The Dream Spheres

by Elaine Cunningham

  The stairs ended in a dark and silent hall beneath the Thann estate. To one side, a vast, cool room was honeycombed with small shelves filled with dusty bottles. The Thanns were wine merchants, and Danilo had often remarked on their cellars. Arilyn spared this treasure trove no more than a glance. Her attention fixed upon the footprints that led past the door.

  They were heat prints, large and faint. Several sets of them, by the looks of it. She dropped to one knee for a better look, and her eyes widened.

  The tracks belonged to tren—huge, reptilian creatures that lived beneath ground, surfacing only to ply their trade. Arilyn had reason to know this. Tren were assassins, and she had crossed swords with them before. In her experience, they did not venture this far above ground without deadly purpose. She knew them well enough to realize that tren bodies warmed or cooled with their surroundings, so their heat prints were faint even when fresh.

  These were very fresh, indeed.

  Quietly, Arilyn rose to her feet and slid her sword from its sheath. Her own feet, elf-shod and magically protected, left no telltale marks as she began to follow the assassins' trail.

  Danilo glanced up at one of the tall, narrow windows that lined the great hall. The moon had risen perhaps twice its own width since his miscast spell. Arilyn was taking far more time in returning than he had anticipated.

  A hearty clap on the back shook him from his reverie. A tall man with curly brown hair regarded him with mock dismay. "Look at you! Snared like a hare! Tell me, how long have you been waiting for this woman?"

  Danilo turned a wry grin upon his friend Regnet Amcathra, then nodded toward Myrna Cassalanter, who was whispering tales to a woman wearing an emerald colored gown and an expression of scandalized delight. "About as long as you have been evading that one."

  Regnet threw back his head and laughed. "An eternity, it would seem! And the night is still young! However, I was not speaking only of tonight. In truth, Danilo, it seems years since we've gone out drinking and wenching together. There are many woman in this wide world, you know"

  "One who matters." Danilo's gaze slid again to the door through which Arilyn had disappeared.

  Regnet shook his head. "One woman!" he mourned. "When I consider the straits to which you have been reduced!"

  "I have other vices," Danilo assured him, brandishing an empty goblet.

  'Well, that's a comfort." The nobleman scanned the room, and his eyes lit up as they settled upon a pretty barmaid at the far end of the hall. "We are in luck. There's a sight to gladden us both."

  They sauntered over to the table, and Regnet immediately busied himself with a flirtation. Danilo applauded his choice. The girl was a merry lass with red-gold hair, laughing gray eyes, and dimples that flashed in genuine good humor. Her voice might be rough with the accents of the shantytowns of Dock Ward, but there was nothing blunt about her wit.

  "Don't be taking this amiss," she advised Regnet, "but you'd best be moving on. There's a moor fire burning this way."

  Danilo followed the line of her gaze and burst out laughing. Myrna Cassalanter advanced, her gaze intent upon Regnet. With her scarlet hair and even brighter gown, she did rather resemble a wind-driven blaze. Moor fires were considered terrible omens, and in practical terms the burning bog gasses left a foul scent behind. Danilo could not imagine a better description of Myrna, a gossipmonger by profession and inclination, than that supplied by the barmaid.

  When Myrna had dragged her prey away to the dancing, Danilo lifted his glass to the serving girl in silent salute. She responded with a quick, impish smile and then a shrug.

  "I've seen enough of such things to name them true." "Bog fires?" Danilo inquired with a grin.

  "Wouldn't that be fine!" the girl replied wistfully. "No,

  I've never stepped beyond these city walls."

  He helped himself to a bottle from the table and refilled his glass. There was no self-pity in the girl's voice, but he recognized the sound of genuine longing— and the echo of his own restless nature. "Where would you go?"

  She shrugged again. "Anywhere that doesn't smell of fish and ale would suit me fine."

  Danilo laughed and captured a ripe apricot from the tray of a passing servant. "These help a bit, when I'm feeling restless. Taste it, and see if the flavor doesn't conjure images of warm sunshine and distant lands."

  "Oh, I dare not eat on duty," she protested, although she considered the fruit as if it were a rare gem. "Besides, if I pocket it, folks might think ill of me."

  He nodded, understanding this. Thievery by servants was severely punished. Even so, it didn't seem right to deny them the festive fare they helped to serve. "Give me your name, then, and I'll have some sent to you."

  "Will you, now?" she retorted with good-natured skepticism. "Along with a case of that elven wine, I suppose. . "

  Her words faded as something seized her attention. Danilo followed the line of her gaze and grimaced. Not far away, an exceedingly curvaceous young woman was dancing with an amorous nobleman. Both partners' hands were far busier than their feet. Normally, Danilo would not consider this odd—after all, the attention Myrna lavished upon Regnet was even less subtle--but he had reason to distrust this particular woman. It would seem that Sofia the pickpocket was having a bit of a problem with her transition to Lady Isabeau.

  "Excuse me," he murmured as he set down his glass.

  A look of deep consternation flashed across the girl's pretty face. "Have a care with that one, sir. Looks fine as frog's hair, she does, but I've seen things. That one is trouble."

  "You've a very good eye," he commented as he began to move away. "Thank you for your advice. I shall bear it in mind."

  "Lilly," she said abruptly.

  He turned back, lifting one brow in inquiry

  "My name," the girl explained. "Just wanted you to be knowing it. Your name, I'm already knowing." She grinned again. "It's been spoken."

  "Yes, I can imagine," he said dryly, enjoying the woman's wry, impish humor—even when it came at his expense. He touched his forehead in parting salute. "Lilly, it has been a rare pleasure."

  He deftly intercepted Isabeau from her partner and danced her as unobtrusively as possible into an alcove.

  As soon as no eyes were upon them, Isabeau pulled away. She squared her shoulders, not so much in defiance as to better frame the expanse of feminine charm displayed between her ruby necklace and her low-laced gown.

  "Calling in your debts, Lord Thann?" she said mockingly. "A tryst, in exchange for my rescue and my new position? I have been expecting you to name that coin, but not in so public a place."

  Danilo stuck out his hand, palm up. "I've come to collect—you're right about that much. Hand it over."

  She pouted, the picture of insulted innocence. "I don't understand."

  "Clearly. May I remind you that you are Isabeau Thione, a noblewoman related to the royal house of Tethyr? I know this is all very new to you, but you must learn to comport yourself according to the mores of Waterdhavian nobility."

  "Huzzah!" She gave him a cool, mocking smile and a little patter of applause. "Bring him the prize for stuffiest speech of the night! In truth, Lord Thann, the only difference between me and most of these fine people is that they steal larger quantities, usually from those

  who can ill afford the loss. I have been in this city for only a few tendays, and already I know that much!"

  Danilo refused to be distracted. "Don't make me sorry I brought you here," he warned her. "There are those who would be only too happy to take you back to Tethyr."

  Isabeau abruptly sobered. Her black eyes darted across the room to the silver-haired elf with a hawk's watchful amber eyes.

  "Very well," she said petulantly, and began to empty her pocket. In moments Danilo's hands were heaped with items she had taken from her dance partners: coins, pendants, a small crystal sphere, even a ring—an unusual piece set with a large stone of rosy quartz.

  He regarded the haul with dismay. "Have you any ide
a how long it will take me to sort through these things and return them without suspicion to their owners?"

  The woman folded her arms over her abundant cleavage and smiled. "There is an easy solution. Give them back to me, and save yourself the trouble."

  Danilo sighed and spilled the treasure into the bag attached to his belt. "Perhaps you should leave, Isabeau. We'll discuss this later."

  "Much later, I hope," she said airily. Her eyes scanned the crowd, no doubt looking for one of her victims. She glided from the alcove and disappeared into the swirling, silken haze of the dance floor.

  For a moment, Danilo was tempted to follow. After all, he and Arilyn had brought Isabeau to the safety of Waterdeep. Though they had both come to rue and reject the Harper reasoning that had ordered this mission, a personal responsibility remained: they had to keep Waterdeep safe from Isabeau.

  * * * * *

  Elaith Craulnober saw Danilo whisk the southern woman into an alcove and had little doubt about the reason for it. The wench was a thief, and she was damned good at her work. She had stolen a dagger from him!—earlier that very summer, and in doing so had nearly gotten him hanged.

  This made Isabeau Thione unique in Waterdeep. She was the only person who had seriously crossed Elaith who still drew breath. The elf would not have made her an exception but for the debt he owed Danilo Thann. How could he refuse something so paltry as a woman's life, measured against the worth of his own?

  They had traveled a far path, he and the human

  bard. Elaith had once hired underlings to kill Danilo--a deed he considered too trivial to take upon himself. By

  now, though, his regard for young Lord Thann had

  changed from utter loathing to grudging respect. If not

  for Danilo, Elaith would have been slain by a passel of

  vengeful gnomes for a murder he did not commit. Elaith

  had chosen to repay that debt in elven fashion, and

  named the man Elf-friend.

  Elf-friend. It was a rare gift, a pledge of absolute acceptance and loyalty, an honor rarely conferred upon humankind.

  It was also without doubt the most stupid thing he had done in decades.

  The primary proof of that was Elaith's presence at this wretched party. With the exception of a few hired musicians and Danilo's half-elven love, Elaith was the only elf in attendance. To say that he drew attention would be a vast understatement. Elaith preferred not to garner much notice. It seemed prudent, given the nature of his activities.

  Therein lay Elaith's second source of disgruntlement. He was a rogue elf, wealthy through endeavors that ran the whole gamut from sanctioned to suspect to hideously illegal. His life had long ago turned onto a dark and

  twisting path. Yet of late, he had acquired pockets of virtue that were, not to put too fine a point on it, damnably inconvenient. Honor, loyalty, tradition—these were garments Elaith had long ago cast off, now much moth-eaten and of uncertain fit.

  One of the more inebriated guests began to lurch purposefully in the elf's direction. Elaith regarded the man with keen displeasure. He was not a particularly imposing specimen of humankind. Of middling height, he had narrow, sloping shoulders and a meager chest. Most of his weight had settled in his haunches and hams. His sandy hair was shorn close to his head, and his beard was trimmed to a sharp point—no doubt in an effort to suggest resemblance to a satyr. In reality, the overall effect was nothing loftier than a two-legged billy-goat.

  The merchant immediately began to regale Elaith with stories. Since the only escape the elf could see involved a quick dagger and a faster exit, he merely let the slurred words flow over him as he observed the crowd.

  There was much to learn at such gatherings, and the elf's quick eye had already discerned several interesting meetings, some unusual alliances, and some outright deals. He had long been of the opinion that information was as valuable a currency as gold, and already he had gained enough to repay himself for the tedium of attending the dreary affair.

  " . . . sell the elf gem right out from under him, I will," boasted the merchant.

  Elaith's attention snapped back to his captor. "The elf gem," he prompted.

  "Big thing," the man said, beaming at this sign of interest. "A ruby, full of magic." He leaned in and elbowed the elf's ribs sharply. "Getting fuller by the day, too, eh? Eh?"

  Elaith grimly added the presumptuous lout to the list of those whose funerals he would dearly love to

  attend. A list, he added, that was growing nearly as fast as Danilo's skyflower bush. It was so much tidier to kill people as you went along and have done with it. Isabeau Thione might be beyond Elaith's blade, but this man was shielded only by a bit of unlearned information.

  "I am remiss," Elaith said in cordial tones. "Your name has escaped me."

  The merchant drew himself up, weaving only slightly. "Mizzen Doar of Silverymoon. Purveyor of fine gems and crystals."

  "Of course. And the gentlemen who is the target of your clever plan?"

  Elaith's questions had an unforeseen effect. As the merchant gathered himself in an effort to form an answer, his vague smile wavered, and his bleary eyes focused and then went bright with fear. "I know you," he said in a clearer tone than he had used thus far. "Damn me for a fool! You're That Elf."

  The man spun and reeled off with indecent haste. This garnered Elaith a number of suspicious glances and set a good many tongues wagging.

  The unfortunate result, he noted wryly, of a long and misspent life. For decades he had cloaked his misdeeds with his handsome elven features and abundant charm. Eventually, deeds had a way of growing into reputation.

  All things considered, he was not very surprised when a servant discreetly handed him a folded note along with a goblet of wine. Probably a request from his redoubtable hostess that he remove himself. Or, just as likely, a summons from one of the apparently staid and proper members of the merchant nobility, who wished to make a deal beyond the gleam of this gilded circle.

  A glance told the whole tale. On the paper was a maze of tiny lines—undoubtedly a map. Interesting. It was unlikely that any of the merchant nobility would risk contact with the rogue elf unless the matter held considerable urgency. Most likely, it was a summons

  from a member of the Thann family or one of their retainers, judging from the complexity of the map. He could always deal with Mizzen later.

  With a faint smile, Elaith slipped the note into his pocket. He finished the wine and then drifted out into the gardens, and toward the meeting to which he had been summoned.

  * * * * *

  Alone in the alcove, Danilo slumped against the wall and considered his predicament. Isabeau had robbed more than a dozen guests. Lady Cassandra would be mortified and shamed if it became known that a thief had been working her party. Danilo, for all his disagreements with his mother, had no wish to see her suffer such humiliation.

  Neither could he hold her entirely blameless. He had warned Lady Cassandra that such a thing might occur. Isabeau Thione had been trouble from the day he'd met her, and he had told Cassandra so. But no—his mother had been too taken with the Thione name, too determined to have a member of the restored Royal House of Tethyr at her harvest festival.

  Well, he had done his part. The choice had been Lady Cassandra's, and she would have to find a way to deal with the consequences.

  A probable solution occurred to him, one so obvious and yet so chilling that it slammed into his mind like an icy fist. "If there's any trouble, Elaith will be blamed," he muttered. "Damnation! Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

  Danilo dug a handful of Isabeau's booty from his bag and regarded the glittering baubles balefully. The markings on the ring caught his eye. Engraved into the rosy stone was a leaping flame surrounded by seven tiny tears: the symbol of Mystra, goddess of magic.

  He groaned aloud. Isabeau, either in ignorance or in supreme arrogance, had robbed a mage!

  He lifted the ring for closer examination. Tiny hinges were cun
ningly concealed in the setting, indicating a hidden compartment. He found and released the clasp, then lifted the cover. On the inside lid was etched the tall, old-fashioned wizard's cap—the Eltorchul family crest. The cavity was filled with powder the color of old ivory.

  Danilo sniffed cautiously at the powder. Pulverized bone, most likely, no doubt a component for one of the Eltorchul's shapeshifting spells.

  "Have a care," advised a stiff, patronizing voice. "You could find yourself turned into a jackass."

  He glanced up into Oth Eltorchul's narrow, esthetic face. With great effort, he mustered up a good-natured smile. "Some might argue that such a transformation would be redundant. This ring is yours, I take it?"

  The Eltorchul mage strode forward. He was too well-bred to snatch the ring from Danilo's hand, but he came as close as proprieties allowed. "I must have left it on the privacy washbasin. How did it come to your possession?"

  "A lady picked it up and gave it to me so that I might find the owner," Danilo said, truthfully enough. "I must say, it is a fortunate coincidence that you happened by just now."

  "No coincidence at all. I sought you out to ask of you a question."

  It did not escape Danilo that this admission seemed to pain Oth. "Oh?"

  "The blue rose. The elven swordswoman."

  Danilo wasn't sure where this was going, but he doubted he would like the destination. His curt nod held scant encouragement.

  The mage hesitated, clearly loath to find himself in the position of supplicant. "I have heard stories claiming

  that you can cast the elven magic known as spellsong. Such magic is beyond my grasp. If you have this knowledge, I desire you to teach it to me."

  That was not the question Danilo had expected to hear and the last he intended to answer.

  He had indeed learned and cast a uniquely elven spell on an enchanted elven harp, but he had never since been able to recapture the elusive spirit of elven spellsong. At the time, he had not realized that the magic of Arilyn's moonblade had bound his destiny to that of the elves in deep and mystical ways. When the connection was severed, his fragile link with elven magic had vanished. He had told this to no man, and did not intend to begin by confiding in this one.