“Why did the guard recoil when you touched him?” she asked Ruen. She remembered vividly the shocked, frozen look on the man’s face.
“Because I have cold hands,” Ruen said. He shrugged dismissively.
“No, that was what you said about him.”
“Did I?” Ruen leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “You have a good memory.”
“I have a perfect memory,” Icelin said.
“I know. Sull told me.” He opened one eye. “Nothing to brag about there.”
“Nothing to—”
No one has ever said that to me, Icelin thought. The observation was so simply, absurdly true, an echo of everything she’d ever tried to tell people, that she started to laugh. At first out loud, then under her breath, until tears streaked her cheeks.
The wave of grief shocked her with its intensity. She slid down the curving wall, curling into a tight ball. She covered her head with her hands, trying to be silent, unwilling to cry out her misery in front of her companions.
She heard Sull stir in his corner, but Ruen said, tersely, “Leave it. Go back to sleep.”
He thinks if Sull comes over, that will be the end of me, Icelin thought. I’ll be howling, and bring every damn guard above and below the water running to throw us off the ship. He was probably right.
Wiping her eyes, Icelin took out the box again and removed the stack of letters. She wanted to read them. Even if they weren’t in Brant’s hand, they were the closest link she had to her great-uncle.
She removed the ribbon and unfolded the topmost sheet, the one bearing her name.
Dear Granddaughter,
I leave today on a new adventure. Faerûn calls to me, and I find I must answer her gentle whisper.
Granddaughter. Icelin mouthed the word. The letters were from Elgreth. She read the rest of the letter, hastily scrawled in the same bold writing. There was no mention of spellscars or powerful abilities, just a farewell from an aging adventurer setting off on another journey.
Elgreth was my best friend.
Cerest’s words haunted her. Did she really want to know the man who’d been friends with the monster that hunted her now?
She held the letter, staring at it but seeing Cerest’s scarred face instead. She folded the parchment and laid it beside her with the other letters. They beckoned to her, silently, but her arms felt weighted to her sides. She couldn’t focus her eyes. Sleep, so elusive, was claiming her at last.
You speak to me of adventure, Grandfather. Icelin sighed. I know the word. I’ve already had enough for one lifetime.
Ruen waited, alert in the dark hold. He watched the square of dull sunlight above him turn steel gray, and then the rain came with full force. The air in the hold grew chilled, and a puddle formed at the foot of the ladder. The rain did not abate until the sky began to darken and the gateclose bell was near to sounding. Through all the weather changes, his companions slept, the butcher snoring in intermittent gulps and wheezes.
Icelin lay on her side, twitching now and then in the throes of some dream. If not for those small movements, Ruen might have thought she was a resting corpse. Her face was pale, her cheeks etched with dark circles where exhaustion had worked on her.
Before the past night’s ordeal, she might have been beautiful, in a fragile, glass-blown sort of way. Grief had certainly left its mark on her, but the unstable magic she wielded had drained her more than any emotional trauma. She was dangerous, to herself and those around her, anytime she used the Art.
Yet, what choice did she have, if she had any hope of survival?
With that thought in mind, Ruen took out the sava pawn and softly called Tesleena’s name.
“Before you speak a word, I want you to relay your exact location and that of Icelin Tearn.” Tesleena’s voice was colder than the air in the hold. She sounded like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Are we having a rough time, darling?” Ruen said, smiling to himself. He was going to enjoy this more than he’d thought.
“Is the girl safe?” Tesleena repeated, louder.
“She is,” Ruen said. “I’m glad to see the Warden’s ankle-nipper has her priorities intact, even if she is a liar.”
“You haven’t been deceived, Ruen. You were only told what you needed to know—that Icelin is wanted by the Watch—”
“And a fair number of other interested parties,” Ruen interrupted, “as I discovered last night. Had I possessed this information beforehand, we might not have strayed so dangerously close to death. What business is this, Tesleena? If you won’t speak truth, I’ll wait for Tallmantle’s word. I give you nothing until then.”
There was a long pause, during which Ruen imagined he could hear Tesleena planting her pretty fist into a wall, assuming wizards did such things. Perhaps she blasted it with fire instead.
“Icelin is being pursued by an elf, Cerest Elenithil,” Tesleena said finally. “I assume you’ve gathered that much?”
“Yes.”
“He claims she stole property from him, but he has yet to appear before the Watch to give personal testimony against her. And now he has disappeared to Mistshore, searching for her. We have information that Icelin confided to a Watchman friend of hers that the elf had a personal grudge against her. I have men questioning Cerest’s contacts in the city, but there’s little information to be had about him. We’ve determined he was not born in Waterdeep, but he came to the city at a young age. His conduct in business is without fault, but the details of his private life are sketchy. He was the second or third son of a noble house, but he was not raised in a state of wealth or privilege. Nevertheless, he would have been significantly above Icelin in station. The only event which might link them happened five years ago, at a boardinghouse in Dock Ward.”
“It wasn’t the fire,” Ruen said, before she could relate the story he’d overheard in the warehouse. “The elf wasn’t scarred by Icelin’s hand; he admitted as much. He wants her for another purpose.”
Stunned silence met this pronouncement. “Has Cerest encountered the girl? You gave your word she was safe!”
“She is,” Ruen said. “I can keep her away from Cerest, but I need to know how many men are after us.”
“Ruen, by the gods, bring her in and the Watch will see to her safety. This is beyond your skill or caring. Why do you delay?”
“Perhaps you’ve turned me into a loyal Watch dog—officer—after all,” Ruen said blithely. “She’s safer with me, and she pays better. I’ll be in touch when you have more information for me to work with.”
He clenched the pawn in a fist until the magical connection died.
“What do you think?”
Daerovus Tallmantle pushed out of his chair and leaned over the desk. “I think you owe me new furniture.”
Tesleena looked down at the desk. Her fingernails had left deep furrows in the wood. She waved a hand impatiently, and the marks smoothed out and disappeared.
“I’d wager Icelin Tearn wishes she had your control in magic, if not in temper,” the Warden commented.
Tesleena nodded, but she didn’t seem to be listening. “We’ll track her from the warehouse. Her unstable Art will make her easy to find.” The sorceress winced. “For Cerest, as well.”
“All the more reason to step up our efforts.” Daerovus took a sheet of parchment from his desk drawer and handed it to Tesleena. “Take this down, if you would. It’s an order for a second, smaller patrol to join the first in Mistshore. These men will not be wearing Watch tabards.”
“How will Ruen know them?” Tesleena asked.
“You heard him. Ruen has no intention of cooperating willingly with our search,” the Warden said. “Since his release from the dungeons, he’s been sullen but resigned to his role as an agent. Something changed last night. He’s regained some of his old arrogance. He hasn’t shown such spirit since the night we captured him.” The Warden looked thoughtful. “Icelin Tearn has lit a fire in him. Time will tell if that will work to our advantage.�
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Tesleena sniffed. “I don’t see how it could possibly be to the good. He was going to be our eyes in Mistshore. We should have known his defiance would win out over sense.”
“He still might be of use,” Daerovus said.
The outcome of Icelin Tearn’s ordeal would be revealing in more ways than one, if everyone involved survived.
Ruen slid the sava pawn away in his shirt and checked to be sure Icelin was still asleep. After sleeping through the butcher’s heavy snores, he was certain it would take a cannon blast to wake her.
He looked up at the hatch. The square of sunlight had disappeared. A sliver of moonlight spilled down the ladder in its place. He could hear bodies stirring above decks. They would be coming to ready him for the Cradle in another bell.
Automatically, he felt for his ring. He’d known the guards would confiscate it, but he still felt naked. Whatever else came of the fight, his body was going to hurt like unholy fire after it was over. He just hoped the old man wouldn’t let him die.
The dream took her again.
She stood in the center of the ruined tower, looking straight up at the sun burning through a gap in the ceiling. Her skin tingled. The hair stood up on her arms. She didn’t like this place. The shadows moved when she wasn’t looking. Frightened whispers—the footsteps of folk who’d walked and died here a century ago—made it impossible to hear her own thoughts. She turned in a circle, searching for the gap in the wall, but something impeded her.
I am a child, Icelin thought. Her limbs would not move properly. She stumbled and fell, scraping her knees on rock.
She started to cry. Her knees hurt. The sun burned her neck. It was so hot in the tower. Why didn’t someone come to pick her up, to take her away from this place?
“Icelin,” said a feminine voice. She didn’t recognize it, but it spoke with enough urgency to make her turn. Icelin tried again to stand and was suddenly knocked from her feet.
“Get her out!”
The shadows were shouting at her. It was too hot. Icelin looked up, and her body burst into flames.
CHAPTER 11
Icelin awoke shivering, but her body poured sweat. Her bodice was saturated. She buried her head in her hands and waited for the dream fear to subside.
In the panic and grief of the night before, she’d almost forgotten the nightmare. After the boardinghouse fire, she’d been terrified of seeing the faces of the dead in her nightmares. But she only ever dreamt of the tower. It was a perversion of the tower Nelzun had created for her. She thought she’d left it behind when she’d left her great-uncle’s shop, but the tower had followed her, to the warehouse and now here.
Drawing a slow breath, Icelin forced away the frightening images. Her heartbeat resumed its normal pace, and she drifted for a time, meditating, summoning the energy she would need to call her magic for another day. The words of the spells were there; she had no need to memorize them, but the power required concentration.
When she was finished, she opened her eyes and looked around, blinking in the darkness. Slowly, she recognized her surroundings. The ship’s hold—their sanctuary for the day.
She longed to cover her head and sleep for days on end. The cold combined with the raw emptiness in her stomach forced her to a sitting position. Her hair, stiff from multiple dunkings in salt water, stood out in snarls all over her head. And the smell…
Icelin groaned. The smell was coming off her body.
Seeing she was awake, Sull ambled over to sit next to her. The butcher looked and smelled as unkempt as she.
“How do you feel?” he asked tentatively. His face was pale under his red hair.
“Food,” Icelin said. She tried to run a hand through her hair and ended up getting her fingers stuck. Cursing a streak that would have made Brant blush, she yanked her hand free. “Food,” she repeated, and smiled for Sull’s benefit. “Succulent lamb’s stew, to start, with fresh vegetables smothered in butter. Sharp cheese melted on bread slices. For the main course”—she scrunched up her face, pretending to give the matter grave consideration—“nothing whatsoever that includes fish.” She waved a hand imperiously. “That’s my order. Off with you.”
Sull’s deep chuckle filled the hold. “Ah, thank you, girl. I was worried you’d lost your good humor forever.” He shot her a look of chagrin. “As to the food: the waterskins are fine, but the rations are soaked. I don’t think they’re fit to eat. But I found this next to me when I woke up.”
He handed her a loaf of crusty bread. Icelin tore off a hunk and bit into it, expecting the worst. Surprisingly, the bread was flavorful and chewy inside. She took several more bites and a swig from her waterskin and immediately started to feel better.
“Where’s Ruen?” she asked, noticing for the first time that the thief—monk, she reminded herself—was not in the hold.
“Don’t know,” Sull said, but I heard a lot of activity going on up there. Must be near fightin’ time.”
Icelin listened to the footsteps clattering above them. Sull was right. The voices were building into a dull roar. She wondered how many people would be present for the fight. Her earlier apprehension returned in full.
Ruen meant to win them protection by fighting in the Cradle. But for how long could they realistically hope to stay safe? Icelin had never met Ruen’s contact, but already she didn’t trust the man. If Cerest offered him coin enough, Icelin had a feeling he would betray them in a heartbeat.
“Sull,” she said.
The butcher slanted her a look, his mouth puffed up with bread. The sight made Icelin smile and twisted her heart at the same time.
“If Ruen succeeds tonight, I want you to leave us. I trust Ruen to take care of me, and I don’t want you in anymore danger on my behalf.”
“Aw, don’t go startin’ that foolishness again.” Sull wiped the crumbs from his mouth with an angry swipe. “Doesn’t matter what that thief’s done, you need me looking out for you, unless”—he hesitated, his face reddening—“unless you think I’m slowin’ you down.” He clenched his hands into fists. “I know I’m not much good in a fight.”
“Sull, that’s not what I—”
“I know it!” His face crumpled. He looked near tears. The sudden shift in mood caught Icelin completely off guard. “I know you’re worried about me gettin’ hurt on your account. It isn’t fair—me strappin’ myself to you, makin’ you worry. Selfish is what it is.”
“Selfish?” Icelin said incredulously. “You’ve risked your life over and over for me. I’m the one who’s selfish and no good in a fight. Without you, Sull, I’d be lost.” Icelin felt dangerously close to tears herself.
“But it isn’t for you,” Sull said, his voice barely audible. He dropped his head in his hands.
Feeling helpless, Icelin scooted closer to the big man and put her arm around his shoulders. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you mean, Sull? If not for me, why are you here?”
Sull sniffed loudly. He wiped his eyes but wouldn’t look at her. “I love my shop,” he said. “Always wanted one of my own, ever since I was a lad.”
Guilt stabbed Icelin. “I’ll get you back to your shop. I promise.”
“No!” Sull roared. He jerked away from her as if he’d been stung. “Serves me right if the place burns to the ground. Let me finish, lass, I beg you.”
Icelin nodded, staying silent.
“I love my shop,” he continued, each word a trial for him. “In the early days, all the folk knew me. Once I got established in the neighborhood, I helped others just startin’ out. Wasn’t anything to it, I just liked ’em and wanted ’em to have the same chance I got. So I gave meat to the baker and the blacksmith, kept ’em fed over two winters so they would have coin to spare for their wares. I spent the summer helpin’ Orlan Detrent put a roof over his cow pen. Hot as the Nine Hells, it was, but we laughed over a pitcher of ale afterwards.”
“That’s wonderful,” Icelin said. “They were lucky to know you.”
&nb
sp; Sull’s eyes filled with fresh misery. “Not so lucky. You put me too high in your heart, lass, and I don’t deserve it. I made friends with a lot of folk, so when Darthol and his boys came to the neighborhood, they knew to come straight to me.”
“Darthol?” Icelin hadn’t heard the name in years. Darthol Herendon had conducted a brief but lucrative extortion operation in Blacklock Alley and other parts of South Ward. Icelin remembered Brant had insisted on escorting her everywhere she went during Darthol’s brief “reign.” Her great-uncle hadn’t wanted her to cross paths with any of Darthol’s men, though Icelin suspected he’d paid a substantial amount to ensure her safety. Fortunately, they’d been spared any lasting strife. Darthol’s body had been found in a garbage heap one night. Folk thought he’d been stabbed to death by one of his own men.
“I didn’t know you ever encountered him,” Icelin said. “I’m sorry for it. That was a dark time for many of us.”
“Darker than you know,” Sull said. He wasn’t crying now. He looked old and sad. “I was cleanin’ out the shop one night. I like to work late, when the streets are uncluttered, but I was being quiet so not to rouse folk. They didn’t hear me at first.”
The words hurt him. Icelin squeezed his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said.
But he went on. “I had the big wooden washtub outside the back door, couple of candles lit so I could see. My cleavers were all in the tub, needin’ a good scrub. I’d just picked up the rag”—he mimicked the gesture, lost in his tale—“when they came around the side of the shop, draggin’ old Orlan by his bare feet.”
“Oh, Sull,” Icelin gasped.
“He wasn’t dead,” Sull said, “least not then. Face was covered in blood and sort of mashed in, but his eyes were open. He stared at me the whole time they were beatin’ him, beggin’ with his eyes for help. Somehow, I was stuck. I couldn’t get my arms out of that washtub. I had my hand on a knife, gods forgive me, and I couldn’t raise it up out of the water.” He looked at his shaking hands, seeing a weapon that wasn’t there. “I could have planted it in that son of a whore’s back before his boys were ever the wiser. Worst of it was, Darthol knew I was there all the time. He beat poor Orlan to death in front of me. He knew I didn’t have the guts to stop him.”
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