"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?"
Jaleigh Johnson
Mistshore
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.
"Is it real?" she whispered, afraid to disturb the air and cause the sand-bird to disappear.
Fannie laughed. "No, no. Magic tells it what shape to take, and magic holds it together. Won't last long, but it makes a pretty art. Turtles," she said, chewing her lip. "I like turtles better. They don't move so fast, and the shells make them last longer."