her began to change. The thick body became longer and more slender, the features sharp.

Lilly remembered what she knew of Isabeau Thione, and she thought she understood what manner of foe the woman had fled. Isabeau had stolen her escape, though, and had left her to face this handsome monster.

The deadly visitor smiled, as if somehow pleased that she understood his true nature and his intention. Then his smile widened horribly and his face elongated into a reptilian snout. Scales erupted on his face, and an anticipatory string of drool dripped from the false tren’s fangs. He lifted claws already stained with Cynthia’s blood, and hooked them with slow, tantalizing deliberation. There was malicious pleasure in his eyes. He intended to feed on her terror as surely as a real tren would have fed upon her flesh.

Lilly would not close her eyes. A noble’s life might have been denied her, but the manner of her death she could choose.

She fought the immobilizing poison with all the strength and heart and will she could muster. Her chin lifted with a mixture of pride and courage, and she regarded the creature with steady calm as the deadly claws slashed in.

The next morning dawned fair and bright. To the west of Waterdeep, past the north gates, lay a fair expanse of gently rolling meadow and a pleasant wood beyond. It was a favorite playground of the city’s privileged class, a fine place for riding and hunting. In the distance, the baying of hounds and the excited halloos of pursing riders spoke of a fox run to ground. The blue skies were dotted with the small, wheeling forms of hunting hawks. A dull, faint thumping spoke of beaters flailing the trees to startle game into the path of waiting hunters.

Despite the evidence of nearby sportsmen, no human parties marred the immediate landscape. There was a scent of autumn in the air: the tang of drying oak leaves, the elusive perfume of late-blooming flowers, the sweetness of apples and cider wafting from the carts that trundled toward the city markets on the hard-packed dirt road. Elaith Craulnober tried to concentrate on these pleasant things and forget his distaste for the woman who rode at his side.

This should have been an easy task on so fine a day. He had his best, silver horse beneath him and a peregrine

falcon riding—unhooded and untethered—on a perch on his saddle’s pommel.

The small “lady’s hawk” that Myrna Cassalanter carried was confined according to human custom and rode on the leather bracer on her wrist. The elf refrained from comment. If he could endure this dreadful woman’s company, if he could smile pleasantly as she gleefully slew the reputations of her peers, then surely he could overlook her treatment of her hunting birds. What was such a thing, anyway, to an elf whose inner darkness both surpassed and controlled that of the Mhaorkiira?

Finally the woman lifted the little hawk’s hood and tossed the bird into the air. The tiny raptor winged off gratefully in search of game and an hour’s freedom.

“You are wise to pursue this matter,” Myrna said, turning back to the matter that had brought them to this discussion. “Rumors abound concerning the poor treatment suffered by the Gundwynd family’s elven employees. It is whispered that Lord Gundwynd knew of the attack on the air caravan and used the elves as cannon fodder.”

She smiled unpleasantly. “Surely you can make good use of this situation. There will be a number of elves leaving Gundwynd’s service and seeking other employ. You should be able to engage their services for far less than the going rate.”

Elaith did not comment on this advice. “Important information,” he allowed. It was, too. He wouldn’t have started the rumor, if it were not.

“The Ilzimmer clan is also under scrutiny,” Myrna said with relish. “You might find a way to make use of that, as well. There is a particularly juicy tale making the rounds about Simon Ilzimmer, a minor mage who likes to visit courtesans in shapeshifted form. Only a handful of the city’s hired escorts will have anything more to do with him.”