Mistshore

by Jaleigh Johnson

  How long does she have? He’d have to touch her—the bare skin of her hands—to know for sure. He could touch other parts of her and get impressions, but they wouldn’t be as strong.

  He’d never known why it had to be so specific a touch. The monks of his order believed the hands were the links that most strongly connected mortals to the world. A warrior’s hands could take a life; a midwife’s could bring a babe into the world. Ki manifested through the hands.

  It didn’t matter. He would never touch her. His hands—his whole body—were abhorrences, mistakes of nature. The gods alone were supposed to know how long a being had left to live, not mortals.

  Especially not a cutpurse from Mistshore.

  “Everywhere we go has a name,” Sull said. “Mistshore, the Hearth, Whalebone Court; now it’s the Isle.” He gazed at the latest jumbled wreck of a ship. This one, a cog, had been hollowed out, the decking torn up to form one high-walled chamber at the bottom of the ship.

  “There’s a ladder here,” Bellaril said, stepping onto a short gangplank off the raised dock. She pointed to a rickety ladder laid against the inside of the ship. It descended into the cog’s belly, disappearing from sight. “That’s our way down.”

  “We’re at the nether end of Waterdeep, yet they still get around to namin’ everythin’ here,” Sull babbled on. “Unsettlin’, that’s what it is.” He shot a quick glance at the ladder. “Unnatural.”

  Ruen handed Sull a rolled bundle of cloth. “Put it on,” he said. “You’ll feel better once you’re protected. Arowall said even the stench is blunted by the magic.”

  “Why does he have these?” Icelin said, taking her own bundle and unrolling it. A simple cloak of layered rags, it hardly looked like it could stop a swift breeze, let alone be magical.

  “He’s never told me, but I suspect he uses them for spying,” Bellaril said. “His own man poses as a beggar, then the master sends him wandering around the Cradle. Folk try to ignore him. They don’t see him as a real person, with ears and a tongue that can tell what he’s seen.”

  “So after he’s done spyin’, the guards grab him and throw him on the Isle, just like a staged play,” Sull said, shaking his head. “Everyone serves a purpose. Tidy little business he keeps. Too bad someone hasn’t killed him.” He ignored Bellaril’s narrowed eyes.

  “He’s offered us shelter,” Icelin said, trying to head off the confrontation, “such as it is.” She donned her cloak and felt a warm wave as the magic flowed over her. “How do I look—any worse than before?”

  Sull turned green in the face. He looked like he might gag. “You could say that, lass. I wouldn’t go searchin’ for any mirrors if I were you.”

  “Some gallant gentleman you are,” Icelin said. “Let’s see yours, then.”

  Ruen and Sull and Bellaril donned their cloaks together. Icelin knew instantly when the magic had taken hold.

  “That’s… effective,” was all she could think to say.

  Open sores blossomed from Bellaril’s and Sull’s faces. Yellowish fluid seeped from the bulging skin. Sull’s red hair turned gray and lifeless, and his skin had a distinctly wasted tinge. Ruen looked no better. His red eyes sank into his skull, and his already gaunt face looked skeletal. Icelin could see the crooked blue veins just below the surface of his skin.

  “No one will recognize us,” Icelin said. And indeed, she did feel better. Cerest’s gaze would never linger on creatures like this. “We’ll be safe, even in broad daylight.”

  “If we’re so well disguised, why do we need to stay here at all?” Sull said. “We can walk about Mistshore as we wish.”

  “No,” Ruen said. “They’ll start searching magically for such disguises, if they haven’t already. I don’t want to test the limits of the cloaks in daylight. At night, perhaps. Besides, we need to sleep sometime, and I’d like to be as protected as possible.”

  And I’ll be able to read grandfather’s letters, Icelin thought. It was fast approaching dawn. She had until nightfall to find some clue as to the nature of Elgreth’s relationship with Cerest. She had no idea if such knowledge would aid her in defeating the elf, but she had to know the truth. She had to know if Elgreth had been Cerest’s friend.

  “Dawn is coming,” she said, putting her hands on the ladder rungs. “Let’s get this over with.”

  She descended the ladder. Shapes moved below her—brown humps that stumbled and pushed each other out of the way in the small space. The farther down they went, the more she could distinguish the babble of voices.

  “All at one end, you know better than to crowd the stage, Hatsolm, you old fool.”

  “I want to be able to hear the music this time. I’m a full ten feet back. You mind your own seat; it’s wide enough to demand your full attention.”

  “I’m not fat, you imbecile!”

  The voices died when they reached the bottom of the ladder. Icelin could see dozens of rag-cloaked figures angling for a space at the far end of the ship’s belly. They all stopped what they were doing when Icelin’s foot touched the ground.

  A tense silence followed. Icelin stepped forward, raising a scarred hand in greeting. “W-well met,” she said.

  “Well met.” A man with a crooked back ambled over to take her hand.

  It was like greeting a skeleton. His fingers had no meat. Real sores peppered his arms and bare legs. Icelin swallowed hard and tried not to pull her hand away.

  “You look like you could use a rest, friend,” the man said eagerly. “I’m Hatsolm, and I won’t bother you with the rest of the names for now, just you remember mine. Taken together, we’re the Drawn Cloaks. Lovely and mysterious-sounding, isn’t it? I came up with the name myself. Come and sit over here. We’ve some food and drink to spare.”

  Icelin let herself be led over to the others. Hands patted her on the back and guided her to a seat on the ground. Immediately, a cup of water was pressed into her hand, and a bowl of some unidentifiable substance appeared in front of her. Similar treatment greeted Ruen, Sull, and Bellaril.

  Icelin sniffed the food and looked at Sull. Her mouth was already watering, but she wanted to be sure the meat wouldn’t kill her. Sull sniffed his own bowl and nodded slightly. Icelin scooped up a handful of the stewlike substance and ate.

  She tasted stringy meat and hard potatoes, liberally seasoned with grease that pooled at the bottom of her bowl. Not a king’s feast, by any standard, but it was more substantial fare than her body had taken in days, and did much to clear her head and soothe the raw churning in her belly. She’d been so hungry, her hands shook when she brought the food to her mouth. She looked at Hatsolm, unable to speak, grateful tears standing in her eyes.

  “Yes sir, that’s what they all say.” He chuckled. “Now then. Where do you come from?”

  “We… don’t hail from Waterdeep,” Icelin said quickly. “We came in on a caravan. Our village was dying. Everyone was leaving, so we thought we’d come here, to start anew.”

  Hatsolm nodded gravely. “Aye, that’s the story among many of us. And here we are”—he waved his rag-draped arms expansively—“in Waterdeep mighty, a city that looks precious little like a city and smells a bit like the rotting bowels of a once-fine ship. Alas, the bards, how cruelly they exaggerate!”

  There was a smattering of applause and rude gestures from the beggar folk. Shouts of, “Save it for the real performers!” had Hatsolm throwing up his hands and laughing.

  “Eat hearty, all of you,” he said, and he waddled off to find his own bowl. “We’re fed and clothed and grateful, and the troupe’s comin’ in. What more could kings ask for?”

  “The troupe?” Icelin said. But Hatsolm was gone, and the others were immersed in their own conversations. The temporary distraction of their arrival had passed; the people seemed to be waiting for something. They kept shooting glances at the bow of the ship, but Icelin saw nothing except a stack of rotting crates. Rats weaved among the loose boards.

  “Surely Arowall doesn’t provide food and
entertainment for ’em,” Sull said. “Not when he’d just as soon be killin’ ’em.”

  They looked to Ruen, but the monk shrugged. “They seem in high spirits, which is more than I expected. Perhaps one of them is a musician.”

  Hatsolm came around again to collect their bowls. Icelin tugged on his rag cloak. “Are they waiting to see a show?” she asked politely.

  He grinned. “Aye, lass, the best in Waterdeep, though we’re the only folk knows it. Sit you all right here and see what there is to see.” He patted her arm and settled back on the ground.

  A crow flew over their heads, descending into the ship to pluck a rat from one of the crates. The bird was large and sleek, with oily black eyes that watched the beggars even as it snapped the rat’s neck. Icelin cringed.

  The sun had risen outside the ship, but a shadow fell across Icelin and the rest of the crowd. She looked up; more crows were flying in an uneven formation, clustering close and snapping at each other as they dived down into the belly of the ship.

  Instinctively, Icelin ducked. The birds flew over her head and landed on the rotting crates. The air filled with restless caws, but a hushed silence had fallen over the beggar folk. Every face, including Hatsolm’s, was tuned in rapturous attention to the crows.

  “What’s going on?” Icelin whispered to Ruen.

  “Halt your lips, you ungrateful lot!” shouted a voice that made Icelin jump.

  A crow’s head stretched, its black feathers shrinking into pale flesh. The bird stood up on two spindly legs, which lengthened and shed more feathers. The creature shook itself, and was suddenly not a bird any longer, but a boy, a boy grown from the body of a crow. The ungainly creature hopped up on one of the crates and surveyed the crowd.

  “Are we the show this night or not?” the boy demanded. He looked to be about eleven years old—human—with greasy black hair tucked under a brown cap. A crow’s feather rested behind his ear like a quill. His eyes shifted around like restless insects, never settling on one object. “Answer me, dogs! Are we the entertainers?”

  “Ho!” A chorus erupted from the beggar folk. For a breath, Icelin thought she was back in the Cradle.

  “They’re new arrivals, Kaelin, not true Drawn Cloaks,” said Hatsolm. “Give them a chance.”

  The boy regarded Icelin’s group with interest, his gaze fixing on each of them in turn. “They’re false fronts,” he said.

  Ruen glanced up sharply. He’d avoided eye contact with the boy until that instant. “We’re refugees, the same as any person here,” he said. “What of you? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  The boy hopped from crate to crate, his arms spread. “Do you hear, friends? He wants to know who we are.”

  The crows flapped their wings in a grim chorus, and suddenly the air was full of feathers. When the black shades fell away, a dozen men and women stood where the crows had been.

  Icelin gasped. The crates were gone, transformed into a wide, foot-high stage that stretched from the port bow to the starboard. The boy pranced from one end to the other, pulling lit torches from a bag at his hip. He placed them in sconces at the edges of the stage. Their fiery brilliance lit up the suddenly shadowed hold. It was as if all the sunlight had been sucked from the ship, replaced by torches that gave off light but no heat.

  “They can’t be real,” Icelin whispered to Ruen. “It’s wizardry. Illusion.”

  “Complex magic that can transfigure and interact by itself, all for a crowd of beggars?” Ruen said. “No one would take such trouble.”

  “Then what are they?” Sull asked.

  It was Hatsolm who answered. “Ghosts,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  A woman strode to the center of the stage and pulled a lute from her back. She began to play a lively tune for a pair of jugglers that somersaulted onto the stage. They tossed a dizzying handful of colored balls into the air and caught them before they gained their feet. Hatsolm laughed and clapped. The beggars were enraptured.

  “They’re such a motley troupe,” Icelin said. “Shouldn’t they be haunting a playhouse?”

  “That’s the charm of it,” Hatsolm said. He leaned closer so his voice wouldn’t carry to the stage. “They’ve never said, but I think the whole group was lost in a shipwreck. I’ll wager they’re chained to it still, so they seek out the audience that’s closest. Before we came, they said they performed for the crows. After we arrived, they took the shape of the crows and performed for us. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “They sound friendlier than the sea wraiths, but are they dangerous?” Icelin asked.

  “Not so long as you fix your attention on them and keep your tongue between your teeth,” Hatsolm said pointedly. “They don’t like to be interrupted.”

  “Of course.” Icelin gave up and fell silent. She sat back against the hull and watched the boy, Kaelin, flitting through the crowd. He straightened a cloak here, shushed an errant tongue there, and teased an old woman who called him her boy. He seemed excessively fond of touching everyone. Icelin didn’t know if they could feel him, but all the faces turned up eagerly at his approach.

  The jugglers bowed and ran offstage, leaving behind a trail of balls that burst into sparkling fireworks. When the light spots faded from Icelin’s eyes, the lute player was back, changing her tune to something mournful. It took Icelin a breath to recognize the tune.

  The last falling twilight

  shines gold on the mountain.

  Give me eyes for the darkness,

  take me home, take me home.

  Icelin’s heart stuttered in her chest. It was the same song she used to sing for Brant. The woman on stage looked directly at her while she strummed the lute.

  “What’s wrong?” Ruen asked. He reached out but stopped short of touching her with his gloved hand.

  “Nothing,” Icelin said, “I’m cold.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

  Ruen continued to watch her intently. Icelin kept her eyes forward, but she couldn’t look at the woman’s face. The song was painful enough. She stared at the bard’s feet and tried to blank her mind.

  She felt a weight across her shoulders. She looked up, off balance as Ruen pulled her against his side. His arm, hidden under the cloak, was draped across her shoulders. He was staring straight ahead.

  “Ruen,” she said, fighting a smile, “your arm seems to have fallen on me in a suspicious gesture of comfort.”

  “Is that so?” He still wouldn’t look at her. “I suppose your virtue is distressed by this turn of events?”

  “Terribly. I believe I will expire from shock.”

  “Better than expiring from the cold. Why is the song bothering you?”

  “Brant, my great-uncle, loved this song,” Icelin said. She let the words in. The lute player’s voice enveloped her like a warm blanket covered in needles.

  “It’s a sad song,” Ruen said. “He’s lost in the wilderness. Does he ever find his way home?”

  “The song doesn’t tell,” Icelin said. “What do you think?”

  “I think a bard should say what she means. Otherwise what’s the point of the show?”

  “What’s the point?” Kaelin shouted incredulously from right behind them. The lute player’s song ground to a halt.

  Icelin sucked in a breath. Kaelin’s hand came down on her shoulder; it was ice cold and strangely invasive, as if he had put his hand inside her skin. She could tell by the lack of color in Ruen’s face that he’d had no idea the boy had been behind them.

  Kaelin patted Ruen on the back before the monk could flinch away. “The point, he wants to know. He wants the full story of the boy lost in the wilderness.” Kaelin’s eyes sparkled. “But will he want it told, after all’s done?”

  He looked at Ruen expectantly. Ruen shrugged. “Tell your tale. You’re the bards, and it’s no difference to me.”

  “Truly, then, I have your permission?” Kaelin bent in a half-bow, so that his face was close to Ruen’s.

  “Truly,” the m
onk said through gritted teeth. “Be gone.”

  “How wonderful,” Kaelin said. “It will be a fine tale. Clear the stage! Places!”

  The lute player vanished. She reappeared a breath later, without her lute and wearing a black cloak. She flipped her hood over her face and joined the rest of the troupe assembling at the back of the stage. They were all dressed identically, their clothes and features covered by the cloaks.

  Kaelin jumped onto the stage, taking his place at the front of the assembly. “Who will play the lead?” he asked. He put his hand theatrically to his ear to hear the response of the crowd.

  “Kaelin!” they cried on cue.

  “Yes, and don’t you forget it,” Kaelin said. “Tonight, I will be playing the part of the boy lost in the wilderness, the boy named Ruen Morleth.” He swept an arm up, and suddenly he was swathed in black too.

  Ruen sat forward, his jaw muscles rigid. “What are they doing?” he said.

  Hatsolm answered. “They’re going to tell your story,” he said eagerly. “You’re lucky to be chosen. Most newcomers never get picked until they’ve been here at least a season.”

  “How do they know what to say?” Icelin asked, as Ruen lost more color. “They know nothing about us.”

  “Silence before a performance! We know all we need, just by touch,” Kaelin said from the stage. His voice sounded deeper, older. He swept off the cloak. It dissolved into a flurry of crows that flew out over the crowd. The stage transformed in the birds’ wake.

  The bow of the boat was now a forest glade, draped in dense green ferns. A small, stagnant pond dominated the scene, its watery arms wrapped around the exposed roots of an oak that crawled up the hull.

  Icelin’s eyes blurred at the sudden appearance of the illusion. She knew it wasn’t real, yet she swore she could smell the moss clinging to the pond stones. Unseen, a sparrow chirped its shrill song. Wind rustled in the wild grasses.

  “Not natural,” Bellaril said. She swiped a hand across her nose, as if she could smell the green too. “Magic can’t mimic life, not like that.”