Mistshore (3 page)

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 man’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.

“Clear the way! Move!”

The scream came at him from the right, and a shower of black suddenly exploded in Cerest’s face.

Blinded, Cerest lost his balance as a dead weight slammed him from behind. The force knocked him completely off his

feet, and he went down on his stomach in the dirt. Numbness shot up both arms. Cerest thought he heard bones crunch. The weight landed on top of him and stayed there.

For a long time Cerest tried simply to breathe. The air had been completely knocked from his chest, and a black curtain blocked his vision. He could hear more shouts and screams now, all filtered to the right. The effect unbalanced him. He felt sick to his stomach.

Breathing through his mouth, Cerest forced his arms to move. He levered himself up and slid the offending weight off his back. He turned and sat down in the road, ignoring the pangs from his protesting bones.

When he looked up and saw the black curtain again, he realized it was a woman’s hair, dangling loosely from a ruined braid. She pushed the strands out of her face and massaged her neck gingerly.

Gods, a human lass had brought him low in South Ward. There was no pride left in the world.

“Are you all right?” the girl asked. She appeared to be about twenty, with milk blue eyes and pale skin. He recognized her. Where from?

Kredaron—that was it. She’d been his security. He’d tried not to be insulted by her presence and ignored her during their transactions—a gesture that had been tendered pointless now she’d planted her rump on top of him and ground his bones into the ditt.

Cerest coughed. “I think you broke my back.”

“Oh no. You wouldn’t be hacking like that if I’d done any such thing; you’d be screaming,” the woman said, and she offered him her arm.

Cerest reluctantly let her pull him up. She was a petite thing, half a head shorter than he. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen her before.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?” She cocked her head.

“Why did you almost break my back?”

Her expression slid from tight concern to full-blown incredulity. She pointed over his shoulder. “I hoped to do you a favor, and that’s why.”

Cerest turned and saw the carnage for the first time.

A broken wagon was twisted around a crushed archway that had once been a storefront. Blood splattered the otherwise pristine windows. A dead horse lay among the wreckage. The tall stud had been brought down near the wagon. An arrow jutted from the beast’s neck. Foam still dripped from its lips. Its eyes were open, frozen in half-crazed fear.

“It went wild and broke its reins,” the girl explained. “Everyone could see it going, but the fool with the whip didn’t. He won’t last long in South Ward with a whip hand like that, and neither will you, the way you wear your head so low on your neck. You have to look up when you walk, or else you’ll be trampled.” Her words crowded together. She shuddered, clearly unsettled by what had happened.

“I didn’t hear it,” Cerest said. “I don’t hear well, from the left side.” He turned back to the girl. “My deepest gratitude,” he said. “You saved my back, and the rest of me, such as I am.” He smiled wryly. “My name is Cerest Elenithil. We met earlier, though not formally. May I know you?”

The girl hesitated. “My name is Icelin Team.”

“Icelin Team,” he repeated. The shadow of familiarity snapped abruptly into a picture—a memory—and the elf lost his breath.

He was not often caught so completely off guard, but at that moment, Cerest simply stared at the woman before him.

Framed by swirling dust clouds and the curious onlookers who’d come to see the accident, she was a vision, a ghost given life.

Memories surged through him, phantoms he could draw

from the air: Elgreth, the fire, an opportunity lost forever, or so he’d thought. Yet here she was, standing before him like a small, dark angel.

Icelin Team, he thought. You are all grown up. I would never have known you.

An awkward silence had settled between them. Cerest recovered himself and hurried to fill it. “You must allow me to repay my debt. Please, I would like to escort you home. The Way of the Dragon is no place for a girl to be at night.”

Cerest was careful to maintain a cordial manner. He didn’t want her to realize how off balance he was. Did he imagine that she looked at him strangely, or was it just his scars that unsettled her? Before he’d been maimed, it had been effortless to charm people, in business or in his bed. Now it was more difficult to get folk to trust him.

“That’s not necessary,” said the girl. “I know the way well, and I like to walk.”

An error. He’d been too forward. Cerest cursed himself. She was being cautious now, businesslike, just as she had been with Kredaron. He would have to snare the rabbit carefully, or she would run.

“I’m afraid my home is a far walk from here, but I have a wagon somewhat closer.” He offered a mock wince. “I’ve learned my lesson. I shall never leave it to go on foot in South Ward again. I will retrieve the wagon and come for you here. Please, I could have you home to your family very shortly, and it would ease my mind to know you hadn’t suffered any injuries preserving my poor neck.”

“You’re very kind, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

She was starting to edge away. Cerest could see she didn’t trust him. He sighed inwardly. This was going to be more difficult than he’d thought. Ah, well. Perhaps his scars would serve him in this case.

He slipped his hand over her nearer wrist, as if it were the

most natural gesture in the world, and not an intrusion in her space.

“Does my appearance unsettle you so much?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

That gave her pause. She flushed attractively. “I’m not troubled by your face, but by your sudden interest in me. You showed no such attentiveness before.”

“Perhaps I am enchanted by the woman who just saved my life.”