Mistshore w-2 Page 2

  That was another reason folk were quick to come and go from the city. All over Faerun, the Spellplague had made life an uncertain notion at best. At times you couldn't trust your own eyes. And the strange, deadly spell ravages always seemed to spur people in one of two directions: to the cities, for relative comfort and security; or to the wilds, so that the travelers might comprehend some small piece of this changed landscape. Whatever strangeness had been wrought in Waterdeep by the Spellplague, Icelin wanted nothing of that outside world and all its upheaval.

  Quickening her pace, Icelin tucked up closer to the familiar buildings, structures, that didn't change shape or sprout new heads.

  She reached the end of Caravan Street and a small, open square between buildings. Portals had been cut in the side of the nearer building, and folk leaned out to serve handpies and cold drinks to laborers and passersby. Wooden benches lined the square, and a handful of people sat at tables and sipped while they conducted private business.

  Kredaron sat at the far end of the square. He was an aging man, with white hair that curled at the ends and papery skin that had seen the sun too often. He carried a rolled bundle of silk close to his chest. He rose and waved when Icelin caught his eye.

  "Greetings, Kredaron," Icelin said, taking the seat across from him. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

  "Not at all, lass," the merchant said. His voice sounded soft and reedy. "I appreciate you coming. I trust Brant is well?"

  "Yes, and he sends his greetings," Icelin said. She spread her hands. "So, where is this trove you would have me safeguard?"

  Kredaron smiled. "Brant said you didn't enjoy wasting time-how rare in a young person. To business then, but if I may: would it be rude of me to ask for a small demonstration of your qualifications?"

  "Not at all." Icelin's polite smile held. She listened to the sounds of the square. After a breath, she put her hand on the warped tabletop and made a gesture against the wood grain.

  Light glazed her fingertips, and a warm glow spread across the table. No one sitting nearby could see the light except Icelin and the merchant. When the light faded, Icelin took a moment to gather her wits. There was no nausea, just the edge of weakness that came with every spell. Fortunately, she'd eaten heartily before leaving home-her great-uncle had seen to that-and barely noticed the pull.

  She focused on Kredaron. "There are three occupied tables behind me. One is a lad and lass, roughly six summers my junior. They are lovers planning how best to tell the lass's father that she is with child, and they not yet hand-fasted. The second is a gnome sitting alone. He talks to himself, lives in the Warrens, and thinks it's too warm this Eleint day for being out of doors. The third table bears two women, pocket-thieves, who until a breath ago were very interested in your roll of silk. I've since disguised it to appear as if you're holding an ugly and very sulky dog, wrapped in a silk blanket. We should be undisturbed."

  Kredaron shook his head in admiration. "Brant didn't exaggerate. You are remarkable, lass. Did you determine all that with your magic?"

  "No," Icelin said, chuckling. "Mostly I listened to their conversations. Folk reveal more about themselves when they feel they are unobserved than most magic could tell you about their entire lifetimes."

  "True words," Kredaron said. His forehead wrinkled. "You have an extraordinary memory, to note so much detail."

  Icelin's smile twisted ruefully. "My means of living is spell-craft, but it is not my only gift. If you would know my full qualifications, you should be aware that my memory is flawless. I can recall any piece of information I am confronted with, no matter how trivial."

  Kredaron smiled uncertainly. "That's quite a statement. I would dismiss such a claim entirely, especially coming from so young a person, but you don't seem to take any joy in the admission."

  Icelin lifted a shoulder. "I only speak of it when it's necessary to the task at hand. Whether you believe me or not, you should know what you're getting when you hire me. Would you care to test me?"

  "I would, for curiosity's sake," Kredaron said. "How?"

  "Spread out your pieces," Icelin said. "I've shielded the table from prying eyes."

  "As you say." Kredaron unrolled the span of silk on the table in front of her.

  Icelin looked at the spread for two breaths and then back at Kredaron. "Cover them," she instructed.

  He did as she asked. When the pieces were safely hidden, so that not even their shapes could be discerned in the wrappings, Icelin folded her hands on the tabletop.

  "I am by no means an expert," she said, "but by my estimation your heirlooms would easily bring in enough coin for you to establish a presence in the spice market, perhaps even secure property for a small shop. You have three opals: one in a silver ring, thumb-sized; one in a clawed brooch; and one alone, ripped from its setting by some force. There is a ruby with a well-concealed flaw, and a silver braided neckpiece, like a spi-derweb but with links missing. You shouldn't have any trouble repairing them; the damage is minimal. The gold chains are problematic-one is a clever forgery, but nested with the others it appears just as fine. I would of course remove that one before trying to sell the lot.

  "You won't have trouble with fakery when it comes to the matching circlets. Those chains are genuine, and the diamonds they hold are the star items of your collection. But I didn't have to appraise them to know that. Your displaying of them in the exact center of the collection shows your pride. The sunlight catches the stones and sets them aflame with color.

  "There is magic swirling in all the pieces," Icelin said, "of varying degrees. It would take further study to determine how much and of what type."

  "What about the bracelet?" Kredaron asked her. "The charms on the chain, what were they?"

  "The charms were a lock and key, both tarnished, a tiny slipper, and a rose," Icelin said. "The rose was pink topaz. There was no bracelet. Shall I keep going?"

  "How long could you recite them?" Kredaron asked, fascinated. "Will you remember the pieces tomorrow, or is this just a mind trick you've mastered?"

  "I will remember them tomorrow and every day for the rest of my life, if it serves me," Icelin said. Kredaron was right. She felt no joy in the admission. "Since it likely won't serve me beyond this day," she added, "I will put the knowledge away, find some dusty corner where my memory has space-there's always space, of course-and there it will stay. Once I've put a recollection like that aside, it's difficult to find again, since I don't have a ready use for it. It's much like locating a single crate in all the warehouses of Dock Watd. It may take hours, days, but I can remember them all."

  Kredaron shook his head. "Well, lass, you are a wonder, which is rare in a city full of them. You have shown me your skills. I am assured of success in this transaction."

  Icelin inclined her head. "Then let us proceed." When he'd spread out his items again, she laid a finger on a cameo brooch. The figure was of a thin woman sheathed in lace. The piece was smooth with age, but the detail was still astonishing, from the creamy relief to the oval background. She'd briefly touched the magic in the piece, but that was not her reason for choosing it. Her interest lay in its value to a jeweler.

  "May that be my payment, Kredaron?" she inquired.

  "You have excellent taste," said the merchant. He lifted the brooch for her inspection. "It's not the most valuable, nor the most ostentatious of the lot. But there is history here, I think."

  "You think:'You don't know the origins of the pieces?"

  "Not all of them," Kredaron admitted. "They came from my father's family, and he's been gone a long time. I don't even know who the woman is, so I haven't formed any particular attachment to the piece. You may have it with my gratitude."

  Icelin slid the brooch into the coin-purse fastened around her neck and tucked the pouch away in her dress. Kredaron ordered them light wine from the vendors. The glasses were just being poured, the wine's buttery color glowing warm in the sunlight, when Kredaron's buyer arrived.

  CHAPTE
R 2

  Icelin was surprised to see the gold elf approach their table. She didn't know what sort of man she'd expected to be interested in Kredaron's pieces, but this one was an anomaly, even among the varied folk of South Ward.

  The elf was unusually tall. Not gangly, but thinner than he should have been. He was dressed in a tailored, deep blue doublet with a subtle river of silver thread ornamenting the shoulders. The cloth was only marginally above workman's material, however. She recognized the style from what Brant sold in his shop.

  He buys for resale, Icelin thought, not for his own collection. Yet his style and carriage suggested he had at least some means of his own.

  When her eyes reached his face, Icelin took care to keep her expression politely blank. His own features were impossible to tead. The right side of his face appeared robust and healthy, the color enhanced by his dark clothing. But the left side was a patchwork of burn scars.

  Puckerings of deep red skin quilted his forehead and all the way down to his jaw. From what she could tell, his left eye appeared to see normally, but it moved slightly out of concert with his right. The strikingly blue orb in the left socket looked like it was being chewed up by the field of angry red. Part of the elf's ear on the scarred side was missing, skewing the pointed end. The disfigurement caused a jarring, asymmetrical appearance to his face.

  An elf, but not an elf, Icelin couldn't help thinking.

  "Well met, Kredaron." The gold elf bowed to the merchant and took a seat at the table. Icelin watched in silence while the pair conversed. The merchant did not introduce her, but she hadn't expected him to. Kredaron's buyer was well aware that her purpose in the transaction was security. Icelin watched him closely, but she could detect no deception in him when he bargained for the jewelry.

  It was well into late afternoon by the time a price had been decided for each piece. Kredaron chose the type and denomination of coin, and the elf agreed to his terms. Through it all, Kredaron was calm and eloquent. Icelin had no doubt his new business venture would do well, and she was glad of her small part in bringing that about.

  When they were alone again, Kredaron beamed at her. "I thank you, Icelin, for all your help."

  "It was my pleasure."

  "Cerest is a good businessman," Kredaron said. "He has always dealt fairly with me, but it never hurts to ensure the success of a transaction."

  "You've had dealings with the elf before?" Icelin asked, surprised.

  "Oh, yes." Kredaron wiped perspiration from his brow. The sun baked the dusty streets during the day, though it would be cold once night fell. "Cerest came young-a relative phrase for the elf folk-to his trade in Waterdeep. A handsome eladrin and shrewd bargainer-he was born to be a merchant."

  "Handsome?" Icelin said. "Then how did he come to be… as we saw him today?" She knew she was rude to ask. It was none of her affair, but she couldn't fight her curiosity.

  Kredaron must have sensed her discomfort. He chuckled. "Don't worry, you're not the first to gossip about him. There's been wild speculation about Cerest's scars and his business dealings," the merchant said. "I first heard of him when he was buying antiques from the poorer upstarts, like me. I had little to sell back then, but he treated me politely, never made me feel as if I were less a man for having little wealth. For that I was grateful. I didn't realize then what he was truly seeking."

  "But you know now," said Icelin. She considered, remembering how the elf had examined each of the pieces. In most cases he'd passed over the fashionable items in favor of the older pieces-the ones that sparkled with magic. "He is not a jeweler or an antiquities dealer, is he? He's hunting for treasure."

  "Exactly right," Kredaron said. "Magic in all forms draws Cerest's attention. Of course magic is unstable at the best of times, but Cerest knows his market well. Folk seek magic trinkets now more than ever. They trust them. And I think solid objects sit better in their hands than spells cast by strangers."

  "I can see how they would be justified in their fear," Icelin said. She stared at the tabletop, her eyes following the swirling patterns in the wood. "So Cerest buys and resells the magic items?"

  "And anything else of value he can get his hands on, these days," Kredaron said. "He had a good eye and a bright future in the city, or so I thought."

  "What happened?" Icelin asked. "Was it anything to do with his scars?"

  "I don't know how he received them," Kredaron said sadly, "but I've heard he has spent most of his accumulated wealth trying to repair the worst of the damage. The whole affair is mystery and rumor. He disappeared for a time and left his business in the hands of his employees. When he returned, he was as you saw him today. He never spoke of what happened to him, and none of the clients who relied on him has dared to ask."

  "What do you think it was?" Icelin asked.

  "I think he dabbled too closely in dangerous magic and paid the price," Kredaron said. "We'll likely never know the full story."

  "But if he deals honorably in business, why should he be judged for his appearance?" Icelin said. "Whatever mistakes he made, his scars have more than paid for them."

  "You are right, of course," Kredaron said. "I shouldn't have doubted his character. But if I had not"-his eyes twinkled-"1 would never have met and conversed with you. So you cannot fault me too harshly."

  "True, I cannot," Icelin said, smiling.

  The merchant glanced up as evenpeal sounded. The bells in Castle Waterdeep's turrets could be heard all across the city. "I've kept you too long. My apologies. May I escort you home? It will be dark soon, and I don't want your great-uncle to be distressed at your absence."

  "Thank you, but I know the way well. I can be home before gateclose," Icelin assured him.

  She parted ways with Kredaron at Caravan Street and headed in the opposite direction, back to The High Road. As she walked, she slipped the brooch from her coin-purse and examined its surface in the dying sunlight.

  The woman in lace had a stunning profile, and the blue agate of the cameo gave her face an ethereal quality. Her delicate eyes held secrets Icelin could not begin to guess. Pressed silver bounded the piece in a teardrop design, forever capturing the woman's enigmatic beauty.

  "You are an elegant lady," Icelin murmured dryly, "just as I am not. But I am practical, as many elegant ladies are not. You will keep Brant and I well fed, though I hate to part with you."

  She slowed when she approached The Way of the Dragon. Normally, she would have cut between buildings and walked the alley, but dusk was imminent and the brooch too precious to lose to thieves. On impulse, she decided to stay on the Way and stop at the butcher shop at the end of the street. Brant would be glad for fresh meat, and they could afford the luxury, just this once.

  She picked up her pace, excited at the prospect of surprising her great-uncle with a sumptuous meal. She was so absorbed with her thoughts and plans that she didn't hear the first scream.

  She heard the second; the sound made every hair on her neck stand up.

  It was not unusual for horses to neigh and cry on the Way. The caravan traffic brought animals that were in as many and varied conditions as their handlers: robust, sick, starving, even dying.

  But everyone in South Watd knew the sound of a mad horses scream. It was the scream that caused drivers to bring their carts to a dead halt in the middle of the road. Mothers yanked children up into their arms, and anyone who stood on foot near the dusty Way found cover with haste. The crowded road was unforgiving to those who walked it unawares.

  Such was the man cutting across the Way twenty feet in front of Icelin. He walked with his head down, shoulders hunched. Impossibly, he didn't appear to have heard the horse's scream.

  The animal, a brown velvet streak in the sunset gloom, reared and broke from its handlers. A eoil of rope dangled from its neck. It bolted down the Way, heading straight for the man.

  People were screaming, Icelin among them, but she was running too. She charged down the Way, her hair flying, and launched herself at the ma
n's back.

  She had a brief impression of orange sunlight and a horse's hooves flashing over her head. Four deadly clubs, poised to strike, Icelin thought. She closed her eyes, waiting for the weapons to come down and crush her skull.

  Cerest Elenithil had never been in South Ward on foot before. He'd never liked the notion of walking here, having no strong desire to plod among draft animals and caravan lords. But he'd had two exchanges in the Ward today, and one of them had required his wagon to haul the goods. It was a simple transaction of silver for two antique tables.

  The seller had insisted the matkings on the edges were arcane. Cerest had sent three of his men to confirm the claim and transport the tables, leaving him alone to conduct the affair with Kredaron. If he'd had more men-or more wagons-he might not have had to breathe the dust and detritus of Caravan City at all. Perhaps, if one of those tables did have arcane powers, he would never have to breathe here again. But after years of merely scraping by in the City of Splendors, Cerest doubted his luck would be running that high.

  So when the elf found himself crossing The Way of the Dragon after evenpeal, he paid no particular attention to the traffic around him and the shouts and conversations of the predominantly human throng. He wanted only to get back to his men and his wagon.

  A few folk ceased their chatter when he came near. They met his good eye and then quickly looked away, not wishing to offend him. He was dressed near enough to nobility that they paid him deference, but they could not keep their reactions to his scars in check.

  Cerest wanted to be home, back in his stone house with its quiet garden. None who served within those walls would ever remark on his disfigurement. He'd seen to that a long time ago, at the point of a sword.

  "I'm tellin' ye, that horse won't take a whip crack more than a fly's arc from its rump," he heard someone saying. '"It's not right in the head. Too jittery."

  Cerest turned, and so didn't hear the horse master's reply. The damage to his left side was immutable. There were too many scars to salvage his hearing in that ear. Sound simply died when it came to him from the left.