A false hope, of course-one of Bentley's small illusions, no more convincing than the little farce of peace-binding.
Her disgruntlement grew as the night wore on. Other than the coin purse she'd lifted from the young nobleman, most of her "treasure" was of little worth. Most of the knives were lead or bone, the bracers and bangles either brass or copper and devoid of either valuable carving or precious stone. But this caravan was from Waterdeep! Where were the gems, the gold and silver?
A glint of lamplight on silver-at last!-drew her eye to the door. There stood a tall, slender moon elf, frowning slightly as he unburdened himself of weapons. Surely this was the elf of whom Bentley had spoken. A small, delighted smile curved Sophie's lips as her appraising eyes settled upon the elf's belt. Though he had given up a half dozen weapons, he was permitted carry such tools as were used at table, as well as small items deemed too valuable to entrust to another. The elf retained several such items, including a dagger fashioned of silvery metal the same hue as the elf's hair-a color so pale it was nearly white. That marked it as elven steel, priceless even without the elaborate carving and lavish jewels that graced the hilt.
Revelation jolted through Sophie. This was it! This had to be the treasure whose worth out-measured the risk of stealing it! The elf carried so many fine things that he would not miss that single small knife. Surely Bentley would acknowledge this, and concede that the game they played had at last been won! She could buy free of this place tonight!
Exultation swept through her, quickly chased by a sense of betrayal and then cold, furious rage. Bentley knew this elf carried treasures. Of course he did, and that was why he warned her clear of him.
Bentley Mirrorshade, whatever his other faults might be, was a gnome of his word. Once the priceless dagger was hers, the gnome would have no choice but to honor the bargain they'd made years ago, and that would mean the loss of his most popular tavern wench.
Sophie tamped down her wrath and forced an inviting smile onto her face. She elbowed one of her fellow wenches aside and undulated over to the silver-haired elf.
"And what can I get you, my lord?" she purred as her fingers reached toward freedom.
Bentley Mirrorshade stared with horror at the glittering hoard laid out before him. Several long moments passed before he lifted his eyes to Sophie's face. The depth of emotion in them set her back on her heels, for she could not begin to fathom the mingled sorrow and fear in the gnome's small blue eyes. She had expected either the anger or the resignation of a gambler who knew himself beaten.
"What have you done, girl?" he said in a faint voice.
Sophie tossed her dark head. "I've bought my way free, that's what I've done! You can't claim that dagger isn't worth the risk of taking it."
A strange, ironic little smile twisted the gnome's lips. "Depends upon how much value you give your life. That dagger belongs to Elaith Craulnober. He's a rogue elf, and not a forgiving sort. They say not a man or woman crosses him and lives."
"So? 'They' say many things, few of them true."
Bentley gave her a long, somber look. "Do you remember Hannilee Whistlewren?"
It took Sophie a moment to attach the name to the remembered image of a small, rosily smiling face. "The halfling wench. She worked as a laundress for a moon or two, then left with the caravan bound for Lurien."
"That's the tale we put about. Maybe you also remember the fouled well."
That she recalled instantly. For months she and the other girls had had to carry heavy buckets from the spring just outside the fortress walls. Suddenly the gnome's meaning grew clear. "The halfling was killed and tossed into the well?"
"Pieces of her came up in the bucket," Bentley agreed grimly. "Small pieces."
Some of the gnome's fear began to edge into Sophie's heart. "Elaith Craulnober?"
"That'd be my guess. Last thing Hannilee did, far as we could figure, was bring fresh linens to the elf's room. Maybe her fingers were a mite sticky. Never could find cause to accuse him, but the tale sings in tune with many another I've heard."
Sophie's bright hopes faded. "I'll return the dagger at once. He'll never know."
"No." Bentley spoke quietly, but emphatically. "I'll deal with this. It could mean your life if you were caught with the dagger-"
He broke off abruptly, as if considering some new and promising thought. "Your life," he mused, "or mine."
It did not take Sophie long to weigh these options. "Have it your way." She began to gather up the other treasures. It would take her most of the evening to return them to their unwitting owners.
But by the time she'd tied the third coin bag back in place, Sophie began to reconsider the gnome's offer. It was not like Bentley to be so solemn; usually the gnome was all grit and bluster. Perhaps her first instinct had hit the mark after all-perhaps she had finally found the item valuable enough to offset the risk involved.
There was one sure way to find out, and it wasn't from the treacherous, slave-driving gnome. Not directly, at least.
Sophie deftly lifted the keys from Bentley's pocket and slipped away from the tavern to the low-ceiling chamber that served as his workroom. The lying little troll was as adept at creating magical illusions as he was at shaping the truth into whatever form suited his purposes. Somewhere among the jumble of pots and vials and powers would be something useful.
A few moments later, Sophie strode awkwardly toward the stables, trying to school the swish from her hips and add length to her stride. Thanks to a bottle of vile-tasting potion, she wore the form of a burly, bearded mercenary who served as Elaith Craulnober's second in command. In such guise, it would not do to be seen mincing about like a Calishan harem boy.
She found a tall, thin lad in the first stall, busily grooming a dappled mare. "May the gods save me from tripping over these gnomes, because they're too stupid to get out of the way," she said, wincing at the bluff, deep sound that emerged from her throat.
The boy's only response was an indifferent shrug, but Sophie pressed on. "One of them tried to buy Craulnober's dagger for five hundred gold. The elf turned him down, of course. What's the thing worth, do you think?"
The gloved hand stilled, and the lad lifted his gaze to Sophie's face. "Lord Craulnober's business is his own. Not mine, and I daresay not yours."
The voice was low, the face deeply shadowed by the hood of the rough cape, but Sophie saw what was there to see. This was no lad. A female, and judging from the size and tilt and color of those eyes-blue as sapphires, and flecked with gold-she was probably not entirely human. A prickle of mingled fear and distaste shimmered through her. She quickly covered her reaction with a boisterous laugh and a comrade's slap on the shoulder.
"Well said, lad! You passed the test, and I'll be telling the elf so later this eve. He's got his eye on you for better things, you know."
"Cap'n?"
A whip-thin man with a scarred cheek had edged closer during this exchange. The tentative, inquiring note in his voice suggested that Sophie had blundered. She'd gambled that this elfwoman's true identity was secret from the rest of the caravan. Apparently she'd lost that wager. She gave the newcomer a sheepish grin and a shrug.
"It took three tankards to wash the taste of road dust from my mouth." She raised one hand to her temples. "Scarce can remember my own name, much less hers. The elf wench isn't much for gossip, is she?"