Mistshore (9 page)

“What is this place?” she said. But she wasn’t really talking to Sull.

“These are parts of the city you’re never meant to see, lass,” Sull said, patting her shoulder.

“And what of you?” Icelin demanded. “What have you seen of this kind of death? How can you just stand there and do nothing?”

Immediately she regretted her words. She had no cause to attack Sull. None of this was his fault.

“I’m sorry, Sull,” she said. “That wasn’t right.”

But the butcher merely shook his head. “I been in my share of troubles, doin’ things I’m not proud to tell you about,” he said. “But this”—he spat in the water—”this is unnatural, even for Waterdeep. I didn’t mean to patronize you, lass. My aim is to get you out of here safe. ““Keepin’ our heads low and out of other folks’ path is the only way to do that.”

She knew Sull was right, but nothing about this place made sense to Icelin. The people—scarred by disease and wounds suffered from fights like the one they’d just witnessed—wandered around like refugees from a non-existent war. Where had they come from? And what horrors had they seen out in the world that made them want to stay in a place like Mistshore?

They passed a crude signpost driven into the side of the walkway. Dock beetles scurried over its painted surface.

“Whalebone Court—Dusk and Dawn, appearing nightly,” Icelin read. She followed a painted arrow to an openspace near a pile of rocks. Here the wood had been reinforced several times

over with new planks and a fresh coat of paint. The footing still shifted, but Icelin no longer felt the queasy up and down motion that had accompanied all her other movements.

Twelve wooden poles jutted out of the platform like exposed ribs, six on either side. From a distance, they vaguely resembled the carcass of a whale. Men moved among them, tying off ropes and securing the flaps of a bright ted canvas.

“Puttin’ up a tent,” Sull said. “Think they intend on having a show?”

“Make way!” A stumpy man with a blond, pointed beard shouldered past Icelin. He wore a red velvet coat to match the canvas. He hauled an armful of knotted rope whose ends kept sticking in the gaping planks. Cursing, he jerked them free and moved on.

“Is this the Dusk and Dawn?” Icelin called after him.

“Working on it,” the man shouted back. “Should have been open an age ago.” He threw down an armful of rope. “Aye, I’m looking at you, Grazlen. Now get moving with that! Every breath you waste costs me coin.”

Icelin and Sull moved out of the way. While they watched, the men hauled two more long poles out of the water where they’d been floating against rocks. Five of the men moved together to stand the poles vertically in the center of the platform. The bearded man stomped over and put his hand around the base of each.

Icelin saw his lips moving, the rhythmic song of magic she knew so well. Light flared at his fingertips, and the poles snapped to attention like wary soldiers, rigid upon the platform.

“Bring down the red!” the man in the red coat yelled. He spat on both his hands, rubbed them together, and shimmied up the poles.

The men below unfurled the canvas to its full length, securing all sides with the rope. The man in the red coat took an end and climbed to the top of the long poles, draping the canvas over

them. That done, he slid to the platform, and watched as the men dragged the canvas over the rest of the exposed poles.

While the men tied the ropes to the platform, the man in the red coat removed a crumpled parchment sheet and a slender nail from his breast pocket. He spread the parchment out flat and pinned it to the canvas.

The sheet fluttered madly in the breeze, and Icelin could just barely make out the writing. “Dusk and Dawn,” she read. And below that: “Time of Operation—Dusk until Dawn. Proprietor: Relvenar Red Coat.”

“Open for business,” the man in the red coat shouted.

Icelin looked around and saw that a small crowd had gathered with them to watch the proceedings. They filtered past in clusters, pushing and shoving to get into the tent.

Sull shook his head, chuckling. “I thought I’d seen everythin’. But a moveable feastin’ hall I’d not expected!”

“It makes a certain sense,” Icelin said. “You were, right about the planks. They’re too unstable to support a permanent structure this far offshore, not without stronger magic or more coin, or both. With a tent, he can move his operation whenever he likes and still be in the most crowded area of Mistshore.”

“So it goes in fair Waterdeep,” Sull said. “Commerce moves ever forward.”

“Let’s go in,” Icelin said.

Sull sighed loudly. “And so it goes with all young people. Stridin’ in headstrong, not carin’ a bit if they’re walkin’ into certain doom.”

Icelin threw him a bland look over her shoulder. “What kind of bodyguard talks thus?”

“A smart one,” Sull replied.

Relvenar “Red Coat” made a quick round of the card players in one corner of the tent before heading past the dicing area.

All the gambling areas were marked off with paint on the floor. There were no tables and no chairs, and the only bar to speak of was the mass of ale kegs and crates of foodstuffs hauled in every night. The setup suited him just fine. The only thing about him that bore any frills was his bright red coat.

Dancing lamplight cast large shadows on the tent canvas. He paid an aching amount of coin to the gangs to keep the private lamps, but it was worth it not to have his patrons stumbling or knifing each other in the dark.

Relvenar moved to the back of the bar, where the wind teased the loose canvas and the smell of the harbor mingled with food and drink. He counted the kegs to make sure they would have enough for the night’s crowd. He knew he should keep a larger stock, but transportation was cumbersome in Mistshore. The Dusk and Dawn had all the problems of a normal tavern mingled with the worries of a ship’s captain. Relvenar wore the dual roles as well as he could. Business was. good, and his ship—such as it was—was intact.

The sound of fingernails scratching the outside of the tent brought Relvenar to a halt in his inspection of the kegs. The scratching moved along the canvas, and a shadow loomed suddenly in front of him. Relvenar recognized the slender, agile shape, with a bulky top where a hat might be perched.

A very ugly hat, Relvenar thought. But business was business, and this client didn’t enjoy being kept waiting.

Casting a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Relvenar huddled down and crawled under the loose canvas. Outside in the clear air, the smell of the rank harbor hit him square in the nose.

Relvenar brushed a hand in front of his face, as if he could banish the stench. He shivered in the cold night air. “Didn’t think you were going to show,” he said to the figure leaning casually against a wood piling. The man stood easily, his arms crossed over his stomach, unbothered by the cold and the stench. He did

not look happy. But then, Relvenar had never seen Ruen Morleth wear any expression except for a kind of blank coldness.

It’s the man’s eyes, Relvenar thought. There’s too much wrong with them.

“Is she here?” Morleth said.

“Came in right after opening,” Relvenar said. “Her and a big fellow. Keeps pretty close watch.”

“How unfortunate for your cutpurses.” Morleth produced a folded bit of parchment from inside his vest. “Send them to this location.”

Relvenar took the parchment but didn’t look at it. “What if they don’t want to go? I’m not forcing any trouble in my establishment. If folk don’t feel safe, they won’t come back. I’ll have to close down.”

“I have a difficult time imagining your clientele feeling ‘safe’ anywhere in Mistshore,” Morleth said. “Don’t worry. These two are lambs; they’ll go wherever you tell them. They want to find me.” For a moment, Relvenar thought he read amusement in the man’s features. Morleth turned, his worn boots making no sound on the platform.

He’s almost too frail to be a proper thief, Relvenar thought. Light on his feet, but it’s like he’s a wisp. All bone, hair that’s as fine as dark spider’s silk…. The lass was the same way. They both looked like brittle spiders, apt to break in a harsh wind.

“I wish the lass luck handling you,” Relvenar said, and bit his lip when Morleth paused. He looked back at Relvenar, holding his gaze until Relvenar shifted uncomfortably and looked away. When he looked back, Morleth was gone.

“Just like a spider,” Relvenar muttered, shivering in distaste.

Cerest paced the dark street behind his home. The night was slipping away. Where were they?

He had already entertained a visit from a Watch patrol, and

endured a polite but firm summons issued by the little bitch in charge. He was to give testimony against Icelin Team, before the Watch commander of Waterdeep himself!

Cerest knew they could have nothing with which to charge him. His men had been careful. The trails he’d left pointed to Icelin as a thief and now a murderer.

But what if he was wrong? Cerest leaned against the wall of the alley, his hands tubbing reflexively over his scars. The puckered texture of the burns helped to focus him, to remind him of how far he’d come.

All he had to do was find Icelin. Once he had her, he could leave the city if necessary. Baldur’s Gate was thriving and swelling with more folk by the day. He and Icelin could start over there, disappear into the crowded cityscape, and make their fortune.

Everything would be exactly as it was before. When Elgreth had been alive, Cerest had had bright hopes for his future prominence in Waterdeep. Elgreth and-his family were going to take him all the way to the circles of nobility. Even when he’d been scarred, Cerest hadn’t been afraid of being shunned. He’d held onto the hope that Elgreth would save him… But then the man died, and all Cerest’s dreams had died with him.

No. He wouldn’t let it end tonight. He would find Icelin and make her understand the kind of man Elgreth was, and all that he owed Cerest. She would pay his debt, or he would kill her for raising his hopes all over again.

The crunch of booted feet broke the stillness. Cerest tilted his head to the right to hone in on the sound.

Ristlara strode out of the shadows, her golden hair caught up in a black scarf. Behind her stood four men of various heights, shapes, and degrees of armament.

“You’re late,” Cerest said.

“How would you know, standing there so oblivious to all the night?” Ristlara sniffed. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive, Cerest.” She nodded at the men. “We had to move slowly, in

smaller groups. We’ll meet at a location I’ve designated, if you’re prepared?”

“I am.” Cerest pulled up the hood of his cloak. “You told them Mistshore?”

She glanced sidelong at him. “Yes. Shenan will be there to meet us. Are you certain your information is accurate?”

“It is.” What coin Cerest hadn’t spent on his garden, he’d used to garner information from one of the low ranks in the Watch. His pride wouldn’t let him confess the amount to Ristlara. The Watch was notoriously hard to bribe. They acted swiftly and decisively to cull betrayers from their midst.

He hadn’t been able to get Icelin’s exact destination, but the thickhead he’d spoken to had been savvy enough to know that many eyes were turning closely to Mistshore this night. All that remained was for Ristlara and Shenan’s muckrakers to find her out, wherever she was hiding.

“How many did you bring?” he asked Ristlara as they walked, slipping from shadow to shadow on the broad street.

“As many as you could afford,” Ristlara said. At Cerest’s scowl, she added, “With you, Greyas, Shenan, and I, we are twelve strong. I’ve divided everyone into groups of four. Our searches will be more effective that way, given the layout of Mistshore. All the ‘muckrakers’ are human, so Icelin will not see them coming this time.”

“Good,” Cerest said. He remembered poor Melias and felt a flare of regret. If they were to work together, Cerest would have to teach Icelin control and restraint. He’d done it before, when those that served him had first witnessed the extent of his scars. Icelin had already demonstrated she could look at him without seeing the marks. There would be plenty of time for her to learn what else pleased and displeased him.

Icelin sat on the floor across from Sull, who nursed ale in a glass the length of his forearm. Working Ruen’s dice between her fingers, Icelin said, “I think we should join them.” She nodded to a pair of men throwing dice near the rear of the tent. A third man stood beside a painted board with chalk markings. The dice clattered off the board, with one man hurling curses at the numbers, while the other threw back more ale and collected the pile of coins on the floor.

The other tent patrons were more subdued, playing cards or huddling in circles with their own drinks. Lamplight glowed all over the room. Icelin’s eyes were already watering from the smoke and the stench of so many unwashed bodies packed into the close quarters.

Sull eyed the dicers. “How do you want to play this, lass?” “Try the game, I suppose,” Icelin said. “Might be we’ll have to give them some coin before they’ll help us.”

“Do you even know their game?” Sull asked skeptically. “I’ve been watching,” Icelin said. She yielded to the smoke and closed her eyes. “They roll pairs. Highest roller gets to buy points on the board—one copper per point, up to two.” She opened her eyes and pointed to the dice board, where the man running the game was putting up marks with a stubby piece of chalk. “He can use those points to add or subtract from his next roll. Lowest roller that round picks a target number. They both roll again. The closest person to that number wins the pot. But if the winner isn’t the man with the points, the low roller gets

the pot plus all the copper his opponent spent on points to the runner—the man at the board. Side bets could be—*

Sull thunked his glass on the floor. “You could tell all that from across the room?”

“I memorized the numbers being rolled,” Icelin said. “The rest was just putting together the rules of the game.”

“They’ve been rollin’ since we came in. How many numbers did you memorize?”

“All of them.”