The woman’s jaw hung slack. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You come from Whalebone Court. A criminal’s alley, that is. What you bring me from there that’s any good?”
Icelin held Ruen’s dice up to the firelight so the woman could see.
“The bosoms are on the bottom,” Sull muttered. Fannie took the dice, pressing them between her two hands. Her face lit with a wicked smile.
“You bring me cursed dice,” she said. “The boy is cursed.”
“Ruen Morleth?” Icelin said. “What do you know about him?”
“The world is cold to him,” Fannie said, “even old Fannie Beblee. So why not be cold right back to the world, eh? That’s his way.”
“Is that why he’s a thief?” Icelin asked.
“A damn good thief!” Fannie shook a finger at Icelin and Sull. “He gave me this.” She worked the strings of her raggedy cotton dress.
“That’s all right,” Sull said hastily. “We don’t need to see any of… ahem… whatever you got under there.”
Fannie shot him a scandalized look. “You think I’m going to give you this show for nothing?” She propped a hand on her bony hip and stood on her knees, swaying back and forth. “You pay, then we talk, big fellow. But later. I’m busy now.” She waved a dismissive hand.
Icelin didn’t have to look at Sull to know his face was bright red again. She bit her lip hard to keep from laughing.
“This is what I mean.” Fannie pulled a leather cord from around her neck. Attached to one end—which had been buried in the bodice of her dress—was a tiny quill. A black crow feather, the quill had been stripped of its barbs, and the shaft appeared to have been dipped in gold. There was no longer a hollow end for the ink to reach parchment. So far as Icelin could see, the quill was for decoration only, and served no functional purpose. Yet Fannie gripped the gold shaft like a writing instrument, her tiny brown fingers fitting perfectly around the tip.
“It’s… lovely,” Icelin said. “Ruen gave this to you?”
“From his collection,” Fannie said proudly.
“Collection?”
“Darzmine Hawlace’s collection. They say he is mad—Darzmine, not Ruen—but he is not. Smart was the word. Hoarded items of power, disguised as art. Ruen was smarter. He knows art and power too. Knew just what to take from old Darzmine.”
“So this is one of the pieces Ruen stole, the theft that got him imprisoned.” Icelin looked at the quill with new eyes. “What is its power?”
Fannie’s smile broadened. “I show you, but only you.” She waved Sull away. “He don’t understand.”
Icelin and Sull exchanged glances. Icelin nodded at the water. “Wait for me over there. If trouble comes, I’ll scream until my lungs burst.”
Sull hesitated, and nodded. Icelin watched him stride down the shore to where the brown water lapped at the sand.
“What wouldn’t my friend understand?” Icelin asked. But the woman didn’t seem to hear her. She squatted in the sand and bent close to the fire. By the light, Icelin could see her tanned skin hanging in tiny ripples off her neck. She must have been almost fifty winters old. How long had she lived out here, alone?
Fannie looked up to make sure Icelin was still watching, whistled like an angry bird, and went back to her work.
Icelin realized she was sketching a picture in the sand. The gold quill matched the fire in color and movement. Remnants of the crow feather quivered in time to Fannie’s scrawling.
“Here it is,” Fannie said. “Now look. Move, girl.”
Icelin hiked up her skirt and crouched in the sand, bending her head close to the prostitute’s. The figure she had drawn in the sand was a hawk. She could see the predator’s talons and curved beak. For a sand drawing, the picture was remarkably vivid. The depression where Fannie had placed the raptor’s eye almost seemed alive.
Icelin gasped. The bird’s head and body were rising, drawing sand and separating from it at the same time, as if they’d been buried and not merely a sketch. The thing took on shape and mass before Icelin’s eyes. She had seen castles forged from sand or mud, but she’d never imagined the childish images coming alive.
The bird shook out its wings. Sand flew, catching a shocked Icelin in the face.
“Is it real?” she whispered, afraid to disturb the air and cause the sand-bird to disappear.
Fannie laughed. “No, no. Magic tells it what shape to take, and magic holds it together. Won’t last long, but it makes a pretty art. Turtles,” she said, chewing her lip. “I like turtles better. They don’t move so fast, and the shells make them last longer.”
Icelin reached out to touch the slender bird’s wing. When she pulled her fingers back, they were glazed with sand. The bird did not react to her touch. It spread its wings as if for flight, and collapsed into a pile of sand.
“See,” Fannie said, disappointment heavy in her voice, “they try to fly and fall.”
“That was amazing,” Icelin said.
“Aha! I knew you would understand,” Fannie said. “He will like you, poor man.”
Abruptly recalling why she was there, Icelin sobered. “You mean Ruen. I need to find him. I was told that you could help me.”
“Oh, I can,” Fannie said. Her gaze turned shrewd. “But what can you give to Fannie for helping you?”
Icelin didn’t know what to say. She was rapidly running out of coins, and she suspected a woman like Fannie had as little use for them as the woman and her bean pot.
Inspiration struck her. “My friend, the one you sent away”—she waved an arm to get Sull’s attention down the beach and motioned for him to rejoin them—“is the finest cook in Waterdeep.”
“Is he?” Fannie watched Sull with renewed interest.
In truth, Icelin had no proof that Sull was any good in the kitchen, but she hoped Fannie wouldn’t know the difference.
“Sull,” she said, when the butcher approached, “I wonder if you would be willing to cook a meal for Fannie, as payment for telling us where to find Ruen Morleth?”
Fannie nodded eagerly, but Sull was looking around at the barren camp.
“Be happy to,” he said. “But I’ve got no tools here.”
“I have them!” Fannie scurried back into her tent like a mouse going to ground. She came up with a small black frypan, which she handed to Sull. “You cook for me with this.”
Sull scratched his sideburns. “I suppose I could do a little fishin’,” he said slowly. “Don’t know what I’ll catch that’s not contaminated.”
“Just try. That’s all I ask,” Icelin said, and turned back to Fannie. “Sull will cook for you, but we haven’t much time. I need you to set up a meeting for me with Ruen. Can you do that?”
“Ah, I do one better for you, since you cook for Fannie.” The woman pointed out to the harbor. “You find him out there. He takes a little raft out every night, to catch his own fish. You take a boat, go beyond Whalebone Court, and you find him. You’ll see his light on a sagging pole. Only he goes out far enough to waltz. You’ll find him.”
Sull shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of this,” he said. “You’re not going out there alone while I’m here cookin’—”
“It’s our bargain, Sull,” Icelin said firmly. “Besides”—she lowered her voice—“if it is a trap, at least you’ll be on the shore. If Fannie is involved, you’ll want to keep her close by. If I’m attacked or kidnapped, she can help you find me.”
“That’s not a comfortin’ thought,” Sull said.
“We don’t have our choice of comforts tonight,” Icelin pointed out. “It’s either this or we run on our own, and I don’t like those odds.”
Sull sighed. “If you’re determined to go, be wary, and signal me with one of those bright color spells if somethin’ is amiss. I’ll come runnin’ across the water if I have to.”
“I know you will.” Icelin touched his cheek. He blushed mightily.
She turned to Fannie. “Do you know where I can
borrow a boat?”
Fannie sniffed. “I know where you can steal one.”
I suppose I’m officially a thief, Icelin thought as she rowed out into the harbor.
On the shore, she could just make out Sull, dangling a driftwood pole he’d constructed in the water. He kept his head bent, shoulders hunched, trying to ignore the sounds coming from Fannie’s tent.
Her latest customer had arrived in a tiny rowboat, which Fannie had offered to Icelin as soon as she’d gotten her man safely out of sight inside the tent.
Icelin prayed she’d be out and back without incident, and the man would never know she’d taken his boat.
The way was slow going. More than once Icelin had to turn the boat around and row in the opposite direction to avoid a shelf of rock or ship debris. Small wonder this section of the harbor had fallen into disuse. Any sound ship entering the area would soon have her hull scraped raw.
She rowed past Whalebone Court and the Dusk and Dawn’s red tent. Behind them, she could see the distant glow of the Hearth fire. The sound of raucous laughter and clumsy lute music drifted along the water. At least here, there was some semblance of normal life, even celebration, in Mistshore.
Icelin left the noise behind and rowed out into the dark water. She didn’t know how she would come upon Ruen Morleth, or what she would say when she did. Why he would dwell alone in the putrid harbor was a mystery to her, but she didn’t have long to ponder it. In the distance, she saw a sagging light, just as Fannie had said she would.
It bobbed faintly—a lantern, she saw as she approached—on the end of a long, bending pole attached to a raft. There were no other boats so far out in the harbor.
When she got close, Icelin heard voices. Two shapes stood out in the weaving lantern light. She could not make out their features, but the profile of the nearer one was short and rotund, his head hairless. The other held a fishing pole as tall as his body. He was very nearly as slender as the pole. Icelin also noted that the man either had a very misshapen head, or was wearing a floppy hat.
Icelin stopped rowing. She lifted her oars carefully out of the water and listened to the voices.
“I’m a clever man, Ruen. You could do worse.”
The tall man cast his line into the harbor and answered, dryly, “Oh, I’m aware of it. I could tread the catwalks of Mistshore with a viper around my neck. Come to think of it, the snake might not be so bad, if I walk lightly. No, I don’t think I need a partner, Garlon, especially one who sells his own brother to the Watch.”
“How did you know about that?” The other man’s voice squeaked like a guilty child’s. “That was family business, got nothing to do with you and me. Come on, Ruen, you know you can’t go it alone forever. You already got caught once. Admit it, you need a man to front you. You’re too well known in Waterdeep.”
“This isn’t Waterdeep. This is Mistshore. We’re dancing on the city’s bones out here. Leave, Garlon, before I decide you’d make a pretty skeleton.”
“But, I rode out here with you. You have to take me back to shore!” The man whined so loudly Icelin’s ears ached.
“Yes, but you see, the fish are biting now. And if I move, I’ll lose my spot.”
“There’s no one out here but us!”
“Are you sure about that?”
Icelin stiffened. She waited, crouched low in the boat, but no one called her out. Ruen must have been jesting.
“I was trying to do you a favor,” Garlon said. “Word is you’ve still got a pretty pot of that treasure you stole from Darzmine Hawlace sitting around. I could move it for you. I know people.”
“Ah, now we come to the true reason you’re soiling my raft with your boots,” Ruen said. “What makes you think I didn’t dump the lot?”
Garlon scoffed. “You enjoy giving presents to whores and dealing with piss pushers like Relvenar, but you’re not stupid. You kept some treasure back for yourself. All I want is a little piece.”
“No.”
Garlon spat on Ruen’s boots. “To the Hells with you then.” He strode to the opposite end of the raft. He paused at the edge. Icelin could feel him weighing his dignity against jumping into the fetid water. She felt a pang of sympathy, but it disappeared when she saw Garlon reach for something at his belt. He slid a dagger noiselessly from its sheath. Her heart sped up.
“What say you, Ruen? Last chance. Row us back to shore, and I’ll buy you a drink while we discuss our partnership.”
“Turn around,” Icelin said, but no sound came out of her dry mouth. Her eyes bored into Ruen’s back, willing him to turn and look at Garlon.
“Do you mind keeping quiet, Garlon?” Ruen said. He twitched his pole in the water. “You’re scaring the fish.”
“Course, Ruen,” Garlon said, his voice dropping. “Not a squeak.” He snapped his arm back, and forward, so fast Icelin couldn’t see exactly when the blade left his hand.
“Watch out!” she screamed.
Ruen pivoted, his slender shadow seeming not to move at all. He dropped his pole and tore the spinning dagger out of the air. Flipping the blade to his other hand, he hurled it back at its owner.
Distracted by her scream, the fat man spun toward Icelin as if he’d been jerked by a string. His eyes widened when the dagger stuck in his chest. For a breath he swayed in time with the lapping water. Then he reached up, clutching his own weapon hilt. Icelin turned her head away from his staring eyes.
Silence, and then Icelin heard an umph followed by a loud splash. She looked back. The spray of water caught the moonlight and fell back into the harbor, which had swallowed up the fat man.
When the noise died, the scene returned quickly to normal. The moonlight settled onto the gently rippling water. From a shocked distance, Icelin saw Ruen pick up his pole and sit at the edge of the raft, his back to her. He cast the line into the water.
Numbly, Icelin picked up her oars. She considered rowing back to shore. Maybe he hadn’t heard her shout, or maybe he didn’t care that she’d just seen him kill a man, albeit in self-defense. Icelin gripped the oars. She forced herself to move the boat forward.
He came into focus at the opposite end of the raft, sitting cross-legged and dangling the pole near the water. He looked something like Sull in that pose, his shoulders hunched, trying to remain oblivious to the world around him.
Icelin rowed her boat up to kiss the raft, but Ruen never stirred. She wasn’t brave enough to step aboard, but she had to get his attention somehow.
Icelin took the dice out of her pouch and tossed them onto the raft. They skittered across the wood, bounced off Ruen’s back and came up double bosoms.
“Yours, I believe,” Icelin said.
CHAPTER 7
For a long time, Ruen didn’t move. Icelin thought he must not have heard her. But eventually he turned, and his profile caught the lantern light.
He looked to be in his early thirties. His hat, which appeared much older, was as ugly a thing as Kersh had claimed: brown leather and so creased the edges of the brim were flaking off.
Beneath the hat his black clad body looked like a scarecrow, so slender Icelin thought he must be half-starved. His cheekbones were two carved, triangular hollows; intermittent beard stubble graced the contours of his jaw.
A scarecrow, Icelin thought, except for his eyes.
His eyes were red-brown, their deep centers forming pools of muddy crimson when they should have been black. Either his eyes were a defect of his birth, or else…
Icelin had heard stories of such oddities from the children in Blacklock Alley, back when she was only a child herself. The boys talked in menacing whispers about the plague-touched, the spellscarred—men and women who’d been brushed by the deadly fingers of spellplague. Most died from the exposure, but a few managed to survive its curse. They were never the same.
Some emerged deformed, their bodies twisted into hideous shapes by wild magic. Others bore their scars in less obvious places, but developed strange new abilities: powers of t
he mind, magic that even the wisest wizards on Faerûn had never seen. It was said that a strange blue radiance often accompanied such displays of power, but Icelin had always thought these were fanciful stories that bore little truth.
Somehow, looking at him, Icelin knew Ruen Morleth was spellscarred. She remembered Kersh’s warning about the man being strange.
“You know, it’s impolite to eavesdrop on strangers’ conversations,” Ruen said, speaking for the first time. He picked up the dice and looked at them. “Stealing is generally frowned upon, as well. These aren’t yours,” he said.
“I didn’t steal them,” Icelin replied. “They were given to me by a friend. He told me you could help me.”
His eyes traveled up and down her body. Icelin worked hard not to flinch under the gaze. “You look capable enough. Why should you need my help?”
“I’m being followed by someone who wishes my death.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s a compelling argument to me?”
“It sounds a bit dramatic, I know, but it’s been a fine motivator for me,” Icelin said. “I’m in no rush to die.”
“Death is a common occurrence in Mistshore.”
“So I see.”
Ruen removed his pole from the water and laid it on the raft. “On the other hand, if you knew a likely fishing spot, you’d catch my interest. What’s your name?”
“Icelin,” she said. She held out a hand, but he showed no interest in taking it.
“Where did you get these dice?” he asked.
“From Kersh. I believe you two knew each other while you were… er—”
“Imprisoned. You can say it, I’m proud of the distinction.” Ruen stood up. At his full height, he was well over six feet, which only accentuated his odd slenderness. “I remember Kersh. He retrieved my hat for me. Quite a service, under the circumstances.”
“You gave him your word you’d repay him,” Icelin said.
“I did. But I don’t see him hiding behind your skirt. My debt is to him. I owe nothing to you.”
Ruen removed a dirt-speckled rag from his belt and began cleaning his pole. Leather gloves stretched taut over his long-fingered hands. He seemed content to ignore her.
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