Bellaril was a heavyset dwarven woman with ruddy skin and large blue eyes. She wore plain brown breeches and a white vest cross-stitched with leather cord. Her face was as devoid of expression as Ruen’s when she ventured out to her platform. She nodded to Ruen, and he returned the gesture.
Instead of cheering Bellaril, the spectators stamped their feet, and several of them produced small hand bells, waving them furiously above their heads. The din was shrill and loud enough to drown out Waterdeep’s own great bells.
The guard raised his sword for quiet and approached the combatants. He spoke to each of them in turn. Bellaril answered his query regarding weapons with a shake of her head.
“Fist to fist, then,” Sull said when the guard left the platform without distributing weapons.
This did not reassure Icelin. As soon as the guard was down the stairs, Bellaril darted forward, jumping nimbly from her platform to Ruen’s, landing as far from him as she possibly could in the small space. The dwarf looked up, meeting Ruen’s gaze and smiling.
CHAPTER 12
Watchman Tarvin surveyed the vibrant embers and ash clouds of the Hearth fire with one hand raised to shield his eyes against the wall of heat. It reminded him briefly of the burned warehouse he’d seen on the shore—or the smoking skeleton of a boardinghouse.
The metal basin from which the Hearth flames ascended had steep sides, but the bottom of the structure sat several feet below the walkway, allowing easy access.
The setup was ingeniously designed and protected the surrounding structures from damage quite well. The basin’s inner shell had long ago turned an oily black color. The smells of cooking fish, meat, and the occasional spice were everywhere, but did nothing to mitigate the nauseating odor of the bodies gathered around the fire for warmth or sustenance.
There were no benches near the outside of the basin. People sat on the crude walkways built around the pit, cradling children in their laps or leading the elderly by the arm.
A pack of young girls, the youngest no more than five years old, was selling cooking spits for a copper a foot. Tarvin bought two from one of the older girls and shooed the rest away.
He leaned close to the child’s ear when he paid her and asked in a confidential whisper if she’d seen a particular young woman walking by the Hearth.
“Black hair, white skin like a ghost’s,” he said, and he saw the girl’s eyes widen. “Not a real ghost,” he said quickly. “There’s a man with her—tall, with red hair all over his head. Have you seen anyone like that passing this way?”
The girl shook her head. Tarvin gave her the copper coins and sent her off. He scanned the crowd a second time, his eyes coming to rest on a woman sitting alone near the edge of the fire. She was wrapped in a thin, dirty cloak, trying to blend in with the crowd.
In need of some amusement, Tarvin crouched next to the woman. He smiled when she averted her face. She had straight, drab brown hair and a tiny hooked scar on the bridge of her nose.
“Can I buy you dinner, pretty lass?” He held up his newly acquired spits, twirling them like batons.
The woman looked at him, but she didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “This is my territory.”
“Lovely Deelia, I’d never infringe on your authority. I was just doing some independent scouting,” Tarvin said. He made a vague gesture to the outer rim wreckages.
“You’d better hope she’s not out there,” Deelia said. “That’s gang territory.”
“Yes, it would be a shame if they dragged her off, had their fun, and didn’t leave any pieces for us to find,” Tarvin drawled.
Deelia shot him a look, but she didn’t comment. Tarvin knew she didn’t want to be out here anymore than he did. But the Warden had spoken, and the Watch had answered the Wolfhound’s call. Icelin Tearn would be found and hauled in from Mistshore on the end of a leash if need be.
“Foolish to come down here,” Deelia said. “This place’ll eat her alive. What was she thinking?”
“She’s afraid of the wolves,” Tarvin said. “Us,” he clarified when Deelia only stared at him.
The Watchwoman shook her head and turned her attention back to scanning the crowd for Icelin. Tarvin wanted to tell her not to waste her time.
The crowd huddled closest to the bright flames was mostly made up of women and children. Tarvin had thought this would be the first place she’d run to, with the late season darkness running cold and the wind colder still on the harbor. If the gangs hadn’t already caught up to her, she’d need light, warmth, and especially food, if she hadn’t had time to gather any. But so far, his search had come up empty.
“Did you know Therondol?” Tarvin asked abruptly.
“No,” Deelia said. If she was surprised by the change in topic, she didn’t show it. “I came to the Watch after his time.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten how many years he’s been gone. You’d have liked him, though. Steady, but he had eyes that could cut, you know? You could never lie to the man. I don’t know why that made me like him, but it did. He was smarter than all the men in his patrol, but he never looked down on anyone.”
“He sounds just like the Warden,” Deelia said.
“Better than,” Tarvin said. “But all that’s gone, so no use dwelling on it, eh?”
Deelia shrugged. “Why are you out here, Tarvin? The Warden didn’t send you. You should be on patrol in South Ward.”
“What does it matter? We’re all looking for the same woman, as if there wasn’t a whole city of more worthy folk to mind.”
“You’ll be reprimanded,” Deelia said.
“Be worth it, if I get to bring her in.”
“Good luck to you, then,” Deelia said. “Now either leave me, or stop talking.”
Tarvin didn’t get a chance to reply. A pair of women sat down directly in front of them, too close to their personal space to allow any private conversation.
Tarvin exchanged a glance with Deelia. After a breath, one of the women half turned to face them. Her left eye was swollen shut. Blood crusted the seam.
“Are you Serbith?” she whispered, addressing Deelia.
“Yes,” Tarvin said, ignoring Deelia’s sharp poke to his ribs. He loved to irritate her.
“Who are you, then?” The other woman turned. She had an open sore on her lip.
“I’m her bodyguard,” Tarvin said without hesitation.
“Wasn’t part of the deal, her bringin’ another pair of eyes,” the woman said. As she spoke, Tarvin found himself unable to look at anything except the ugly sore. “Never mind then, no hard feelings. I brought the goods. Let’s see your coin.”
“My bodyguard has it,” Deelia said sweetly.
Tarvin smiled. “Of course. But I want to inspect the goods before I pay a copper.”
“You hear that, Mabs? He wants to count fingers and toes,” the woman with the swollen eye said.
“Oh, he’s got ’em all, no mistake there.” Mabs laughed and unwound a thin wrap from her shoulders.
Deelia hissed out a breath and a curse, but Tarvin kept his composure.
The baby was naked and new, probably only a handful of tendays old. His lips, fingers, and toes were blue from the cold. He should have been wailing his discomfort for all Faerûn to hear, but he was too underfed. He didn’t have the strength to cry.
“How long has he been off his mother’s milk?” Deelia said. Her mouth was set in a grim line.
“Never been on it,” Mabs said. “It was the mother’s fourth, so her teat’s all dried up. But he’s the best of the lot. Lord Theycairn’s gettin’ his coin’s worth, don’t you worry.”
Tarvin stiffened. Lord Theycairn was a nobleman recently widowed. His wife had died in childbirth, but the family insisted the babe, a boy, had survived. No one had yet seen the child in public.
Deelia said abruptly, “I am satisfied.” She removed her cloak and handed it to Mabs. “Wrap the child in this, please.” She waited until it was done, then went on
, “If Lord Theycairn should happen to have interest in… other children—”
“Lookin’ to stock his larder with heirs, is he?” Mabs chortled. “We can do that. The other girls and us, we got just as many go in the harbor as not, on account of how we can’t feed and clothe ’em all. But we could save back the best of ’em for you to inspect.”
“That would be acceptable,” Deelia said. “Could you remain here? Someone will be coming with your coin.”
“Thought you said your bodyguard had it?” Mabs looked at them suspiciously.
“Lord Theycairn sent us to ensure you kept your end of the bargain,” Deelia said quickly. “Serbith has your coin and will come to collect the babe. She knows nothing of us.”
Mabs scowled, but she finally nodded. Her suspicion wouldn’t keep her from taking the promised coin.
Deelia took Tarvin’s arm and hauled him to his feet. When they were out of earshot, Tarvin said, “What was that about? I’ll wager this Serbith is Lord Theycairn’s washerwoman, or some such. If we’d waited, we could have caught her buying babies in Mistshore.”
Deelia looked pale and angry. “And risk that baby being one of the discarded if the deal went badly? Better that one becomes Theycairn’s heir. I’ll report to the Warden when we see him next. We have to see about getting some food down to the prostitutes, at least those on the shore. You’re right, there are more important things going on in Mistshore tonight than Icelin Tearn.” She shivered. “I hate this place. Babies in the harbor—godsdamn bloody mutilated part of the city. That’s all it is. A leech.”
“Nice to see you again, Morleth,” Bellaril said.
Ruen inclined his head. “It’s been a long time, Bells.”
The dwarf’s expression darkened. “You know better than to use nicknames with me, Morleth. That’s going to cost you.”
They were circling each other now. “You don’t like being called ‘Bells’?” Ruen said. “I’d have thought you would have embraced the nickname. Your fans certainly have. Or are they plants by your master, to drum up support for his champion?”
He lunged, aiming a fist at the dwarf’s face. The blow glanced lightly off her jaw, and Bellaril was already ducking under his guard for a jab to his midsection. Ruen fell forward into a roll. He tried to snag Bellaril’s ankle as he passed, but she jumped out of the way.
Ruen sprang to his feet, his arms out in defense, but the dwarf kept her distance. He could feel the burn in his ribs where she’d jabbed him. Quick punches, just enough force to give pain. She knew exactly where and how hard to hit him. That was the damnable part of this fight.
“I did warn you,” the dwarf said. “What is it you need from him this time, Morleth? Protection? Coin? Whatever it is, it won’t be worth it.” She moved in again, throwing a quick succession of punches, all aimed low where he had trouble defending. Ruen took another blow to the flank, but he caught the dwarf a heavy blow to the shoulder that had her backing off.
“I need a place to hide,” Ruen said. He took the reprieve to catch his breath. The air burned against his cracked ribs. “There’re two others with me. I assume he’s seen them?”
“A bird and a butcher,” Bellaril said. “Not the sort of company you generally keep. He’d love to hear the tale behind it.”
“I’ll happily throw the fight and tell it to him,” Ruen said, “but I think he wants me to win.”
The dwarf’s swings faltered. Ruen got in another blow, a numbing shot to her arm. He pressed forward, but Bellaril kicked, catching his knee.
Ripples of pain shot up Ruen’s leg. He wobbled, gritting his teeth to keep from collapsing to the platform. Breathing fast, he stepped back, unable to press his momentary advantage.
“Give this up, Morleth,” the dwarf said. She massaged the feeling back into her arm while he seethed in pain. “It doesn’t matter if Arowall wants me to lose. The title is mine. I’m not letting you or him take it from me.”
“If you think so little of my chances, come ahead,” Ruen said, opening his arms.
The dwarf shook her head. “I’m not to be baited like that, Morleth. I was giving you a chance.” She dodged to the side when his fist came in, hooking an elbow around his arm. Securing her hold, she squeezed.
Ruen felt the bones snap. His mind momentarily blanked, but he kept his feet, largely by holding onto the solid dwarf. When he looked into her face, he could see she’d put very little effort into the attack.
“I’m the only person in the Cradle who knows how much pain you’re in,” she whispered. “I know how many of your bones are broken, and if I wanted to, I could drop you to the floor or the sharks. You can’t win without your ring, and you know it.” Her eyes softened. “One last chance, Morleth. Give this up.”
“I have a better idea,” Ruen said. He licked blood from his lips. The ribs must be broken, not cracked, he thought. “How about a side bet of our own?”
“You’re mad,” Bellaril said sadly. “What is it you want? Why are you fighting for those two?”
In response, Ruen jerked the dwarf close. He wrapped the palms of both his bare hands around hers. Bellaril’s eyes widened in shock. She had not seen him remove his gloves. They lay discarded on the platform.
Ruen did not attempt to strike her. He waited a breath for her to see the blue light, to realize what he was doing, then he whispered against her ear. When she drew back, her expression was unreadable.
“Fine,” she said, breaking his hold. “It’s a bet. I’ll try not to kill you, Ruen Morleth, but I make no promises.”
“Fair enough.” Ruen set his feet. He didn’t trust his speed anymore. He would have to work on the defensive.
She struck at him again, hitting his jaw, his collarbone, his shoulder. Each time her fist glanced off a bone, Ruen felt himself come apart a little. She left him his legs. Aside from the blow to his knees, he could remain upright and maneuver enough to dodge the worst of her attacks. It wouldn’t last. She would bring him down soon.
He took another blow to the shoulder, but this time he snagged her arm before she could dance back. Immediately, she began punching with the other, struggling to free herself. Ruen absorbed the blows, letting his weight shift against her. She stumbled, off balance by the sheer dead weight of him.
Ruen brought his good knee up, planting it in her stomach. She gasped and bent double, but he struck again before she could fold. Wildly, she clawed at him, but he kept pressing down with his weight, until they were both crouched on the platform.
He forced his knee across her throat, pinning her. Choking, she tried to sit up, but he kept her down. Her reach wasn’t great enough to get around his long legs. She could keep punching him in the gut, but Ruen was beyond the pain.
The dwarf snaked an arm up, grabbing his leg. She twisted viciously, no longer concerned with his balance. Ruen bit his lip; blood filled his mouth. The Cradle wavered, the faces of the crowd blurring into indistinct smudges. He kept Bellaril down with his ruined leg. She hissed and sputtered and cursed him.
“You’ll never… stand,” she said. “Your legs are ruined.” Her voice was nothing more than a whisper. He’d cut off her airway. If he could hold on long enough, she would lose consciousness.
“Maybe you are the better fighter,” he said, as her body went limp. “The only thing that separates us is where we keep our pain.”
He looked up. The crowd was on its feet, screaming and stamping at the turn the match had taken. Icelin and Sull were still watching from across the Cradle.
Directly behind him, the guards were clustered around a figure coming up the stairs. Long, meticulously trimmed gray hair fell across his shoulders. His face was pale, his skin wrinkled but not yet taken heavily by age. He might have been a handsome figure, but his eyes were yellowish, his jaw tight, as if some hidden strain were working on his mind.
The man stopped ten paces from Ruen. His gaze moved from the crowd to Bellaril’s unconscious body and finally to Ruen’s face. He raised his hand, and the Cradle
noise died instantly.
“You know the rules, Morleth,” he said, his rich voice pitched loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Stand and declare your victory. Stand, or forfeit.”
He’s playing the scene for all it’s worth. A part of Ruen had to admire the man’s gall. Whatever the outcome, there’d not be an empty seat in the Cradle after tonight.
Ruen slid his knee off Bellaril’s prone body. He felt the grating of bone against bone, the pull of muscles and tissue twisting in ways nature had never intended. He shivered. Cold sweat stood out on his skin. The blood was still hot in his mouth.
Best to do it all at once, Ruen thought. It was the only way he would be able to gather the strength. One quick thrust to his feet, and the bastard would have to give him healing. The crowd demanded the rules be obeyed. Even the master of the Cradle couldn’t deny the crowd.
Ruen closed his eyes and breathed. “Keep the pain locked away,” he murmured. He pushed it all—the broken bones, the torn muscles—to a far corner of his mind, a box whose lid he could fasten tight and push away from conscious examination.
He waited until the pain was safely contained, then forced himself to stand.
Icelin covered her ears against Ruen’s scream. She knew the cry was involuntary. He would probably never remember uttering such a sound, but she would forever remember the terrible, animal whimper that followed the scream. She’d known his wounds were severe, but now she was terrified he might have killed himself just by climbing to his feet.
He swayed. Icelin dug her nails into the rail, willing him to stay upright. His head lolled to one side; blood dripped in tiny rubies from his lips. But he stood, facing the tight-lipped man and his retinue of guards.
“I stand,” she heard him say into the silence of the Cradle.
Arowall didn’t react. He stood, watching Ruen with amused curiosity. A smile played at his lips.
“No,” Icelin hissed. She grabbed Sull’s arm. “No, no! He’s going to wait until Ruen falls.”
Mistshore Page 17
