The Dream Spheres (39 page)

Danilo supposed he ought to come to his friend’s aid. He truly intended to do so. At the moment, however, he found the spectacle vastly entertaining. Moreover there was no denying that it held a certain justice. Danilo doubted that Tyr Himself could come up with a more fitting retribution for a casual and thoughtless lover than the wrath of one he had scorned. Who was he, the merest of mortals, to intervene in so apparently divine a pattern?

Just then Myrna landed another solid whack, this one a two-handed upswing that would do justice to a master polo player. It caught Regnet under the chin, and his head snapped painfully back. He dropped and rolled beyond reach just as another vicious, chopping blow clanged onto the floor.

The halfling steward rushed in and grabbed at Myrna’s arm. She flung out an elbow and caught him in the face. He staggered back, clutching an eye already swollen and darkening.

“Do something,” Regnet implored his friend.

Danilo relented and quickly formed the gestures for a cantrip—a small spell that would heat metal. The tip of Myrna’s iron weapon began to glow with red heat, which slithered up the handle toward her white-knuckled fists. She took no notice, following Regnet’s retreat as he rapidly crab-walked away from her, flailing away until the poker was entirely aglow. With a sudden yelp of pain, she released the weapon. It fell to the carpet, which began to smolder.

For several moments, chaos reigned. Munson rushed to douse the fire with the first available fluid—which, unfortunately, was the flagon of tzar he had fetched for his master. The potent liqueur set the carpet aflame. The halfling snatched a stuffed trout from its pedestal and beat out the flames.

Finally all was relatively calm-all but for Myrna, who looked ready for another round. “How could you have anything to do with that trollop!” she demanded of Regnet.

“Have a care how you speak,” Danilo told her.

She sent him a withering look. “Not the barmaid. That does not signify. But Galinda Raventree! How could you offer me such insult?”

Myrna gathered up her skirts and stormed out. She whirled at the door to deliver a final shaft. “You will regret this. Both of you.” Out she went, with the halfling sneaking behind her, suddenly less concerned about the visitor’s spent wrath than that which was likely to ensue.

Regnet, though, was of no mind to scold his steward. He sighed in mingled relief and consternation as he rose to his feet. “I am sorry for that, Danilo. What will come of this, I cannot say. Myrna can be vindictive.”

That did not concern Danilo, and he said so. After all, what part could the gossipmonger have played in Lilly’s death? She was a silly, shallow woman, venal in casual conversation but lacking the will and focus to do any real harm. He did not regret the conversation, for if it had shed no light on Lilly’s fate, at least it had set his mind at ease concerning Regnet’s involvement.

However, as Danilo left the gates, it occurred to him to wonder how Myrna knew Lilly was a barmaid. He had been careful not to refer to his sister in such terms. It seemed apparent that she had known about Regnet’s involvement with Lilly—at least, she had not reacted to it with surprise and anger.

Danilo decided to cut though Regnet’s property. It was a pleasant walk, shaded by large elms and lined with a hedge of lavender—leggy and outgrown this time of year, but still fragrant. It was a good place to think, and he had much to ponder.

Foremost in his mind was puzzlement over why Myrna did not show anger about her would-be lover’s involvement with Lilly. Was it because a simple tavern wench just, as she’d put it, “did not signify”? Most of Waterdeep’s nobles readily overlooked the small foibles and dalliances that were common among their class.

Or perhaps Myrna had responded with rage when the tale of Lilly and Regnet was newly told. If so, what form had her anger taken? In light of her display, Danilo had potent reason to believe that she was capable of ordering a rival’s death—especially the removal of a person she considered to be without much consequence.

He was wondering still when the first blow came out of nowhere and sent him staggering into the fragrant hedge.

Danilo hauled himself to his feet. Through eyes swimming with stars, he made out three dark shapes dropping from the elm tree: three, in addition to the man who had already hit him.

He reached for his singing sword, for its magic served to galvanize the wielder and those who fought beside him, while disheartening those who fought against. Against four men, he would need that edge.

He pulled the blade free. At once it broke into melody, but not the ringing, comic ballads that Danilo had magically “taught” it. The sword intoned a dismal little dirge in the nasal tones of the Turmish language.

The sword’s magic had no power over the fighters. They fell into place around him. The man who faced him swept his sword in a taunting circle, then tossed it from left hand to right and back. It was a show meant to intimidate.

“And it succeeds,” Danilo murmured under his breath.

He reached for his spell bag and called to hand the components for a slow-movement spell. To his dismay,

the casting had no effect on the men circling him, but the falling leaves suddenly defied the brisk wind, dripping slowly through the sky like honey from a spoon.

The singing sword gave a ghastly croak and fell silent. Magic had, to all purposes, deserted him.

The man facing him sneered. “I seen rusty swords before. First time I ever heard one!” He lunged forward, his sword coming in high.

Danilo blocked. His sword groaned with the parry, a dismal sound that seemed to leech away his resolve. When the mercenary punched out, he could not move away in time. The heavy blow caught him below the ribs and knocked the wind from him, bending him nearly double.

From the corner of his eye, he saw another thug lunging in for his sword arm. He turned painfully, blocked, and riposted. All the while his sword whined, moaning and complaining.

A fiery streak flared across the surface of his mind like crimson lightning. His vision danced, and a heartbeat passed before he connected the flash of pain with the long rip in his left sleeve, the welling redness staining the emerald silk.

The man behind him kicked hard, catching him in the small of his back. He could not turn to defend himself. Nor would he, for another man was coming in, sword leveled for a lunging thrust.

Danilo blocked. He feinted low, then shifted his weight and lunged in high. His blade slid just wide of his opponent’s parry, scoring a stinging cut on the man’s cheek. Danilo felt a surge of satisfaction. The outcome of this seemed assured, but at least he would make some account of himself.

The next cut came from behind—a shallow, stinging jab to this shoulder. Danilo whirled and thrust. His sword glanced off the man’s belt buckle and sank in deep. He wrenched his blade free, shifted to his back foot, and

parried an attack from another foe. At the same time, he kicked back and caught the third man on the side of the knee. The thug’s leg buckled, and he stumbled, nearly falling.

The man caught himself and came in, his face a mask of fury. He leaped, his sword aimed for Danilo’s heart. The first man, though, the one who had jeered at Danilo’s sword, slashed out and knocked his comrade’s blade aside.

“Not that,” he snarled. He glanced at Danilo and added, “Not yet.”

Danilo suspected the last words were meant to cover a misstep. This attack was most likely not intended to be an execution but a warning. Still, he couldn’t be sure.

He lifted his sword in guard position and faced down the three remaining men. The leader began to advance, and then froze in mid-step. His eyes shifted down to his hand, and his puzzled gaze shifted from the sword that would no longer obey him to the broad, shining dagger tip that protruded from his beard.

Suddenly the dagger jerked to one side, and a crimson fountain exploded from the man’s throat. He fell slowly, revealing the cold, amber gaze of the elf standing behind him. The man’s comrades threw down their swords and ran.

Without pausing for thought, Danilo took off after them. Elaith swore and kicked into a run. “You are in no condition for this,” he pointed out as he trotted along beside.

“Have to stop them,” Danilo gritted from between clenched teeth. “Have to know who ordered this.”

The sound of fleeing hoofbeats resounded down the back streets, but Danilo did not slow. The elf hissed in exasperation. “You are depriving some village of an idiot, you know.”

The rumble of a carriage caught the elf’s attention. He glanced up as the conveyance ambled by and noted

that it bore the guild sign and was driven by a halfling. Good. That made things easier.

Elaith leaped onto the running board. He reached up and pulled the driver from the box, sending him sprawling into the streets with a quick, careless toss. With the horses he showed a bit more care—he caught the nearest bridle and coaxed the team to a stop. He flung open the door and tumbled the shrieking passengers out, then shouldered Danilo into the carriage. Slamming the door, he leaped onto the driver’s box.

He shook the reins over the horses’ backs. The frightened animals took off at a tearing run.

Danilo crawled through the window onto the box. “Don’t think that I am devoid of appreciation,” he began,

“but-“

“Not another a word,” the elf snarled as he guided the team around a sharp turn. “You wanted to catch those men. This is the only way you’ll do so without bleeding yourself dry.”

Danilo considered, then gave a curt nod. That was all he had time for, because another careening turn tipped the carriage onto two wheels. He seized the edge of the seat and braced his boots against the footrest to keep from sliding off onto the cobblestones.

“Hang on,” Elaith said, belatedly.

They tore through the streets, tilting wildly first to one side then the other as they thundered along. The elf kept the hindmost rider in sight—no easy task, despite the fact that the man’s precipitous flight emptied the streets.

Elaith followed him down a narrow alley, one that curved and twisted like a snake. The carriage tilted but did not fall. Sparks flew as the wheel rubbed against the narrow walls and showered down on them from where the upper edge grazed the opposite wall.

They burst out into the chaos of a crowded courtyard. A trio of barrels rolled toward them. One shattered

beneath the horses’ hooves. The scent of mead honeyed the air. Chickens fled, squawking in stupid indignation. A few merchants stood their ground, shouting imprecations and pelting the carriage with spilled and ruined produce.

Instinctively Elaith reached for a retaliatory knife. Danilo caught his arm as he was getting ready to throw. “Listen,” he said grimly.

The distinctive rise and fall of the Watch horn sounded over the noise of the street. Elaith swore and jerked the reins to the left, sending the horses careening down a side street. Four men in black and green scale armor formed ranks at the end of the street. “The Watch,” Danilo said. “The penalty for attacking them is high!”

“Then let’s hope they have the sense to get out of the way,” the elf returned. He leaned forward, shaking the reins over the horses’ hacks to urge them on. Something of his grim determination transmitted itself to the team. The pampered carriage horses turned back their ears, lowered their heads, and charged.

At the last moment the Watchmen leaped aside. The carriage thundered through, veering off to the right with a screech of wheels and a wild chorus of snorts and whinnies-an equine cry that would not have disgraced a paladin’s battlehorse.

“At least someone’s enjoying this,” Danilo commented. He sent a worried glance over his shoulder, then sighed with relief as all four men rose to their feet.

A shadow flashed over them, tracing a circle on the road below. “Griffin rider,” Danilo supplied.

Elaith swore and pulled back on the reins, but the horses were too lost in their wild, newfound freedom to respond in time.

Wind buffeted them as enormous wings backbeat the air. A huge, leonine body pivoted in the air and dropped to the ground in a ready crouch. The creature’s

eaglelike beak snapped in percussive counterpoint to the menacing, feline growl that rumbled from its feathered throat.

The horses shied, rearing up to paw the air and whinnying in terror. The carriage tilted, spilling its occupants to the ground. Elaith was on his feet at once, alert for the attack, but he did not draw a weapon. From his position on the cobblestone, Danilo applauded the elf’s good sense. At least twenty Watchmen and a dozen guards surrounded them with drawn swords.

Elaith cast a baleful look at Danilo. “Are you dead?” he demanded tartly.

Danilo hauled himself painfully to his feet, giving the matter careful consideration. “Not quite.”

“Good,” the elf growled as the men closed in. “I should hate to miss the opportunity to kill you myself”

The door to the prison cell clanked shut. Elaith turned to glower at his companion. Danilo had been uncharacteristically silent all the way to the Castle. He slumped now onto the narrow cot. The elf noticed he cradled one elbow in his hand. “Your arm has come free of the shoulder?”

“I think so,” Danilo admitted. “Hard to tell, though. Everything hurts, and it’s difficult to sort one thing from another.”

“There is one sure way of finding out.” Elaith seized the man’s wrist and gave it a sharp, vicious tug.

Danilo let out a startled oath, then rolled his shoulder experimentally. “That worked,” he said, surprised. “There isn’t a better way?”

“Of course there is, but I’m of no mind to use it,” the elf returned. “That cut on your arm needs attention. I can stitch it if you wish.”

“With what? A fishhook?” Danilo retorted. “Thank you,

but I will await the healer.” He paused. “You followed me. Why?”

Elaith considered what to say. The Dreamspheres were on the streets, sold to those who were likely to have knowledge that would aid the elf’s chosen vendetta. He had picked up the dreams of one of these men, a hired sword who harbored a twisted desire to inflict pain on one of the city’s privileged, wealthy men. Elaith had seen the man’s mental image of his victim. Despite all that he had done, all that he was currently doing, Elaith could not allow a man he’d named Elf-friend to suffer this fate.