"I have," admitted Arilyn. A wary look entered her eyes. "Lying in wait. They had reason to expect you?"
The elf cursed himself for the misstep. If the persistent half-elf learned that he had been lured to the tunnel, she would not rest until she found out who had sent the note. In the process, she would no doubt come across the connection between him and the dream spheres. That, he could not permit.
"I was speaking from your vantage point," he said smoothly. "Of course you could not know that I caught a glimpse of you in the halls and followed you into the tunnels. You appeared to be lost. I merely wished to offer assistance."
Arilyn shot a quick, almost guilty glance in Danilo's direction, then returned a level gaze to Elaith. "If you think of anything that might help, you will contact Dan?"
It did not escape the elf that Arilyn removed herself from the chain of information. Elaith inclined his head in another bow. "Always at your service, Princess."
His visitors left soon after. As soon as the study door closed behind them, Elaith paced over to the hearth and stared at the fire with unseeing eyes.
What was he to do now? The dream spheres he would and must have; that need had not changed with Oth's death. Now, however, he would have to sidestep, if not actively contend with, the efforts of these two people. Under any circumstances, he would rather count them as allies than adversaries. He had made pledges to them both, evoking the deepest bonds known to elves and stirring the very core of his forgotten honor.
To Danilo he owed the pledge of Elf-friend. No elf Elaith knew in fact or in legend had ever set aside that pledge. Arilyn, half-elven though she was, Elaith regarded as both kin and liege lady. The Craulnober clan was a sept—a minor branch—of the royal elven house. Elaith's first sword had been sworn in service to the Moonflower family, and Arilyn was the daughter of the disgraced and exiled Princess Amnestria. She should have been his daughter, but for his own private disgrace.
The elf firmly set aside these thoughts. Despair lay at the end of that path. He had not thrived all these many years away from Evermeet by ruing what was past.
It was easier to ponder the death of Oth Eltorchul. There were few who deserved the fate more and many who might have ordered it. Several powerful wizards had cause to hate the mage. Rumor spoke of several women angered by his treatment of them. Elaith knew of at least four noble families who had reason to squelch the proposed trade in dream spheres—for much the same reason that opposition to his own enterprises in Skullport was growing. Legal trade in Waterdeep was strictly regulated. Illegal trade was even more sternly enforced.
All in all, Elaith's fancy settled upon the crystal merchant, Mizzen Doar. Mizzen had already offered a drunken confession of sorts. Elaith had reason to connect the man's boast of the "elf gem" to Oth Eltorchul's magical toys. If the gem was what Elaith suspected it to be and if the crystal merchant was truly in possession of it, Mizzen was the most likely suspect to murder that Elaith could conceive.
It occurred to him, briefly, to reconsider the wisdom of seeking out the gem. Not long ago, Mizzen had possessed a sterling reputation. Recently Elaith had heard rumors of shady dealings that ranged from counterfeiting to outright fraud. Murder was not out of the question for one under the thrall of the elven stone.
"I am sufficient to the challenge," he muttered.
Was he? A few years ago, he would have undergone this venture in confidence. After all, had he not removed himself from all things elven? The gem would have been to him a rare and legendary treasure, no more. Possession would have been enough.
That was before he had remembered the value of honor, before he had looked into the face of his tiny daughter and dreamed for her things he had long forgotten. It was before he had undergone a quest to reawaken the Craulnober moonblade and hold it in trust for his heir, before he saw and honored the royalty in a rough-edged half-elf. Before he had forged the sacred bonds of Elf-friend.
In doing these things, Elaith had torn pieces from his carefully constructed armor. Ironically, in allowing pockets of virtue into his life, he had opened himself up to the very real danger posed by the twisted magic of the elven gem. If there was yet good in him, the gem would seek to win him. If he were truly a creature of evil, the gem would submit to his will, for that would be the best way of creating mischief. Either way, it would change his life immeasurably, but at least, at last, he would know.
"Better to embrace evil without reservation than to be overcome by it," Elaith mused.
Even as he spoke, the spiral of his thoughts turned again. If he were to deny the only honor remaining him, would he not be overcome indeed?
The elf's mind whirled with the confusion of it. This was not the sort of puzzle that normally occupied him. In his world, a thing was, or it was not. He was an honorable elven warrior of Evermeet, or he was utterly disgraced and dissolute. He could not be both.
Yet he was.
Elaith stalked over to his desk and hurled the ledgers into the open chest beside it. The books disappeared and would not return except to his call.
"Thasilier!" he bellowed.
The elven steward came to his call. "Send word to my captains," snapped Elaith. "I would have them meet me at highsun at Greenglade Tower. Those who lodge there have until that hour to make other arrangements."
Astonishment overcame the steward's inscrutable calm. "My lord?"
"Do it," Elaith said in a cold, dangerous voice.
The elf bowed and turned away, obedient even in this, the dissolution of one of the last elven havens in the city. Elaith owned the enclosed garden and tower, and he would use it however he saw fit.
He was no longer a Guardian, captain of the royal elven guard. Let the elves of Waterdeep fend for themselves, as best they could.
As Elaith intended to do.
* * * * *
Isabeau Thione swept down the street toward the elegant stone building housing Diloontier's Fine Perfumes. She had never had occasion to visit this shop or, for that matter, the coins to finance a purchase. Thanks to Oth Eltorchul, she now possessed both.
She tried not to look impressed as she entered the shop, despite the rows of glittering bottles that lined the walls and the rare, costly spices and tinctures that scented the air. The front room was furnished as well as any noblewoman's parlor. A large, arched door led into the back room, where stood tables heaped with rare, fresh flowers. Two young apprentices were busy with mortar and pestle, crushing blossoms and herbs into paste. Another lad carefully placed herbs or bits of citrus peel into vials of strong spirits, in order to draw off tinctures.
The proprietor bustled up to greet her. Diloontier was a small man, not much taller than Isabeau. He was exceedingly thin of limb and face but wore his belt low under a small, tightly rounded belly. His dark hair had been oiled back, and his thin-lipped smile was exceedingly broad. On the whole, he rather resembled a frog. Isabeau gave him a cool nod, then tugged off her gloves and presented her wrist to him.
"This perfume was blended for me in Zazesspur," she said, speaking not fact, but code. "Can you match it?"
The little man sniffed delicately. "Patchouli, citrus, and snowflower," he mused, "and perhaps one thing more."
It was the agreed-upon response. A wave of relief swept through Isabeau. She had gone to great trouble and expense to seek out such a man, and it was gratifying to know her efforts had been well spent. Diloontier's words indicated that he was available to sell things not offered in the fine shop: poisons, potions, and a variety of services.
Isabeau cast a glance back toward the door to ensure that they were not observed, then took the sack of dream spheres from her bag. "This is the one thing more," she said. "I believe you can sell them for me."
The perfumer reached into the bag and drew out one of the gleaming spheres. His eyes widened. "Indeed I can. I have heard tell of these. So have some of the gentry, and I've had enough discreet inquiries to enable me to move these quickly, as well as any more you might happen upon," he said.
"At what price?"
Diloontier looked scandalized. "A lady of quality need not concern herself with such details. I will handle all, and report faithfully to your steward."
Isabeau refused to be flattered or patronized. She strolled over to a shelf glittering with decorative silver vials and took from it a small, plain bottle. Turning to face the perfumer, she slowly, deliberately dropped the vial into her bag.
"Half," she specified coldly, staring down the suddenly wary man. "I expect to receive half the purchase price of each dream sphere you sell. Do not attempt to cheat me."
"My lady!" he protested.
"Do not," she said in a low tone as she patted her bag, "or I will feed you one of your own poisons. Now that we are properly acquainted, let us discuss some other matters you can help me with. . . ."
* * * * *
Arilyn and Danilo walked down the long, black marble stairs that led from the front door of Blackstone House, one of Elaith's favorite residences. Unlike most houses in the city, this one had no windows or doors on the first level. Guests were obliged to climb a steep, narrow stairs to the front door. No rails lined the stairs, which were smooth and slick as a ballroom floor.
Arilyn had to admit that it was a clever design and extremely defensible. Anyone who wished to storm the elf's abode would be obliged to do so one at a time. No one could stand and fight on so precarious a perch, and she would not be at all surprised if the stone griffons that flanked the stairs on the ground below were magical constructs, waiting to pounce upon any who might fall.
Arilyn all but leaped down the stairs and hastily climbed into the waiting carriage. "He's lying," she said flatly.
Danilo did not disagree. He climbed into the seat, leaned forward and gave the halfling driver his address, then slid shut the wooden door. "At least he does not hold the Thann family responsible. I would not care to renew that particular enmity."
"They call him the Serpent, and not without reason," she pointed out. "A snake still strikes whether you name him friend or foe. It's his nature."