The Dream Spheres (7 page)

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 cunningly 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.

“You know how rumors grow in the telling,” he said lightly.

“So you cannot cast spellsong?”

Danilo wasn’t sure whether Oth looked disappointed or vindicated. “No, I cannot.”

“Ah. Well, it is no real surprise. Elves are notoriously close-pursed when it comes to such matters.”

The man’s mixture of arrogance and ignorance floored Danilo, though he knew that it should not. After all, Oth sustained his family fortune by creating and selling new magical spells. He had probably approached an elven sage, prepared to barter like a camel trader for magic that elves held dearer than family heirlooms or crown jewels. That image, and the inevitable reaction, brought a quick, wicked smile to Danilo’s face. He quickly squelched it, not wishing to insult the mage.

However, Oth’s attention had settled elsewhere. He was regarding Isabeau with speculation.

“Lovely woman,” Danilo said, hoping that this was the only inspiration for Oth’s interest. It was entirely possible that Oth could have tracked the path taken by his lost ring and that his stated interest in spellsong was a story to cover his true intent. There was no trace

of anger on Oth’s face, though, as he regarded the beautiful thief.

“Very lovely,” the mage agreed. “If you will excuse me, I shall attempt to claim a last dance.” He slanted a glance back at Danilo. “You might do well, young man, to do likewise. There are many ladies of good family at this affair.”

His meaning was unmistakable and offensive. Danilo had parried one insult too many on Arilyn’s behalf, and he reacted as any man of his rank did when his lady’s name and honor was maligned. He stepped forward, one hand instinctively dropping to his sword belt in anticipation of formal challenge.

This amused the mage. “I think not, young Lord Thann. You are unarmed. In more ways than one, I might add. If that fascinating horticultural display was typical of your magical talents, you would do well to leave the Art strictly alone, much less challenge an accomplished mage.”

The irony of Oth’s statement was nearly as powerful a challenge as the insult to Arilyn had been. Power thrummed through Danilo’s mind, sang in his blood, and set his fingertips tingling. He could squash this supercilious toad of a man beneath one foot without leaving a smudge on his boots. The knowledge both tempted and repelled him.

Danilo inclined his head, the gesture of one gentleman conceding to another. “I think we agree, Lord Eltorchul, that an uneven challenge does no honor to either man.”

For a long moment the mage stared at him, as if trying to decide whether Danilo’s words held self-deprecating agreement or subtle insult. Color rose high on his cheeks, making his narrow face nearly as red as his hair. He answered Danilo’s bow with a curt one of his own, then spun on his heel and stalked off into the swirling throng.

Arilyn crept along the tunnels, following the faint and rapidly fading trail. All her senses hummed with awareness as she rounded a corner, even though her moonblade’s magical danger-warnings were oddly silent. She might not have perceived the ambush at all but for the flick of an anticipatory tongue, like that of a giant hunting snake.

She froze, understanding that the tren’s vision required movement. When the creatures paid her no heed, she slowly melted back into the shadows for a better look.

Despite her sharp elven vision, several heartbeats passed before she could discern the creatures from the shadows in which they hid. Chameleonlike, they blended with the color and texture and even the heat patterns of the stone walls. There were five of them—tall, scaly, thick-bodied creatures that walked about on two legs. A stub of vestigial tail spoke of their lizard-man ancestry, as did the wide, cruelly curving mouths filled with sharp, reptilian teeth. All the creatures held long daggers, though the claws on their massive hands made such weapons seem redundant. One of them, the largest of the group and probably the leader, held a small, sickle-shaped knife.

Bile rose in Arilyn’s throat as she understood the nature of the tool. The hooked blade was not designed to kill but to disembowel a living victim. The prey would still be alive when the creatures began to feed. Tren were highly effective assassins, voracious killers and feeders who left little trace of their crime. Dimly she saw a line of drool spilling from the corner of the tren chieftain’s fanged maw as it anticipated the kill. All the creatures were poised for a sudden spring, yet they did not attack.

It was clear to Arilyn that the tren did not sense her

presence. Well enough. She would bide her time and aid whoever fell unwitting into this trap.

A light hand rested on her shoulder, another grasped the wrist of her sword arm in the elven signal for peace. Arilyn whipped around, startled and chagrined that anyone could approach her unheard.

She found herself face to face with a tall, silver-haired moon elf—an elf she knew far better than she wished to.

There was no sense in putting the task off—the rest of Isabeau’s booty had to be returned. Danilo took a silver bracer from his bag and began to examine it for signs of ownership.

A short, sandy-haired man burst into the alcove, pulling up when he saw he was not alone. With his bulging eyes and scant, pointy beard, the man reminded Danilo of a panicked billy-goat. Resigned to an eventful evening, the nobleman rose. “Is something amiss, sir? Can I be of some service?”

The man sank down on the chair Danilo had vacated and sucked in a wheezing, ragged gasp. “No. No, he’s left. Just need to catch my breath.”

The sheer terror in the man’s eyes set off alarms in Danilo’s mind. He knew full well who at the party could best inspire this emotion. “If someone offended you, the Lady Cassandra would certainly wish to know,” he prompted.

“No need. Already been dealt with,” the man said shortly. He gathered himself and rose to his feet. Squaring his meager shoulders, he gave Danilo a curt nod and

then lurched into the crowd.

Danilo followed, his eyes sweeping the crowd for the slim, gleaming figure of Elaith Craulnober. The elf had, appropriately enough, chosen moonstone for his gem color. In a throng of jewel-bright reds and greens and blue, his silvery hair and the pale satin of his costume— milky white swirled and shadowed with blue—made the elf look like a living blade. Danilo wondered, briefly, if Elaith had deliberately fostered this image.

But no. That was unlikely, given his choice of gem color. The moonstone was a semiprecious stone, a powerful conductor of magic. It was often used in elven magic and was the magical cornerstone of the moonblades’ power. Elaith possessed such a sword, though it had long ago gone dormant to proclaim him an unworthy heir. For many years the moonblade had been to Elaith a symbol of disgrace and failure. He had gone to great trouble to reawaken the sword, which he held in trust until his only daughter came of age. What could the elf’s costume mean but a reclaiming of his honor?

On the other hand, why wasn’t Elaith in the hall?

Why had the goatlike little man been so afraid?

Knowing Elaith as he did, Danilo could summon up any number of answers to the second query. With a sigh, he thrust the stolen bracelet back into his bag and headed toward the door. It might be wise to inquire of the grooms whether or not Elaith had left—and if not, to find him and put a stop to whatever mischief he was engaged in. For a moment Danilo understood his mother’s exasperation with him. Thanks to his efforts, Lady Cassandra’s guest list included a Tethyrian pickpocket, a reputed half-elven assassin, and a deadly elf who was, among other things, possibly the most successful crime lord north of Skullport.