The Dream Spheres

Dreamspheres

by Elaine Cunningham

The half-ogre strode to the open tavern door, carrying the last of that night’s customers by the rope that belted his britches. His captive squirmed like a hooked trout and filled the air with the salty tang of dockside curses. These efforts did not seem to inconvenience the tavern guard in the slightest particular. At nearly seven feet of meanness and muscle, Hamish could lift and haul any patron in the Pickled Fisherman as easily as a lesser man might carry a package of paper-wrapped fish by the string that bound it.

“Raise your keel and haul in your sails,” Hamish rumbled as he hauled the flailing man back for the toss. “You’re about to run aground, one way or the other.”

Fair warning in these parts, but the patron failed to take it. The half-ogre waited a moment for the struggles to subside, then shrugged and tossed the man out into the night. The man’s protests rose into a wail, ending in a muffled thud.

Hamish slammed the tavern door with resounding finality. Wood shrieked against wood as the half-ogre slid home the thick oaken bar. Outside, the patron he

had just evicted began to pound on the locked door.

Two tavern maids stopped mopping spilled ale long enough to exchange a sidelong glance and a resigned sigh. One of them, a dark, scrawny girl whose dream-filled eyes belied the reality of her underfed body, tossed a single silver coin onto the table and then reached for a large, half-empty mug. She lifted it high, like a swordsman offering challenge, and turned to the pretty, fair-haired woman who shared the late night shift at the Pickled Fisherman.

“What say you, Lilly? Can I finish this off before old Elton passes out or wanders off?”

Lilly cocked her head and listened. The feeble, irregular rhythm of the man’s fists was already dying away. She fished in her pocket for a matching coin, despite the fact that this represented the dragon’s share of her nightly wages.

“Aye, Peg, that you can,” she said stoutly, slapping the coin down with the air of a woman confident of victory.

Lilly looked to the half-ogre, who was watching this familiar exchange with a faintly exasperated smirk. “I’ll stand judge,” he agreed, rolling his eyes toward the smoke-blackened beams overhead.

The thin barmaid nodded to acknowledge challenge met, then tipped back her head and drank thirstily. Lilly moved around behind, covering Peg’s ears with both hands as if to ensure that the wager was played on a level field.

As Lilly had expected, Elton’s protests faded off well before Peg’s mug was dry. That mattered not and would not change the outcome of the wager.

Lilly waited until her friend had finished drinking, then dropped her hands from the girl’s ears and gave her a playful swat on the rump. “You’ve won again, lass! It’s Tymora’s pet you are, with such luck. I’m guessing you’ve tossed a copper or two toward Lady Ludes temple.”

Suddenly uncertain, the girl paused in the act of gathering up her winnings. “Aye,” she admitted. “There’s no harm in helping luck along, is there?”

“None at all, lass.” Lilly sent a look of mock severity in the half-ogre’s direction, swearing him anew to secrecy. Hamish lifted both hands and walked of as if he wanted no further part of this ritual he never quite understood.

It seemed to Lilly a harmless way of putting a bit of much-needed money in Peg’s hands, as well as giving the girl an excuse for eating and drinking a bit of the leavings. This was a reality of their lives, something many a down-on-her-luck tavern worker did when need arose, but a thing that Peg’s pride would not otherwise permit her. Dipping outright into the tavern’s supplies could get a girl fired, and often times a bit of leftover ale and bread and salty pickles might be the only nourishment available to such as Peg. Not that Lilly was overburdened with personal wealth, but she had certain advantages: a merry laugh, a quick bawdy wit, thick hair in an unusual shade of palest red-gold, and delightful curves. Tavern wenches thus blessed could count on the occasional extra coin.

But these days, extra coin was in scant supply in Waterdeep’s rough-and-tumble Dock Ward. Lilly sent a wistful glance toward the silent door. “If this were last summer, Elton and his mates would be drinking still.”

“And we’d be working still,” Peg retorted. “Working till we were fair asleep-on our feet.”

Lilly nodded, for they’d proven the truth of that often enough. The Pickle, like most dockside taverns, stayed open as long as any man or monster could put down good coin for thin stew and watered ale, but the summer of 1368 had been a hard one. Too many ships had gone missing, which meant less cargo coming in through the docks, lower profits for merchants, fewer hands needed on ship or wharf or warehouse, more masterless men

with nothing to do but turn predator. Many of the sailors and dockhands who routinely came to soak themselves in the Pickle’s brand of brine were coming into hard times. Lilly had even heard uneasy whispers from the young lords and ladies who came into the rough tavern from time to time for novelty’s sake. A few among the merchant nobility were getting cautious, and there was even talk of finding alternate ways to move goods in and out of the port city. Of course, when they realized that someone was listening, Waterdeep’s lords and merchants and sages spoke soothingly of endless prosperity. Lilly wasn’t buying that at the asking price.

She glanced at Peg. The younger girl was piling wood on the hearth to keep the fire burning until morn, but her eyes kept straying to the far wall. There hung a few battered instruments on wooden hooks, awaiting the rare patron who was more inclined to make music than mayhem. Peg’s too-thin face was poignant with longing.

Lilly straightened and placed her fists on her hips. “Off with you, girl!” she scolded. “It’s my turn to finish up.”

Peg needed no persuasion. She darted across the tavern and snatched up an old fiddle and a fraying bow. Her feet fairly danced up the back stairs, as if they’d forgotten the long hours of toil in anticipation of the music to come.

Left alone, Lilly quickly finished setting the tavern to rights. When the task was done she wiped her hands on her apron, then reached behind her back for the ties: To her annoyance, the strings had been pulled into tight knots. Not an unusual state of affairs. She could not count the times some fumble-fingered patron attempted to pinch her backside, only to tangle himself in the strings that bound her apron or her waist pocket.

Lilly sighed and gave up. She took a small knife from her pocket and severed the apron strings, silently cursing all tavern patrons on behalf of the man who had

condemned her to an hour’s toil with needle and thread. Swine, the lot of them!

Yet once, not too long ago, some of the Pickle’s guests hadn’t looked so bad, and she hadn’t always minded their attentions. Lilly tossed aside the apron and walked behind the bar. Hidden there was a bottle of fine elven wine that a visiting lord had given her. She poured a tiny portion of the wine, the better to savor it, and spoke to the nearly empty bottle.

“A dangerous thing it is, to be drinking the likes of you. I’ve fair lost my taste for the cider and rot-yer-guts we get hereabouts. And what, I ask you, am I to do about that?”

The bottle offered no advice on the matter. Lilly sighed and pushed a stray wisp of red-gold hair off her face. Suddenly she felt very tired and eager for the escape that awaited her in the small room over the tavern. She tossed back the rare wine in a single gulp, then climbed the back stairs to the bedchambers above the tavern.

She paused at her chamber door, leaning against the frame as she surveyed the room with new eyes. Once, it had seemed a near palace—a room all her own, a safe place to put her things, a bed that she need not share unless she chose to do so. Now she looked at it as her lover might.

Her home was a small, dark chamber graced by neither window nor hearth. It boasted a narrow, sagging cot, a cracked washbowl, a cast-off mirror in dire need of resilvering, hooks on the wall to hold her two spare dresses and her clean chemise. In a room down the hall, Peg sawed away at her old fiddle, which retaliated with squawks of protest that brought to mind a stepped-on cat.

Lilly entered the room shaking her head, as if she could deny the dreary reality around her. She shut the door and sank down on the cot. Reaching under the coverlet, she patted the lumpy stuffing until she found

the particular lump she sought. From its hiding place she drew a small globe of iridescent crystal.

For a moment it was enough just to gaze at her treasure, to know that she, a simple tavern wench, could possess a Dreamsphere. This was a new thing in the city, a wondrous magical toy. They could not be found in the bazaars, of course. Naturally the city’s wizards frowned on magic that could be purchased and used without coin crossing their palms. There was nothing, though, that could not be purchased in the City of Splendors, provided one knew where to look.

There was little about Waterdeep’s hidden byways that Lilly did not know. She had bought Dreamspheres before and counted every copper well spent. This one, however, was special—a gift from her lover. A nobleman, he was. Surely he had chosen this particular dream with great fondness, knowing how she longed to enter his world!

Lilly closed her eyes and willed the man’s handsome, roguish face to mind. As she closed her fingers around the glowing sphere, she slipped into the waking trance that was the corridor into the dream.

She heard the music first, lovely music that was far removed from the occasional tune brayed out by patrons of the Pickled Fisherman. The poor chamber faded away. Lilly raised her hands, turning them this way and that as she marveled at their unblemished whiteness. Wonderingly she smoothed them over the cool blue silk of her gown.

Suddenly, she was standing in a great hall filled with glittering guests. She saw her lover at the far side of the room, sipping wine and scanning the crowd with obvious anticipation. His face lit up when he saw her Before she could move toward him, another gentleman broke away from the dancers and approached, dipping into the courtly bow that no woman of her lowly station ever received. Lilly nodded graciously and floated into his arms. Together

they joined the intricate circle of the dance.

Her lover watched from the sidelines, smiling fondly. When the first dance was through he came to claim her. Together they danced and made merry until the melting wax of the hundreds of scented, glittering candles hung from the silver chandeliers like fragrant lace. Lilly knew every dance step, though she had never learned them. She remembered the taste of sparkling wine, although no such vintage came within a giant’s shadow of the rough tavern where she spent most of her waking hours. She laughed and flirted and even sang, feeling :sere beautiful and witty and desirable than ever she had been in her life. Best of all, she was a lady among the nobility of Waterdeep, those lofty beings who glittered like winter stars and who would never, ever see her as one of their own.

Except, of course, in dreams.

The squawk of an old fiddle insinuated itself into the lilting rhythm of the dance music. Startled by this intrusion, Lilly missed the step and stumbled. Her lover’s arms tightened around her waist to steady her. His eyes were warm with approval at what he clearly thought was a flirtatious ploy.

The dream was fading, though. There would be no time to fulfill the promises offered by her lord’s bedazzled smile.

A surge of bright panic assailed Lilly. She tore herself from the gentleman’s embrace, gathered up the skirts of her silken gown, and ran like a dock rat.

Frantically she raced down the sweeping marble stairs that led to the anonymity of the streets. She had to get away before the dream faded! She would die if she had to watch the chivalrous wonder in her lover’s eyes Mange to the condescending charm he bestowed upon pretty, willing serving wenches.

Lilly’s pace slowed. Her weariness returned, magnified by the fading dream until she felt as if she were

running through water. She awoke abruptly and found herself still sitting on the edge of her sagging cot, staring at her own too-familiar reflection in the mirror that was no longer good enough for some unknown noblewoman.

Lilly stared bleakly at the image revealed in the scratched and faded glass. Gone were the silk and jewels. She was a serving wench once again, clad in a drab skirt of linsey-woolsey and a low-laced chemise that was too vigorously scrubbed and neatly pressed to be truly tawdry. Her eyes were wide and dark in her face, and the deep circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes and the impossible dreams within made them look as bruised as trod-upon pansies. One white-knuckled, grimy little hand clutched the Dreamsphere, which was now dull and milky, utterly and irrevocably drained of magic.

With a sigh, Lilly set aside the spent Dreamsphere and reached for a shawl. She draped the dark material over her bright hair and then hurried down the creaky back stairs toward the alley. Her feet nimbly avoided the loose boards, the spots that would draw groans of complaint from the ancient wood.

With a grim smile, she remembered the sweeping marble staircase that the Dreamsphere had shown her, the click of her delicate slippers as she fled the hall. In real life She was as silent as a shadow. That was the first skill a thief learned, and those who failed to do so rarely survived childhood.

Lilly didn’t like her work, but she did it well. After all, a girl had to live. In a few nights more, she could enjoy another respite from the Dock Ward. In the meanwhile this was her life, and like it or not, she had to get on with it.

Her first mark was easy enough. A fat warehouse guard sprawled in the alley behind the Pickled Fisherman. His head was propped up on a discarded crate and his jowls vibrated with the force of each grating,

ale-soaked snore. Lilly slid a practiced eye over him, then drew a knife from her pocket and dropped into a crouch. A single deft flick opened the worn leather of his boot, sending a few unspent coppers spilling into the street. She gathered them up and slipped them into her pocket as she stood.