This concession startled Danilo, and his anger softened somewhat. "Thank you, but in all honesty, that will not end the matter."
"Possibly not," murmured Cassandra, "but we will do what we can."
* * * * *
Arilyn rode out directly from the Thann villa, leaving Danilo to battle Lady Cassandra over the details of Lilly's final arrangements. She tracked Isabeau to the orchard farm and confirmed from the farmers the tale that Hector had passed to Danilo.
Isabeau had left soon after her rescuers deposited her in the safe house—but not before she had managed to insult the farmers who risked their home and their safety for the Harpers' charge. As Arilyn picked up the trail of Isabeau's horse, she wondered where the woman was bound and what sort of reception she expected to get.
It would seem that Lady Isabeau's ambitions were lifting faster than a courtesan's skirts. Just a few moons past, when they'd found her on the road north of Baldur's Gate, she was happy enough to have left the remote gnome settlement that had given her shelter all her life. Waterdeep delighted her, as did the modest wealth that had awaited her there—most of it the legacy of her mother, who had been forced to leave the city without gathering her possessions. Now it seemed Isabeau was no longer content with her transformation from serving wench to lady of station and substance. She had progressed from thief to murderer.
This Arilyn firmly believed, regardless of the facts of Oth's death. Whether or not Isabeau was responsible for the Eltorchul mage's fate, she had left Lilly to hers. To Arilyn's way of thinking, that made Isabeau as guilty as if she herself had cut the girl's throat.
Nor was the woman any more merciful to the animals under her control. Isabeau had pushed her borrowed horse at a high pace, with callous disregard for the creature's safety. The moon had been full the night before, and each of the seven gleaming shards that followed the silver orb through the sky had been as bright as will o'wisps, but no amount of light, not even the brightness of highsun, could justify running a horse full-out on such rough terrain.
As Arilyn followed the trail, the road widened, and the forest gave way to fields. She rode past a few tidy cottages, through an orchard dense with late fruit, to the gates of an imposing country estate.
Whose lands these were, Arilyn could not say. Many of the merchant lords of Waterdeep had farms or stables or country manors in the northlands. One thing was certain: The owner possessed a rather dark streak of whimsy.
The manor and the wall around it had been fashioned from gray stone, a ghostly color that seemed to merge with the mist of coming twilight. Gargoyles, most of them winged cats with vampiric sneers, stood guard on the ramparts and towers. Arilyn did not bother to stop by the gatehouse to seek admission, even though the guards seemed more interested in their dice game than in their post. When a group of peasants came to the gate pulling a cart laden with late-summer produce, Arilyn left her horse in the shadows of the orchards and took a long, thin rope from her saddle.
She slipped around to the rear wall and tossed her rope. The first try fell short. With the second she snared one of the gargoyles. She gave the rope a tug to ensure it would hold, then quickly climbed the wall. Using a spreading elm for cover, she draped the rope down the inside of the wall and slid to the ground.
While the estate's cooks were haggling with the peasants over the price of carrots and cabbage and the guards' attention was absorbed by the cooks, Arilyn crept into the building through the kitchen entrance to await the coming of night. It proved to be a good choice, for the heavy tapestries and drapes intended to keep out the chill also provided ample places to hide.
When all was dark and silent, Arilyn slipped into the halls. Her passage went unchallenged, for the servants demonstrated the lax concern for their responsibilities that often marked those who labored under an absent tyrant's rule. She checked each bedchamber for occupants. Most were empty—the noble family was not in residence.
Most of the chamber doors were open. At the end of a long hall, near a balcony overlooking the garden, one door was firmly shut. Arilyn tried the door and found it locked. She took a bit of thin paper from her pack and slid it under the door handle to catch the key, then inserted a pick into the lock. To her chagrin, the key had been removed from the lock. Picking it would take several minutes more. The task felt familiar to her fingers, and she overcame the lock in short order. Carefully she eased open the door.
Moonlight poured in through the round window placed high on one wall, lingering on the sleeping woman and the abundant dark locks strewn about the pillow. It was without doubt Isabeau Thione. Before confronting the woman, Arilyn took a few moments to take stock of her surroundings.
The chamber was luxurious, but macabre. The bed was enormous, and it was covered with a heavy coverlet of blood-red velvet. Drapes of similar fabric shrouded the tall bed frame and the windows. A statue of a man with the head of a cat stood vigil in the corner, and winged cat gargoyles leered down at her from their perches on pillars and shelves scattered about the room. Other than the sleeping Isabeau, the only sign of life in the room was the gray tabby curled up at the foot of the bed. The cat raised his head and regarded Arilyn with a somnolent stare, then yawned hugely and went back to sleep.
Arilyn quickly scanned the room for hidden doors and found none. She parted one of the velvet curtains and discovered another balcony beyond. She affixed a length of rope to the railing in case a quick exit was in order, then turned to her quarry.
The half-elf pounced onto the bed and seized Isabeau's wrists, pinning them up over her head. The tabby cat yowled and disappeared under the bed, and the woman came awake with a startled, inelegant snort.
"Call out, and I'll break your fingers," Arilyn said softly.
It was a potent threat, for hands were a thief's most valuable tools. A dancer would sooner lose the use of her legs or an artist his eyes.
Isabeau went very still. "What are you doing here?"
"I was about to ask you that." Arilyn cast a quick glance around the room. "What is this place? It's got more cats than Cormyr."
"This is the Eltorchul estate," the woman said haughtily. "I am here by invitation."
"Who did the inviting?"
"Lord Oth, of course. He and I are . . . dear friends."
Arilyn considered the possible layers of deception that formed this boast. Oth obviously had not invited her, but was this claim meant to cloak a darker deed? She decided to go on attack, for people often stumbled over themselves in an effort to explain and justify their claims. "You're a liar," she accused.
Isabeau didn't take the bait. "You will have to be more specific."
"All right, how's this: Lord Oth is dead," Arilyn said plainly.
Panic jolted into the woman's eyes. "Let me up, and I'll tell you what I know," she said in a subdued voice.
Arilyn eased away. She rose to her feet and stood by the bed, arms folded. The former barmaid sat, pushing aside the heavy mass of her hair from a face that had suddenly grown pale.
"You are certain he is dead? Who killed him?"
Interesting, Arilyn thought, that she would immediately come to this conclusion. "How do you know his death wasn't illness, or accident?"
The woman scoffed, dismissing that notion with a small, spitting sound. "From what I knew of him, I'd say it's a marvel he lived so long."
"Yet you seemed upset to learn of his death."
"Naturally! Lord Oth was a wealthy man, a powerful man. He could have been useful. See this?" Isabeau brandished one hand, her fingers spread to show the pink and gold ring on her middle finger. "He gave me this as a token and bade me present it when I wanted use of the estates."