The Dream Spheres (33 page)

Isabeau didn’t take the bait. “You will have to be more specific.”

“All right, how’s this: Lord Oth is dead,” Arilyn said plainly.

Panic jolted into the woman’s eyes. “Let me up, and I’ll tell you what I know,” she said in a subdued voice.

Arilyn eased away. She rose to her feet and stood by the bed, arms folded. The former barmaid sat, pushing aside the heavy mass of her hair from a face that had suddenly grown pale.

“You are certain he is dead? Who killed him?”

Interesting, Arilyn thought, that she would immediately come to this conclusion. “How do you know his death wasn’t illness, or accident?”

The woman scoffed, dismissing that notion with a small, spitting sound. “From what I knew of him, I’d say it’s a marvel he lived so long.”

“Yet you seemed upset to learn of his death.” “Naturally! Lord Oth was a wealthy man, a powerful man. He could have been useful. See this?” Isabeau

brandished one hand, her fingers spread to show the pink and gold ring on her middle finger. “He gave me this as a token and bade me present it when I wanted use of the estates.”

“You picked an interesting time to use it,” Arilyn said

coldly. “The woman whose place you took is dead.” Isabeau didn’t so much as blink her heavy lashes.

“What of it? The Dock Ward is a dangerous place.” “Especially when there are tren lurking about.” “Tren?” The woman shifted one silk-clad shoulder.

“That word means nothing to me.”

The half-elf tamped down her temper. “All right then, what is your connection to Lilly?”

“Who?”

Her bored, derisive tone did not match the defiant challenge in her eyes. Arilyn saw that she had two choices: she could play this woman’s game by rules Isabeau understood, or allow herself to be played like a cheap fiddle.

She backhanded the woman across her lovely, sneering face, then hauled her up by her hair. “Let’s try that again,” she suggested in a cold, dangerous voice.

A measure of respect crept into Isabeau’s eyes, and she eased Arilyn’s hands from her hair. “You are speaking of the red-haired serving wench. Yes, I took her place. I overheard a man and woman talking about seeing a young woman to safety out of the city. Why should that be her and not me? I seized the chance, as a drowning man might take hold of a rope. Would you begrudge that man his rescue, demanding that he die while he considers whether someone else might be more worthy of it?”

Arilyn folded her arms. “Drowning, were you? In what cesspool?”

She tossed her dark head. “I fled the elf. You know the one. He was pursuing me.”

The half-elf carefully kept her face neutral as she considered this revelation. She had to admit that Isabeau’s story was plausible. Elaith had promised Danilo months

ago that he would let Isabeau live. Perhaps the elven rogue thought that he’d kept the promise long enough. If indeed he had followed Isabeau, he was most likely behind Lilly’s death. With all the weapons at his command, it would not be difficult to imitate the cutting patterns of tren claws. Certainly Elaith had some knowledge of tren.

Another, darker thought occurred to her. Perhaps the tren assassins she had come across in the Thann villa were there not for an ambush but for an arranged meeting. Errya Eltorchul had said that her brother had done business with Oth. Perhaps their dealings had gone sour, and the elf had intended to arrange for Oth’s death. Once Elaith was discovered with the tren, it was not inconceivable that he would kill a few of the creatures to maintain his cover.

Even as the thought formed, Arilyn acknowledged this was an extreme measure. For one thing, it courted tren vendetta. For another, Elaith and five tren could have easily overcome her, and there would have been no one left to tell the tale. However, as Arilyn had told Lady Cassandra, she had never heard that Elaith had slain another elf.

She turned her attention fully upon the watchful Isabeau. There was room for truth in the woman’s words, yet Arilyn did not trust her and did not believe her claim that she “just happened” to wander into Lilly’s tavern. Arilyn knew what would have led Elaith to Lilly’s door, and she could easily imagine Isabeau having a part in its acquisition.

“As you say, the Dock Ward is a dangerous place,” Arilyn said, as if she conceded the woman’s argument. “Lilly recently sold a large ruby to a fence and probably had ready coin.”

Isabeau’s eyes went dark with rage, and she pounded on the bed with both fists. “The little cheat!”

Immediately she recognized the error of her words, realized that she had been tricked into admitting more

than she had intended to. The vindictive, malevolent rage that twisted her face robbed her of beauty and stole Arilyn’s breath.

Arilyn fought away the instinct to take a step back. The last time she had retreated from anything was a chance confrontation with a wounded panther, and that was a tactical move rather than one motivated by fear. Nonetheless, she recognized this was a truly dangerous woman.

Even as the thought formed, Isabeau sprang, catlike, from the bed. She lunged not at Arilyn, but at the statue with the feline head. This she shoved with all her strength, sending it toppling toward the pursuing half-elf.

Instinctively Arilyn ducked, but the statue never quite fell. One stone hand flashed up to catch its balance against the wall. The painted eyes took on depth, then a luminous glow.

It was clear that Isabeau had not been expecting this. She scrambled back up onto the bed, her back against the headboard and her eyes enormous.

The cat man leaped at Arilyn, fangs the color of alabaster bared in a deadly smile. She dove straight toward it, rolling under the spring and rolling again to put distance between herself and the magical guard.

She rose to her feet and drew her sword, although she was not sure how much good it would do her. The cat, for all its light-footed speed, was fashioned of stone.

A paw lashed out. Arilyn parried, and sparks lit the room as steel struck stone. The cat’s other hand closed around the steel blade, and it wrenched the sword from Arilyn’s hand. It threw the sword across the room and batted at the half-elf with its other paw.

Arilyn could not dodge the blow in time, but she rolled with it to minimize its force. She came up aching and bruised, but not badly hurt. The stone cat had kept

its claws velveted. The statue was playing with her. Once it unsheathed those alabaster claws, Arilyn was done.

On impulse, she dove at Isabeau and tore the signet ring off her hand. Brandishing it at the cat, she commanded the creature to stop.

A heart-stopping moment passed as the magical guard studied her with its inscrutable feline gaze. It was an enormous gamble, Arilyn acknowledged, and if it didn’t work, she would be dead.

The cat turned and returned to its post. It assumed a regal pose, and the light faded from its eyes. Arilyn’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“Don’t think this is over,” Isabeau said, her dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

The half-elf heard the voices and hurrying footsteps of servants in the hail. They began pounding on the door.

Apparently this was yet another trigger for attack. The winged gargoyles began to stir. Arilyn dove for her sword, and came up in a battle-ready crouch. Unlike her first adversary, true gargoyles only looked like stone. These were living creatures, and what lived could also die.

She spun away from a diving attack and delivered a backhanded slash. Her sword sliced through the batlike wing: The creature plummeted into the bed, sundering the ticking and sending feathers flying into the air.

Isabeau edged toward the window, obviously intending to take Arilyn’s escape route. “Not this time,” the half-elf muttered. She lunged at Isabeau and caught her by the nightdress. She sent her spinning back into the room and took a stand in front of the window to block the woman’s escape.

By now the manor’s servants were at full alert. They had improvised some sort of ram and were pounding at the door with it. The wooden planks bulged inward with each resounding thump.

Arilyn paused at the window and sent a warning look at Isabeau. “We’re not through.”

“Oh, but I think we are.” The woman gestured toward the door. The bar was beginning to splinter.

The half-elf swung herself over the balcony rail and slid down the rope. Though it galled her to do so, she had little choice but to retreat. Isabeau was in no position to bring a formal accusation against Arilyn, but if the Eltorchul servants found her on the estate, Isabeau would not have to speak out. The penalties for unwanted intrusion in a lord’s home could be stiff.

She ran through the garden and to the rope she had left hidden behind the elm. Quickly she climbed the wall, and then made her way back to the orchard. Her mare awaited her, and she cantered toward her mistress.

Arilyn caught the saddle’s pommel and swung herself up. She leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged her on to Waterdeep. Isabeau would have to be dealt with, but the half-elf herself was in no position to do so.

An old question, one that she had not asked herself in years, floated to the surface of her mind: Who would take the word of a known assassin?

The door splintered and flew inward, sending a half dozen servants stumbling into the room. Isabeau gathered up the neckline of her gown in one hand and drew back, as if this intrusion were not so much a rescue as an affront to her modesty.

One of the maids snatched up a coverlet and draped it around Isabeau’s shoulders. “What happened, my lady? Are you hurt?”

Isabeau sent her audience a tremulous smile. “No, thanks to your quick response. A man came in through the balcony. I think he just meant to rob me, but the statues came awake, and they fought. It was terrible, terrible!”

The maid clicked her tongue soothingly. “Rest, lady. As you’ve seen, the master’s magic will keep you safe.”

“I cannot stay here after this!” Isabeau exclaimed in astonishment. “Saddle my horse at once.”

“But dawn is hours away,” one of the men protested. He wavered before Isabeau’s steady gaze and conceded, “We could send a guard with you.”

“I would be most grateful. Perhaps you could see to the arrangements, while I dress?” she hinted.

The servants retreated, leaving Isabeau alone and furious. She threw open the doors of the wardrobe and began to toss rich garments onto the bed as she considered what her next step should be. Without Oth as a protector, she was in a delicate position. That wretched half-elf had surprised a reaction from her that might tie her to the theft of the air caravan.

Much good had that done her! The treasure was lost. The goods had been moved to Skullport, but they had been stolen before Diloontier could claim them for her. Or so he said. Isabeau would not be at all surprised to learn that the perfume merchant had double-crossed her.

So now what? She had no treasure, very little money, and a pair of diligent hounds on her trail. Isabeau had witnessed how relentless Arilyn and her handsome companion could be in pursuit of one of their little crusades. She muttered curses as she dragged a small traveling chest out from under the bed and began to hurl her new, stolen wardrobe into it.

“You are quick to take what is not yours,” observed a cold, male voice behind her.

Isabeau gasped and whirled, one hand at her throat. A tall, slender figure stood in the shadows, smiling with icy amusement.

Her heart leaped painfully, then picked up the rhythm at a shallow, frantic pace. A strange giddiness overtook her, and the floor tilted as if it were an enchanted carpet

on the verge of taking flight. She seized the bed curtain for support.

“You!” she gasped on a short, sharp breath. “It was you who pursued me!”

“Clearly, this is more of a surprise to you that it should be,” the intruder said.

“What are you going to do with me?” she said in a tremulous voice.

His laugh was equally resonant of music and scorn. “Please. The role of delicate maiden does not suit you. I am not going to kill you.”

“Then what?”

“This is a warning, nothing more. Do not pursue the Dreamspheres. I will brook no more interference.”

Isabeau seized what seemed a likely distraction. “You will suffer interference regardless of what I do. Two meddlers are already on the trail. You know them well. Arilyn the half-elf, and Lord Thann.”

This news was received in silence. He lifted one hand, displaying a small glowing sphere. “If they cross me, they will die—but not before I learn what death they fear most.”

She laughed scornfully, a bit of bravado that went a long way toward restoring her spirits. “So much for the vaunted concept of honor among peers.”

With the speed of a striking snake, his open hand shot toward her. Isabeau turned with the blow so that it barely grazed her cheek. The intruder reined in his anger with visible effort.

“Do not press me,” he said in a low voice quivering with rage. “Heed well my words. I do not wish to see you again, but I might yet have use for you. The tides in the southlands have turned, and you will be welcomed in your homeland. Find your way there as soon as possible.”

There was a puff of acrid smoke, then a soft hissing sound as air rushed to fill the void left by the shadowy figure’s disappearance. The sudden wind swirled Isabeau’s

hair and nightdress around her and then was gone.

Isabeau brushed aside one of her dark locks and realized that her knees were trembling like aspens. She sank down on the bed and considered this new development.

Tethyr, the land of her ancestors. The suggestion had merit, and it fit well with her new and loftier ambitions. However, it was one thing to decide upon a trip to the distant south; it was quite another to manage it. She had no patron, little money, and slim prospects of getting more before the winter snows set in. The only solution she could devise was to return to Waterdeep and recover the lost treasure. When she had accomplished that, she could return to her homeland in style.

Yes, that was what she would do. Isabeau rose, her mind made up, and continued stuffing the garments owned by some Eltorchul woman into the traveling chest. She would have the Dreamspheres, and she knew just how to get them.