Mistshore (10 page)

Sull nodded slowly. “Is this somethin’ you do often, breakin’ down dice games for your own amusement?”

“Not if I can help it,” Icelin said. The numbers were already crowding her head, putting a dull ache at her temples. She rubbed them absendy. “The problem is that I memorize everything I see and hear. I can’t not.”

Sull raised an eyebrow. “How long have you had this gift?”

A gift. That’s what everyone called it. Icelin was long past being amused by the notion. “Almost ten years now.”

It had also been ten years since the headaches started. The blinding, heavy pain came whenever she was in a crowd, or had too many facts vying for space in her head. Schooling had been a chore. Brant had taken on the task of teaching her himself, but they’d had to move slowly. She was quick and eager to learn, but there was only so much information she could be exposed to in a day, before the load threatened to overwhelm her.

Not until she started studying the Art did she discover how to bind away the information in her mind. Ndzun, her teacher, had shown her how, and had saved her going mad from the constant headaches.

It turned out storing information was no different than storing a spell once you’d memorized it from a book. Icelin had simply set aside a specific place in her mind for the facts to rest until they were needed.

“Picture your mind as a vast library,” Nelzun had described it at the time.

“No vault can hold all of what rattles around in my head,” she’d complained. But her teacher had only smiled indulgently.

“Once you have walked the halls of Candlekeep, with permanent wide eyes and slackening of the jaw, you may feel quite different,” he’d said. “But let us stay in more familiar territory. Picture a building like your great-uncle’s shop, but with an infinite number of levels.

“Follow a winding stair, up and up until you reach the place where magic dwells. Can you see it? Be playful, be mysterious, whatever suits your nature.”

Icelin remembered squirming. “But I don’t see how—”

“A red, plush carpet, so soft you can sink your feet right in.” Her teacher had carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Gold brocade curtains that shine in the sunlight, a fireplace covering an entire wall. And on the others: row upon row of bookshelves—empty now—but soon to be filled with the wonders of the Art. Everything you will ever learn or discover will be housed on these shelves.

“Picture a large wingback chair with leather cushions. Draw it before the fire and find upon the seat a single book—a very old, worn tome. The leather is cracked, the pages heavily browned by fingerprints of students who long ago became masters. Open the book. See what secrets lie inside.”

When Icelin had opened her eyes, her teacher had presented her with a book exactly like the one he’d just described. It was to become her first and only spellbook. Icelin had been fascinated, and had loved her teacher from that day on. She would have done anything, mastered any spell, to please him.

Better that she’d never opened that imaginary room in her mind. She hated the thought of it now.

“Come on,” she said to Sull. Distraction was better than a locked door for keeping memories at bay. “We’re wasting time.”

She approached the group of dicers and cleared her throat. No one paid her any heed. She cast a pointed look at Sull.

“New player, lads!” the butcher boomed.

Three heads turned to regard Icelin with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

Hesitandy, Icelin let her hood fall back and held out Ruen’s dice. Suddenly she didn’t feel so confident. She felt exposed, naked under the gazes of the rough men.

She cleared her throat again so her voice would be steady. “I’ve been told these are lucky dice,” she said. “Do you gentleman mind if I throw with them?”

“No outsiders,” one of the men snarled. “You throw our bones or none, girl, ‘less you’d like a private game.” He leered at her.

Sull stepped forward, but the man who’d been chalking the board spoke up.

“You’re not welcome at this game,” he said, watching Icelin closely. His eyes fell on the dice she held. “You should try the shore. There’s a woman there, prostitute named Fannie Beblee. Give your dice to her. She’ll get you what you need.”

“My thanks,” Icelin said, and to Sull, “Let’s go.”

The men resumed their game while she and Sull headed for the tent flap. She glanced back once and saw the man in the red coat watching them from behind the makeshift bar. He looked away quickly.

When they were outside, Sull said, “Awfully accommodatin’ fellows. Oh yes, I feel much more secure under their direction.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Icelin said dryly.

“I think I won’t be puttin’ my cleavers away any time soon,” Sull said.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Icelin asked, picking her way along the unstable wooden path to the shore. “About this Fannie Beblee? Or Ruen Morleth?”

“Least it gets us to shore,” Sull said, “and off this stinkin’ water.”

“And we’ll be able to fight better on land, assuming it is a trap,” Icelin said.

“Now you’re thinkin’.” Sull clapped her on the back.

The shore, for all its stability, was not in much better shape than the floating parts of Mistshore.

Crude tents and lean-tos had been erected all along the shoreline. There must have been hundreds of the structures. Fires crackled in crudely dug pits, for there was little to burn here. In most cases a pot or spit hung over the flames. The meat on them was meager, consisting of rodents or small fish.

The people moved around in a sort of forced communal camp, talking or sleeping, huddled together for warmth. Icelin heard snores, hushed whispers, and a baby wailing in the distance.

She bent to speak to the nearest woman, who was stirring a pot of fat white beans in a watery broth. The lumpy mixture and its smell turned Icelin’s stomach.

“I beg pardon, but I’m looking for someone,” she said.

The woman ignored her and kept stirring the pot. The slow, rhythmic task absorbed her entire attention. Icelin might as well have been a fly buzzing in the air.

Sull put in, “Her name’s Fannie. She’s a friend of mine—”

Tinkling coins interrupted him. Icelin had pulled two silver pieces—nearly all of her remaining coin—from her neck pouch, drawing the woman’s gaze from the pot as if by a mind charm.

“She’s a prostitute,” Icelin said, handing the woman the silver. “Fannie Beblee.”

The woman curled her fingers in a claw around the coins. She pointed with her spoon to a spot south along the shore where two fires burned, one next to the other, then went back to stirring. The tents behind them were tied shut.

“Thank you,” Icelin said. She straightened, but Sull remained kneeling next to the woman. Her expression had not altered throughout the whole exchange. Her eyes were lifeless, rimy pools sucked down in wrinkled, parchmentlike skin.

“We have to go, Sull.”

The butcher reached into his apron and pulled out a small wrapped packet. He tore one end off and emptied the contents into the woman’s soup pot.

The woman’s stirring hand froze. She gazed up at Sull with a mixture of fear and hope swimming in her eyes.

“Not poison,” Sull said, “but salt. Keep stirrin’, and add this to the mix when it’s ready.” He drew out another packet and handed it to her. “Pepper grounds, and a few other spices I added to make a seasonin’. Works for potato chowder, so why not beans?”

But the woman didn’t seem to be listening to him. She opened the second packet and touched her tongue to the edge to taste the spices. Her eyes filled with tears. She seized Sull’s hand and kissed it.

Sull’s face turned bright red. “Oh, er, you’re welcome.” He stood up quickly, tripping over his own feet.

Icelin took the big man’s arm to steady him, and they drew away from the fire. For a time, neither spoke.

“I would never have thought to do that,” Icelin said. “I would never have guessed that she’d want spices. I just assumed coin would move her.”

“Coin’s more valuable, but easily stolen,” Sull said. “Salt and pepper don’t amount to much, but if I’d been eatin’ that bean slop for as long as she has—and I’ll wager my stock of good steaks that’s all she gets—I’d be cryin’ for somethin’ to flavor it with.”

“You really enjoy cooking, don’t you?” Icelin said. They’d reached the closed tents, but she hesitated to approach. She felt like an intruder.

“Always have,” Sull said. “My father taught me to hunt game. This was, oh, long before we came to Waterdeep, and my mother let me watch the right way of preparin’ it. She was forever making up her own recipes. Lot of them amounted to a burnt tongue and watery eyes, but she could make some of those dishes sing. I learnt all the best fixins from her.”

“Does she still cook?” Icelin asked.

Sull shook his head. “Ah, she died. Year or so after we came here. Birthed a second son for my father, but she was too old for it, and she didn’t live to see ‘im. The little one followed her.”

Icelin nodded. “I’m sorry. What about your father?”

“He found another wife and lives, still,” Sull said, “but doesn’t know much of where he is or who he is, most days. He’ll be gone by the winter, I think.” He nodded to the tent flap. “You can’t put this off forever, lass. Best get it over with.”

“You’re right.” Reluctantly, Icelin approached the closest tent. She called out, “Fannie Beblee. Are you in there?”

For a breath or two, there was no movement or response from within the tent. Then the cloth flap shuddered and was torn aside by a small brown hand.

The woman who peeked out was so tanned Icelin could barely distinguish her from the darkness of the tent. She peered at Icelin through muddy brown’eyes. Her hair hung in graying, lank halves from a part in the center of her scalp. Sand grains sparkled in the tangled locks.

An angry dust devil, Icelin thought.

“Did you call Fannie Beblee?” The woman spoke in a rush, shoving the two names into one.

“I did,” Icelin said, stepping forward. “We were sent here from the Dusk and Dawn. I have something to give you.”

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 thiefl” 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… whatevet 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 raptors 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.