Mistshore (8 page)

“I do,” said Kersh. “I believe he has a personal vendetta against Icelin, and that she needs our protection.”

“You have no proof that your friend isn’t spinning her own

tales,” the commander pointed out. “Her name is known in this barracks, and among many in the Watch.”

Kersh felt a flare of indignation. “That does not exempt her from our protection, should her claims prove true.”

“You don’t believe the murder of a Watchman should warrant our enmity?”

Kersh felt his face flush with shame and something else. Righteous indignation, he might have called it, though he’d never thought himself capable of such emotions. However you termed it, the wrongness sat bitterly in his mouth. “There was no murder,” he said. “It was an accident, as all involved are aware. Blame the gods if you will, but no man or woman should be punished for the fell magic that has gripped this city since the Spellplague.”

The Warden gazed at him steadily. Kersh felt his heart hammering against his ribs, whether from anger or fear of a reprimand, he couldn’t say. He’d never been so bold before.

“As it happens,” the commander said softly, “I agree with you, lad.”

Kersh offered a quiet prayer of thanks. “I want to take a patrol into Mistshore.” He spoke faster, planning it out in his head. “I should never have let her go. She could be killed—”

The Warden held up a hand. “Before you break ranks, lad, and start leading your own parrols, hear me out. You say she intends to seek out this thief, Ruen Morleth?”

“That was her intention when she left me,” Kersh said.

“Then our solution resides with him.”

Kersh kept his mouth from falling open with an effort, but he couldn’t keep his tongue from moving, not now that it had got going. “He’s an escaped criminal; he’s not to be trusted with her safety. How can you consider such a thing?”

The Watch Warden almost smiled. Kersh could see the quiver in his moustache. “Ruen Morleth has never escaped from anything in his whole life.”

This time Kersh did gape. “You know where he is?”

“Indeed. He is a fine thief and as crooked as they come, but he’s also smart. Ruen Morleth is a survivor. He has contacts in Mistshore and the Warrens, and probably other places we aren’t aware of. We made him a generous bargain: his freedom in exchange for access to those contacts in Mistshore. With Morleth as our agent, we can work within Mistshore, and none of our own men need die. It’s a bargain both sides were more than willing to make.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Kersh asked. He felt hollow, betrayed by his own ignorance.

“Morleth is many things, but he won’t harm your friend,” the Warden said, as if sensing his distress. “We’ll contact him immediately. When he finds Icelin, he’ll bring her in, and I’ll see to her protection personally until this matter can be resolved to your satisfaction and mine,” he said.

“How will you find him?” Kersh wanted to know.

“We’ll attempt magical means. But as you know, such methods don’t always function well within the city,” the commander said. “Fortunately, we have other ways to get information into Mistshore. Go outside the door, lad, and call down to the commons. Then come back. I’ve work for you yet.”

Kersh hastened to obey. He had no idea where the night would lead him. But when the Wolfhound spoke, he found himself eager to follow the man.

When he was alone, Daerovus Tallmantle spoke to the empty air. “You heard, I expect.”

A figure stepped into view from nowhere and crossed the room. The train of her fine crimson cloak was last to appear from the empty air.

She had gray hair to match the Watch Warden, but hers was a frizzy mass gathered into a hasty tail at the back of her neck.

Her spectacles rode low on her narrow nose, held in place by a sharp upturn at its end.

“Will you want me to contact Morleth?” his assistant asked.

No one in the Watch or the Guard knew that the Warden employed the small woman as his spell guatd. Tesleena had been with him for years. She never seemed to mind staying in the shadows while he conducted the affairs of his post.

“Yes. See if the girl has made contact,” Daerovus instructed. “If she has, we’ll have to move carefully. We don’t want to lose her. If all goes well—and I expect nothing less—she’ll be brought in safely. I want this Cerest Elenithil summoned as well. Then we can determine guilt and innocence.”

“And if Ruen Morleth is forced to aid us in this, you’ll have the opportunity for a clear test of his loyalty,” Tesleena pointed out.

“He will honor his end of the agreement,” the Warden said, “or he knows we will hunt him down. But,” he conceded, “I would just as soon know for certain that our contact in Mistshore is secure.”

“Then I will leave you.” The gray haired woman bowed briefly and vanished into the invisible world all wizards seemed to gravitate to.

Daerovus sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Where are you tonight, Morleth?” he said aloud, and chuckled. “You have no idea what interesting encounters you have in your future.”

Icelin had seen jaw-dropping wonders throughout her youth in the City of Splendors, and just as many sights that had convinced her of the worthlessness of some folk. She had never seen anything that inspired such measures of both emotions as when she first set eyes on Mistshore.

Adjusting the hood of her long cloak so that she could see a farther distance, Icelin took in the sprawling mass of wood, rigging, and moving bodies that swelled the harbor.

The place reminded her a little of Blacklock Alley: twisting, narrow corridors, broken here and there by the half-exposed bellies of ships that had been turned into living quarters or hawking grounds for vendors selling food and ale, or drugs and flesh. Torches lined the walkways. Small boys pushed past her with buckets of water, which they emptied onto the path. The saturated wood kept the torches’ sparks from erupting into fire.

The wind blowing in from the sea was cold, and plucked uncomfortable holes in Icelin’s cloak. The ait reeked of fish, stale sweat, and a prevailing, sunk-in pollution that arose from the harbor itself. Tainted forever, the brown, salty sludge clung out of stubbornness and spite to the wreckages of Mistshore, determined in time to drag the structures down into the depths.

Icelin stopped to make way for a grizzled man in a tattered cloak hauling a hissing, spitting cat under one of his arms. He paused long enough to offer her an open bag of half-rotted fruit that had obviously come from a refuse pile. Flies buzzed around the brown apples and pears.

“Copper a dozen,” he hissed, sounding just like the cat.

He smiled at her, exposing an empty mouth and a scar across his gums.

Icelin started to shake her head, but the man was already moving off, a look of fear crossing his face. Icelin turned around to see Sull towering over her. His own cloak did little to hide his bulk, but the hood kept his bright red hair under wraps.

“You’re going to draw more attention to us with that scowl than you would if we were both running around here stark naked,” she said.

“I don’t like this place,” Sull said. He kept a hand on her shoulder, his eyes constantly moving among the crowd. “Shifts under my feet.”

Icelin looked down. The rough walkway, reinforced to hold large numbers of plodding feet, was still a slanted, groaning mess. The wood had rotted or broken in places, allowing brown water to seep through when the wake kicked up. Anyone not minding his feet ran the risk, of tripping and falling into the polluted harbor. Sull’s weight made the rotting planks creak and bow.

“We’ll find better footing closer to shore,” Icelin said. “We only have to be out here long enough to find the Dusk and Dawn.”

The structure they stood on now was at least a hundred yards across and roughly the shape of an octopus. The central head was marked by smoke plumes rising in massive clouds to the sky. The largest concentration of people gathered around an immense, controlled bonfire. Wooden paths branched off at odd angles from this single head, ending at other wrecks and sail-covered remains of ships that would no longer be recognizable to their former owners.

“Should never have come here,” Sull muttered. He eyed the controlled devastation like a fish that had suddenly flopped onto the dock. Icelin knew she wore a similar, gaping expression.

They moved through the crowd slowly. Sull’s presence soon warned away any eyes that lingered on Icelin, so they stayed unhindered except for the occasional vendor.

A woman carrying a tray of brown glass bottles stepped into Icelin’s path. Each small vial had a cork stopper and a crudely inked label. She brandished them like a barmaid passing out ale mugs. Icelin could see down the cleavage of her low-cut dress. Water stains blotted the peaks and valleys of its hem.

“Need a pleasure draught, young one?” the woman said, “or something a little more fatal?”

Sheer curiosity drove Icelin to pick up one of the bottles. She ignored Sull’s disapproving grunt.

“That’s a good choice, that is.” The woman took the vial from Icelin and popped the cork. “My own special brew. Call it Grim Tidings.” Her laughter boomed over the crowd. “Completely odorless,” she said, holding it under Icelin’s nose, “unaffected by alcohol or sugar, so you can put it in your lord’s tea or strong drink, whatever his pleasure. Course, it won’t be pleasurable for very long!”

“So it’s poison,” Icelin said.

“Should bottle the harbor water,” Sull said. “It’ll get you the same effect.”

The woman laughed again. “Oh, you’ve got a nasty one here, don’t you? He your bodyguard?”

“You could say that,” Icelin said. A gust of wind kicked up. Icelin buried her freezing hands inside her cloak. “Why aren’t there more fires?” she asked. “You’ll freeze to death out here in the winter.”

“Some do,” the woman said, and shrugged. “You won’t find much heat on the fringes, cept from the torches on the paths. Didn’t used to be that way, and whole ships’d go up when some poor drudge was careless with the cooking embers. Only fire allowed now comes from the path torches and the Hearth,” she said, pointing to the thick smoke plumes. “Largest fire pit offshore anywhere in Faerűn.”

Icelin heard the unmistakable note of pride in the woman’s voice and marveled at it. “Who built the Hearth?” she asked.

“Same person who pays the boys to empty water buckets on the walkways, I expect,” Sull said.

The woman nodded. “The gangs do it. The children are their children. The ones that enforce the rules are their enforcers.”

“The gangs rule here?” Icelin said.

The woman chuckled. “You’re round as a newborn babe, aren’t you? No one ‘rules’ Mistshore. We’re lucky to keep it floating. Everyone takes a little chunk of power, but no one wants it all. Who wants to be king of a rat heap? The ship’s already sunk; we just haven’t got the sense to get off. So we keep it floating, make coin, and everyone’s happy.” She smiled sardonically. “My power is bottles. So buy one or don’t. But every breath I spend flapping with you, I lose coin. So what’ll it be?”

Icelin took out a handful of coins. “Is this enough for the vial?”

“Not by my measure, nor any self-respecting poisoner.” The woman sniffed and raised her nose a notch in the air. “More silver, young one.”

“Perhaps we’ll shop elsewhere.” Sull took Icelin’s arm and started to lead “her away.

“Hold on, now,, fleet-foots!” The woman scuttled around until she was in their path again. “Let me look a little closer at that handful of coins, I didn’t get a good glance the first time.”

“Count quickly,” Sull said. “We’re in a rush.”

“Ah, there’s the extra silver. You got it right.” The woman scooped up the coins, buried them in the bosom of her dress, and handed Icelin the vial in exchange. “Enjoy,” she said, and moved off.

“What was that about?” Sull said when she was out of hearing.

Icelin shrugged. “The way I see our situation, we have two weapons: your butchering tools and my magic, which is unstable under the most ideal circumstances. What can it hurt to have a vial of poison?”

“Just stay away from my tea,” Sull murmured. “Why is your magic unstable anyway? From all I’ve heard, Waterdeep’s the best place for wizards. They come in droves, sayin’ somethin’ about the city is better at keepin’ the wild magic under control.”

“That may be true in most cases,” Icelin said. “Not in mine.”

Icelin saw a break in the crowd at the end of the walkway. She started in that direction, as much to end the conversation as to get out of the throng. She felt Sull jerk the back of her cloak.

“I don’t want to speak of this—”

“Hush, now. Look at the water.” Sull pointed to a spot thirty feet out in the harbor.

Icelin looked, and through the wavering torchlight saw a faint, glowing shape pass close to the surface. Against the dark harbor, it shone as white as dust off a moth’s wings. For a breath, she thought the shape looked human, writhing and clawing through the water. But that couldn’t be–-

“What was that?” she said when it disappeared.

“A reason to get back to shore,” Sull said. “And there’s another.” He pointed ahead of them, where two men faced each other on the narrow dock. Both held rust-covered knives. Cursing and grappling, they fought while a crowd watched. Some of the nearby vendors pulled out coins, calling for bets as to whose throat would be slit first.

The bigger of the two men shoved forward, driving his blade into the smaller man’s thigh. Blood poured down the man’s bare leg, and he stumbled backward into the water. Crimson flowed to join the torchlight dappling the harbor.

Icelin pulled against Sull. “We have to help him!”

“Too late,” Sull said. “Look.”

The flash of glowing white came again, just as the man went under in a swell of wake. His head broke the surface once, and he screamed, screamed until he was choking on the terrible water. He disappeared again beneath the waves. This time he did not resurface.

Icelin stood frozen. Her legs felt weak under her. She looked around for a reaction from the crowd, but the bettors and the gawkers had broken up. The crowd kept moving, the vendors kept hawking, and those that did stand by to watch wore vacant expressions. Icelin wondered how much of the vendors’ drugs they had coursing through their blood, to be immune to such a sttange, violent spectacle.