The Dream Spheres (25 page)

His companion grunted. “Best get her home, then. You got the price of a carriage hire on you?”

“Not bloody likely! The Watch doesn’t pay that well. Wait-I’ve got three silver. You?”

As the men pooled their coins, Lilly tried to protest. The best she could manage was a little mewling sound as one of the men hauled her into his arms, hailed a carriage, and set a brisk pace toward the North Ward and the Thann estate. The thing she had wished for all her life was before her. She was about to meet her father, and the prospect filled her with terror.

Her father.

She had never really thought to meet him, much less ever once considered going to him for help. She fully expected him to reject her—if indeed she managed to find her way into his presence. Lilly would far rather be lying in that alley than faced with the disdain she anticipated. That thought followed her into the darkness, and haunted her dreams.

Lord Rhammas Thann turned the wooden device over in his hands, running his fingers over the raised carving of a raven perched on a horse’s head. It was well crafted, but not a precious piece. A man might throw such a thing aside on any number of whims. “This is indeed my family crest, and I seem to remember this pendant. How did you come by it?”

Lilly put a hand to her throbbing temples and took a deep, steadying breath. “My mother passed it on, sir, along with her story.”

“Which, I can only assume, you intend to share with me. My time is limited, so please get on with it?”

Lilly was hard pressed to understand the nature of these limitations. The room to which she had been brought was a gentleman’s study of sorts, but she saw no evidence that it had witnessed any serious study. A few books lay on a shelf, but their leather bindings were not creased and seamed by reading. A dusty quill tilted out of a glass inkwell that contained nothing but a dry stain. The only object that showed evidence of use was the set of dog-eared cards scattered about the table.

The gentleman himself showed similar signs of disuse. Rhammas Thann must have been a handsome man once, and he still cut a rather dashing figure. His hair was thick and silver, and his eyes, though rather bleary—whether from an excess of morning ale or a lack of interest in the life he led, Lilly could not say-were a striking shade of silvery gray. She could understand why her mother had spoken so wistfully of this man.

“My mother gave this to me, along with my name. She said to seek you out and tell you both these things

if ever I was in dire need. I am that, but you can believe me when I say I never intended to come.”

“You said your name was Lilly,” he remembered. “I am sorry, but I do not see the significance.”

“Do you recall a place called the Dryad’s Garden? It was a tavern in the Dock Ward, long since closed. All the girls were given names of flowers. Marigold, Pansy, Rose. My mother’s name was Violet. Her hair was of like color to mine, if that helps.”

Memory flickered in the man’s eyes, and then wide-eyed chagrin. He looked at her closely for the first time. “Violet’s child—and mine, I suppose. Yes, of course. The resemblance is there to see.”

“So your steward said, as he rushed me out of sight,” Lilly said in a wry tone. When she had been presented at the servants’ entrance, the steward—an austere fellow who looked as if discretion was the sum and essence of his moral code—took one glance at her face and then hustled her into a private room. He’d tended her injuries, fed her a vile-tasting healing potion, and heard her tale. Next he’d hurried off to arrange the interview, not even asking to see the pendant she offered as proof.

“Good man,” the lord murmured absently. He sighed and fixed a troubled gaze upon her. “Now that you are here, what is it that you want?”

A family. A home. A name.

Lilly spoke none of these things. “I’m in a bit of trouble, sir. I don’t want to bother you, but it’s needful that I leave town as soon as possible.”

This idea clearly appealed to him. “Yes, that would be best. I’ll have someone see to it. Stop by on your way out and speak to the steward—no. No, that won’t do at all,” he muttered. “Cassandra keeps the accounts and would mark any unusual sum and not rest until she knew the whole of it. No, that is impossible.”

Lilly’s heart sank. She rose and dipped into a small,

graceless curtsey. “Then I’ll be on my way, sir, and I am sorry to have bothered you.”

His eyes focused on her again, and this time there was a bit of emotion in the gray depths, and a hint of regret. “I won’t turn away any child of mine, however begotten. I’ll send someone to you who can take care of this.”

She bobbed another curtsey and turned to leave.

“One more thing,” the lord said. Lilly sent an inquisitive look back. “Your mother. She is well?”

“As well as any dead woman can be, sir. She is long gone, but I’m sure she would appreciate you asking about her.”

The words came out as a reproach, though she had not intended to speak them. Rhammas merely nodded, as if he expected—deserved—this jab.

The bleak acceptance in the man’s face disconcerted her more than would a cruel denunciation, or accusations of fraud. She had expected both. She had not expected to find this shell of a man, worn down to nothingness by relentless petty concerns and easy luxury.

This was not the father she had imagined or the life she had dreamed of living. Lilly turned and fled back toward the servants’ quarters and the discreet rear exit the steward pointed out for her. For the first time since the theft, she did not regret the loss of her coin. If this was the price of wealth, it was too dearly bought.

Elaith strode into the enclosed garden late that afternoon, congratulating himself on his decision to use Greenglade Tower as a meeting place. A group of his mercenary captains awaited him. Some of them had been waiting for hours. It was never wise to have large groups gather all at once, for fear of drawing attention. One or two men at a time, their arrivals spaced over time, were less likely to raise attention.

The remnants of a feast lay scattered on the long table and littered the garden floor. Hounds gnawed at discarded bones, and serving girls cleared away the empty trenchers. A few women-and a couple of handsome youths—had been hired for other tasks. Some were draped across the mercenaries’ laps, while others had quit the table entirely for the relative privacy of alcoves once tended by careful elven hands.

“Enough,” snapped Elaith as he strode up to the table. The mercenaries stood like puppets pulled by a single string, some of them spilling their hired companions to the ground along with other discarded memories of their revelry.

This did not seem to bother the escorts. They gathered up their scattered belongings and the threadbare remnants of their dignity and slipped through the garden gate.

The largest of his captains-a woman of the Northlands with hair the color of flame and various passions of similar hue—cast a wistful look toward the departing youth. Elaith settled his ire upon her.

“You, Hildagriff. Your report.”

The woman hauled in her attention. “This from Castle Ward: Balthorr acquired the big ruby. He wants six hundred gold.”

This was the news Elaith had been waiting to hear. The Dreamspheres he had already located, and the kiira gem was the last, vital part of Oth Eltorchul’s scheme. The elf gave no sign of the importance of this intelligence, but he rushed his other captains through their reports and sent them on their way.

As soon as he was alone, he set a swift course to the fence Hildagriff had named. This was a task too important to entrust to an underling. No one else could be trusted to handle the Mhaorkiira, the dark gem.

Later that day, Elaith was not certain that he himself could handle the elven gem. It was a beautiful thing—

far surpassing the images his mind had painted of it. Its color was clear and flawless, and it had been perfectly cut and faceted to catch light. The kiira was a marvel of elven gemcraft. And elven magic.

He was disturbed by the dark, compelling power in the stone. Not even the dire legends he had heard from his boyhood fully prepared him for the impact of the Mhaorkiira Hadryad. This stone had twisted and ultimately destroyed an ancient elven clan. Only the last-born, a mage of such utter evil that he might as well have been an orc or a drow or other such abomination, could bend it fully to his will. The gem had been found several times since then, but always slipped back into oblivion with the destruction of the elf who dared to take it up. This was an enormous gamble. Elaith knew he was quite literally putting his life on the line. Was it truly so important that he know his own deepest measure?

“You want it, or don’t you?” Balthorr had asked, seeing his reluctance. “I could sell it easy if you don’t. Two, three people looked at it this afternoon.”

That had interested Elaith. “Any make an offer?” “No,” the fence had admitted, and Elaith had let the matter go.

The kiira was his. The gem settled into his hand with an inaudible sigh of contentment, as if it had found its proper owner at last. At that moment Elaith’s hope died, his heart turned to stone. He had his answer. Nothing elven remained to him but the Mhaorkiira. That would have to be enough—that, and the power it would give him.

So be it. He left the gem in his most secure property, then hurried toward the Dock Ward to meet his waiting contacts. A second group would have gathered by now, brought in through the tunnel that ran between the tower and a nearby warehouse. The members of the two groups would not know each other if they passed on the

street. Such precautions, he had learned many long years ago, were necessary to those who lived as he did.

He slipped into the warehouse and made his way through the labyrinth of aisles that wove among the high-stacked crates. Without warning, the pile ahead collapsed, crashing down to seal off the passage.

Elaith spun in a half turn, so that he could see both behind and ahead. A trio of hooded men leaped from the heights as another four closed in from behind. The elf scanned the stacked crates on either side. Several other men knelt in position, nocked crossbows aimed at his heart.

Chagrin poured through the elf as he acknowledged himself trapped. He lifted his hands to show that he held no weapons and turned to face the band behind him. He addressed his remarks to the largest form among the hooded men, knowing that brute physical size was deemed important in the sort of primitive hierarchies common among human thugs.

“If you had wished to kill me, you would have done so by now,” he pointed out. “Now that you have my attention, speak your mind.”

“We bring a message,” intoned a gruff, familiar voice from beneath one of the hoods. “You have taken too much upon yourself. The elf lord, they call you.”

“So I am, by right of birth and property,” Elaith pointed out. “My concerns, both in this city and the one below, outstrip that of most of the merchant clans. Yours included,” he added slyly.

The man’s sudden jolt of surprise was gratifying— and enlightening. Elaith was not certain until this moment that Rhep, the Ilzimmers’ mercenary captain, was beneath that hood. Well enough. At least he knew with whom he dealt.

“This is a city of laws and customs,” the man continued, as if determined to put the discussion back on his terms.

“Really” Elaith smiled blandly. “I have not heard the law permitting armed trespass. This little visit must therefore fall under the banner of local custom.”

“Mind your tongue, elf,” snarled Rhep. “Your welcome in Waterdeep is wearing thin. Play tavern keeper if you will, but close up your Skullport trade. This will be your last warning.”

“Good,” returned the elf. “I find this particular custom rather tiresome. Please, bring my regards to your masters.”

He reached into a pocket sewn into the shoulder seam of his jerkin and drew out a small, silver rod. This he pointed at one of the crates stacked high overhead, which had been marked with a curving rune that none of these louts could read.

A shower of sparks leaped from the tiny staff and coalesced into a single, arrowlike shaft. This sped toward the box and exploded into a second dazzling shower. This explosion was followed by a second, as the contents of the box—smokepowder, highly illegal and as unpredictable as a dryad’s romantic fancy—caught flame.

Streams of burning light arced down, spitting and whistling in their descent. The archers dropped their bows and fell to their stomachs in an attempt to hold their perches on the swaying piles of crates.

Elaith drew his sword and ran at the trio guarding the blocked tunnel. He lunged and ran one man through the gut, then shifted his weight onto his back leg and lifted his bloodied sword to meet the second man’s attack. A quick twist disengaged his weapon, another deft turn brought the blade slicing across the man’s throat. On the backswing he caught the final man’s blade. He pushed up, forcing the enjoined blades high, and leveled his silver wand at the man’s chest.

Another tiny arrow of light sizzled forth, diving into the man’s chest. Elaith dove aside as the magic weapon

exploded from within, transforming the man into a crimson mist.

The elf ran up over the spilled crates and raced nimbly down the other side. Quickly he found the second hidden door, one known only to him, and slipped down into the tunnel that led to a tailor’s shop two streets down.

As he emerged from the fitting room, Elaith heard the tolling bells that summoned the Watch to tend the fire. He was not particularly concerned: The warehouse was constructed of solid stone and would withstand the blaze. It held little of value, and he could well afford to lose a few empty crates.

Nor did he regret the survival of some of the “messengers.” If a few escaped to bring word of his defiance to the merchant lords, so much the better. After all, he had the Mhaorkiira and the Dreamspheres. He now possessed the perfect weapon to strike back at those who had the best reason to send such a message.

That he intended to do. His vengeance would be lingering, highly amusing-and deadly.

The elf set a quick pace back toward his fortress home and the beckoning, compelling magic of the dark gem.