The Dream Spheres

Prelude

The half-ogre strode to the open tavern door, carrying the last of that night's customers by the rope that belted his britches. His captive squirmed like a hooked trout and filled the air with the salty tang of dockside curses. These efforts did not seem to inconvenience the tavern guard in the slightest particular. At nearly seven feet of meanness and muscle, Hamish could lift and haul any patron in the Pickled Fisherman as easily as a lesser man might carry a package of paper-wrapped fish by the string that bound it.

"Raise your keel and haul in your sails," Hamish rumbled as he hauled the flailing man back for the toss. "You're about to run aground, one way or t'other."

Fair warning in these parts, but the patron failed to take it. The half-ogre waited a moment for the struggles to subside, then shrugged and tossed the man out into the night. The man's protests rose into a wail, ending in a muffled thud.

Hamish slammed the tavern door with resounding finality. Wood shrieked against wood as the half-ogre slid home the thick oaken bar. Outside, the patron he had just evicted began to pound on the locked door.

Two tavern maids stopped mopping spilled ale long enough to exchange a sidelong glance and a resigned sigh. One of them, a dark, scrawny girl whose dream-filled eyes belied the reality of her underfed body, tossed a single silver coin onto the table and then reached for a large, half-empty mug. She lifted it high, like a swords shy;man offering challenge, and turned to the pretty, fair-haired woman who shared the late night shift at the Pickled Fisherman.

"What say you, Lilly? Can I finish this off before old Elton passes out or wanders off?"

Lilly cocked her head and listened. The feeble, irreg shy;ular rhythm of the man's fists was already dying away. She fished in her pocket for a matching coin, despite the fact that this represented the dragon's share of her nightly wages.

"Aye, Peg, that you can," she said stoutly, slapping the coin down with the air of a woman confident of victory.

Lilly looked to the half-ogre, who was watching this familiar exchange with a faintly exasperated smirk. "I'll stand judge," he agreed, rolling his eyes toward the smoke-blackened beams overhead.

The thin barmaid nodded to acknowledge challenge met, then tipped back her head and drank thirstily. Lilly moved around behind, covering Peg's ears with both hands as if to ensure that the wager was played on a level field.

As Lilly had expected, Elton's protests faded off well before Peg's mug was dry. That mattered not and would not change the outcome of the wager.

Lilly waited until her friend had finished drinking, then dropped her hands from the girl's ears and gave her a playful swat on the rump. "You've won again, lass! It's Tymora's pet you are, with such luck. I'm guess shy;ing you've tossed a copper or two toward Lady Luck's temple."

Suddenly uncertain, the girl paused in the act of gathering up her winnings. "Aye," she admitted. "There's no harm in helping luck along, is there?"

"None at all, lass." Lilly sent a look of mock severity in the half-ogre's direction, swearing him anew to secrecy. Hamish lifted both hands and walked off, as if he wanted no further part of this ritual he never quite understood.

It seemed to Lilly a harmless way of putting a bit of much-needed money in Peg's hands, as well as giving the girl an excuse for eating and drinking a bit of the leavings. This was a reality of their lives, something many a down-on-her-luck tavern worker did when need arose, but a thing that Peg's pride would not otherwise permit her. Dipping outright into the tavern's supplies could get a girl fired, and often times a bit of leftover ale and bread and salty pickles might be the only nourish shy;ment available to such as Peg. Not that Lilly was over shy;burdened with personal wealth, but she had certain advantages: a merry laugh, a quick bawdy wit, thick hair in an unusual shade of palest red-gold, and delight shy;ful curves. Tavern wenches thus blessed could count on the occasional extra coin.

But these days, extra coin was in scant supply in Waterdeep's rough-and-tumble Dock Ward. Lilly sent a wistful glance toward the silent door. "If this were last summer, Elton and his mates would be drinking still."

"And we'd be working still," Peg retorted. "Working til we were fair asleep on our feet."

Lilly nodded, for they'd proven the truth of that often enough. The Pickle, like most dockside taverns, stayed open as long as any man or monster could put down good coin for thin stew and watered ale, but the summer of 1368 had been a hard one. Too many ships had gone missing, which meant less cargo coming in through the docks, lower profits for merchants, fewer hands needed on ship or wharf or warehouse, more masterless men with nothing to do but turn predator. Many of the sailors and dockhands who routinely came to soak themselves in the Pickle's brand of brine were coming into hard times. Lilly had even heard uneasy whispers from the young lords and ladies who came into the rough tavern from time to time for novelty's sake. A few among the merchant nobility were getting cautious, and there was even talk of finding alternate ways to move goods in and out of the port city. Of course, when they realized that someone was listening, Waterdeep's lords and mer shy;chants and sages spoke soothingly of endless prosperity. Lilly wasn't buying that at the asking price.

She glanced at Peg. The younger girl was piling wood on the hearth to keep the fire burning until morn, but her eyes kept straying to the far wall. There hung a few battered instruments on wooden hooks, awaiting the rare patron who was more inclined to make music than mayhem. Peg's too-thin face was poignant with longing.

Lilly straightened and placed her fists on her hips. "Off with you, girl!" she scolded. "It's my turn to finish up."

Peg needed no persuasion. She darted across the tavern and snatched up an old fiddle and a fraying bow. Her feet fairly danced up the back stairs, as if they'd forgotten the long hours of toil in anticipation of the music to come.

Left alone, Lilly quickly finished setting the tavern to rights. When the task was done she wiped her hands on her apron, then reached behind her back for the ties. To her annoyance, the strings had been pulled into tight knots. Not an unusual state of affairs. She could not count the times some fumble-fingered patron attempted to pinch her backside, only to tangle himself in the strings that bound her apron or her waist pocket.

Lilly sighed and gave up. She took a small knife from her pocket and severed the apron strings, silently curs shy;ing all tavern patrons on behalf of the man who had condemned her to an hour's toil with needle and thread. Swine, the lot of them!

Yet once, not too long ago, some of the Pickle's guests hadn't looked so bad, and she hadn't always minded their attentions. Lilly tossed aside the apron and walked behind the bar. Hidden there was a bottle of fine elven wine that a visiting lord had given her. She poured a tiny portion of the wine, the better to savor it, and spoke to the nearly empty bottle.

"A dangerous thing it is, to be drinking the likes of you. I've fair lost my taste for the cider and rot-yer-guts we get hereabouts. And what, I ask you, am I to do about that?"

The bottle offered no advice on the matter. Lilly sighed and pushed a stray wisp of red-gold hair off her face. Suddenly she felt very tired and eager for the escape that awaited her in the small room over the tavern. She tossed back the rare wine in a single gulp, then climbed the back stairs to the bedchambers above the tavern.

She paused at her chamber door, leaning against the frame as she surveyed the room with new eyes. Once, it had seemed a near palace-a room all her own, a safe place to put her things, a bed that she need not share unless she chose to do so. Now she looked at it as her lover might.

Her home was a small, dark chamber graced by neither window nor hearth. It boasted a narrow, sag shy;ging cot, a cracked washbowl, a cast-off mirror in dire need of resilvering, hooks on the wall to hold her two spare dresses and her clean chemise. In a room down the hall, Peg sawed away at her old fiddle, which retal shy;iated with squawks of protest that brought to mind a stepped-on cat.

Lilly entered the room shaking her head, as if she could deny the dreary reality around her. She shut the door and sank down on the cot. Reaching under the coverlet, she patted the lumpy stuffing until she found the particular lump she sought. From its hiding place she drew a small globe of iridescent crystal.

For a moment it was enough just to gaze at her treas shy;ure, to know that she, a simple tavern wench, could pos shy;sess a dream sphere. This was a new thing in the city, a wondrous magical toy. They could not be found in the bazaars, of course. Naturally the city's wizards frowned on magic that could be purchased and used without coin crossing their palms. There was nothing, though, that could not be purchased in the City of Splendors, pro shy;vided one knew where to look.

There was little about Waterdeep's hidden byways that Lilly did not know. She had bought dream spheres before and counted every copper well spent. This one, however, was special-a gift from her lover. A nobleman, he was. Surely he had chosen this particular dream with great fondness, knowing how she longed to enter his world!

Lilly closed her eyes and willed the man's handsome, roguish face to mind. As she closed her fingers around the glowing sphere, she slipped into the waking trance that was the corridor into the dream.

She heard the music first, lovely music that was far removed from the occasional tune brayed out by patrons of the Pickled Fisherman. The poor chamber faded away. Lilly raised her hands, turning them this way and that as she marveled at their unblemished whiteness. Won shy;deringly she smoothed them over the cool blue silk of her gown.

Suddenly, she was standing in a great hall filled with glittering guests. She saw her lover at the far side of the room, sipping wine and scanning the crowd with obvious anticipation. His face lit up when he saw her. Before she could move toward him, another gentleman broke away from the dancers and approached, dipping into the courtly bow that no woman of her lowly station ever received. Lilly nodded graciously and floated into his arms. Together they joined the intricate circle of the dance.

Her lover watched from the sidelines, smiling fondly. When the first dance was through he came to claim her. Together they danced and made merry until the melt shy;ing wax of the hundreds of scented, glittering candles hung from the silver chandeliers like fragrant lace. Lilly knew every dance step, though she had never learned them. She remembered the taste of sparkling wine, although no such vintage came within a giant's shadow of the rough tavern where she spent most of her waking hours. She laughed and flirted and even sang, feeling more beautiful and witty and desirable than ever she had been in her life. Best of all, she was a lady among the nobility of Waterdeep, those lofty beings who glit shy;tered like winter stars and who would never, ever see her as one of their own.

Except, of course, in dreams.

The squawk of an old fiddle insinuated itself into the lilting rhythm of the dance music. Startled by this intru shy;sion, Lilly missed the step and stumbled. Her lover's arms tightened around her waist to steady her. His eyes were warm with approval at what he clearly thought was a flirtatious ploy.

The dream was fading, though. There would be no time to fulfill the promises offered by her lord's be shy;dazzled smile.

A surge of bright panic assailed Lilly. She tore herself from the gentleman's embrace, gathered up the skirts of her silken gown, and ran like a dock rat.

Frantically she raced down the sweeping marble stairs that led to the anonymity of the streets. She had to get away before the dream faded! She would die if she had to watch the chivalrous wonder in her lover's eyes change to the condescending charm he bestowed upon pretty, willing serving wenches.

Lilly's pace slowed. Her weariness returned, magni shy;fied by the fading dream until she felt as if she were running through water. She awoke abruptly and found herself still sitting on the edge of her sagging cot, star shy;ing at her own too-familiar reflection in the mirror that was no longer good enough for some unknown noble shy;woman.

Lilly stared bleakly at the image revealed in the scratched and faded glass. Gone were the silk and jewels. She was a serving wench once again, clad in a drab skirt of linsey-woolsey and a low-laced chemise that was too vigorously scrubbed and neatly pressed to be truly tawdry. Her eyes were wide and dark in her face, and the deep circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes and the impossible dreams within made them look as bruised as trod-upon pansies. One white-knuckled, grimy little hand clutched the dream sphere, which was now dull and milky, utterly and irrevocably drained of magic.

With a sigh, Lilly set aside the spent dream sphere and reached for a shawl. She draped the dark material over her bright hair and then hurried down the creaky back stairs toward the alley. Her feet nimbly avoided the loose boards, the spots that would draw groans of complaint from the ancient wood.

With a grim smile, she remembered the sweeping marble staircase that the dream sphere had shown her, the click of her delicate slippers as she fled the hall. In real life she was as silent as a shadow. That was the first skill a thief learned, and those who failed to do so rarely survived childhood.

Lilly didn't like her work, but she did it well. After all, a girl had to live. In a few nights more, she could enjoy another respite from the Dock Ward. In the mean shy;while this was her life, and like it or not, she had to get on with it.

Her first mark was easy enough. A fat warehouse guard sprawled in the alley behind the Pickled Fisher shy;man. His head was propped up on a discarded crate and his jowls vibrated with the force of each grating, ale-soaked snore. Lilly slid a practiced eye over him, then drew a knife from her pocket and dropped into a crouch. A single deft flick opened the worn leather of his boot, sending a few unspent coppers spilling into the street. She gathered them up and slipped them into her pocket as she stood.

She melted into the mist and shadows that clung to the alley wall as she considered her next move. A circle of greasy lamplight marked the alley's end. Beyond that, the distant murmur of voices and laughter from the Soaring Pegasus tavern suddenly swelled as the door opened for what was certainly the last time that night. The congenial babble spilled out into the street and then broke apart, as tavern mates took their leave of each other to stride or stumble off into the night. Lilly's experience indicated good odds that at least one of them would come her way.

The barmaid and thief pressed herself into the slim crevice between two stone buildings. Before long, a single set of footsteps began to tap along the cobblestone toward her.

A man, she surmised from the sound, and not a very large one. He wore new boots with the hard leather soles that marked the work of expensive cobblers. The uneven rhythm of his steps proclaimed that he'd im shy;bibed enough to leave him tangle-footed, but he was still sober enough to whistle a popular ballad, more or less on tune.

Lilly nodded with satisfaction. One drunken man a night was her limit; robbing them was poor sport indeed. She drew a small, hooked knife from her pocket and waited for her mark to amble past.

And worth the wait he was! Richly dressed and fairly jingling with coin-a wealthy guildsman, or perhaps one of the merchant nobility. Lilly started to reach for the purse that swung from his belt.

"Maurice? Ah, there you are, you hopeless rogue!"

The voice came from the alley's end. It was female, dark with some exotic accent, full of laughter and flir shy;tation and the sort of confidence that came only with wealth and beauty. Lilly gritted her teeth as "Maurice" spun toward the sultry speaker, his face alight and his purse strings now completely out of reach.

"Lady Isabeau! I thought you had gone on with the others."

"Oh, pooh," the woman proclaimed, packing so much drama into that small disclaimer that Lilly could almost see the artful pout, the dismissing little wave of a jew shy;eled hand. "Cowards, all of them! Boasting of the dan shy;gers around them, while they ride in closed carriages with guards and drivers. But you!" Here the sultry voice dipped almost to a purr. "You alone are man enough to challenge the night."

There was a world of meaning in the woman's words. A bright, unmistakable flame leaped in the man's eyes. The spark was quickly quenched by the return of his distinctly pinched expression.

Lilly smirked as she discerned the true reason for the man's digression. He would not be the first to seek the comfort of a dark alley after a night's hard drinking. No doubt he intended to take care of business, then hail down his comrades' carriage when it turned the corner at Sail Street. Lady Isabeau's arrival had thwarted his design, and he looked deeply torn between the demands of nature and the teasing promise in the noblewoman's words.

Necessity won out. "Even the main streets are dan shy;gerous," Maurice cautioned the lady. "These alleys can be deadly. I must insist that you go back with the others."

But the dainty click of Isabeau's slippers came steadily closer. "I am not afraid. You will protect me, no?"

No, Lilly answered silently and emphatically. Two pigeons were nearly as easy to pluck as one-not for a simple pickpocket like herself, of course, but hadn't the silly wench heard tell that many Dock Ward thieves were willing to cut more than purse strings? The woman came into view, and Lilly forgot her scorn.

Lady Isabeau was very attractive, with a dark, exotic beauty that was a perfect match for her voice. Thick, glossy black hair was coiled artfully around her shapely head, with enough length left over to fashion ringlets that spilled over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and velvety brown, her nose an aristocratic arc, her lips full and curved in invitation. Lavish curves tested the resolve of the laces binding her deep red gown, and an embroi shy;dered girdle decorated with precious stones encircled her narrow waist. Lilly sighed in profound envy.

Lady Isabeau quirked an ebony brow. For one heart-stopping moment, Lilly thought the noblewoman had heard her, but the woman's eyes remained constant in their admiration of the heroic Maurice, never so much as flickering toward Lilly's hiding place.

"If you say the danger is too great, then it must be so." Isabeau tucked herself under the man's arm. "You would not leave me here alone, surely?"

"I will see you safely to Sail Street, then I must be on my way," he said grandly. "Certain matters cannot await the light of day." His tone hinted at clandestine meet shy;ings, honor challenges, maidens languishing in prison towers.

Lilly lifted a hand to her lips to keep her smirk from bubbling into laughter.

Isabeau nodded, then produced a small silver flask from the folds of her skirts. "As you say. Let us at least share a last drink?"

The nobleman accepted the flask and tipped it up, and together they walked beyond the range of Lilly's vision. The thief waited until all was silent. Then she ventured out, creeping stealthily toward the main street.

She almost stepped on Maurice. He lay sprawled at the end of the alley, face down, just beyond the reach of the lamplight's dim circle. His fine clothing was stained with strong-smelling spirits, but Lilly doubted he had suc shy;cumbed to drink. She cautiously stooped and touched her fingers to the nobleman's neck. A thin but steady pulse leaped beneath her fingers. Curious, she smoothed her hand back through the man's hair and inquired around for an explanation to his current state. A small knot was forming at the base of his skull. He would awaken with a fierce headache-and, of course, without his purse.

Lilly rose to her feet, angry now. Noble or common, no decent woman turned tail and ran at the first sign of danger, leaving a friend alone! Why, the spoiled trollop hadn't even taken the trouble to raise an alarm!

She silently padded into the lamplight and scanned the streets for a sign of the fleeing Isabeau. A flash of red disappeared into a nearby alley. Lilly set her jaw and followed. Though she rarely plucked female pigeons, this woman was the most deserving mark Lilly had seen in a month of tendays.

Following the noblewoman was easy enough. Not once did Isabeau look back, so intent was she upon the faint rumble of a carriage approaching the end of the alley. Lilly caught up to her near the midpoint and glided silently up behind. She noted the deep pocket attached to the woman's bejeweled girdle: a large, smooth sack of the same deep crimson as Isabeau's gown, and devised in such a way that it blended into the skirt's folds.

A canny design, Lilly thought. Even though the pocket was full and heavy, a lesser thief might not have seen it at all. She sliced the strings, her touch as light as a ghost's, and then fell back into the shadows to count her booty.

Her eyes widened as she opened the sack. Inside it nestled the richly embroidered coin purse recently worn by the unfortunate Maurice.

"You are good," intoned that dark and sultry voice, "but I am better."

Lilly's gaze jerked up from the twice-stolen coins into the cold, level stare of her noble "pigeon." Before Lilly could react, Lady Isabeau's jeweled hands shot forward. The noblewoman seized the bag with one hand and dug the fingers of the other under Lilly's shawl and into her hair. She yanked Lilly's head for shy;ward and down, bringing the coin-filled bag up to meet it with painful force.

Lilly went reeling back, bereft of the purse and, judg shy;ing from the burning in her scalp, at least one lock of her hair. She thumped painfully against the alley wall.

Blinking away stars, Lilly pushed herself off the wall, drew a knife, and charged. Isabeau set her feet wide and swung the heavy silk bag like a flail.

There was no time for evasion. Lilly slashed forward in what was half parry, half attack. She missed the woman altogether but managed to slice the dangerous bag open. Coins scattered with a satisfying clatter, but the bag was still heavy enough when it hit her to send her stumbling back. Her knife flew off and fell among Isabeau's scattered booty.

Hissing like an angry cat, Isabeau pounced, her hands hooked into raking claws. Lilly seized her wrists and held on, dodging this way and that as she sought to keep her eyes beyond reach of those flailing hands.

Together they circled and dipped-a grim, deadly parody of dance that mocked Lilly's still-bright dream. So frantic was their struggle, and so painfully poignant her memories, that Lilly did not realize her shawl had fallen off until she caught her foot in the fringe.

A small stumble, a moment's hesitation, was all that Isabeau needed. The noblewoman wrenched her hands free and fisted them in Lilly's hair. Down they went in a tangle of skirts, rolling wildly as they scratched and tugged and pummeled and bit.

Through it all, Isabeau was eerily silent. Lilly would have expected a pampered noblewoman to scream like a banshee over such treatment, not realizing that in this part of town the sounds of her distress could bring worse trouble upon her. Apparently this woman was more familiar with the ways of the streets than her appearance suggested.

Still, Lilly knew a few tricks that this overdressed pickpocket did not. Years of fighting off persistent tavern patrons had left her as hard to hold as a trout-she would wager that not even the elf lord's gladiators could pin her if she were determined to wriggle free. Though she was smaller than Isabeau and lighter by at least a stone, the battle slowly began to turn her way.

Finally she managed to straddle the woman and pin her arms to her sides. Her captive, looking outraged and furious but still holding her preternatural silence, twisted and bucked beneath her like an unbroken mare.

Lilly sucked air in long, ragged gasps and prepared to hang on until the sun rose or her foe conceded. Not even for Peg's sake would she have placed a wager on which might come first.

Isabeau's struggles dwindled, then stopped abruptly as her eyes focused on something beyond the alley. Sus shy;pecting the oldest trick known to street urchins, Lilly merely tightened her grip.

After a moment it occurred to her that the expression in the noblewoman's dark eyes was not cunning but naked avarice. Lilly hazarded a glance toward whatever had captured Isabeau's interest.

A lone man approached the lamp, glancing furtively up and down the street as he went. He was a big man, heavily bearded, well but not richly dressed.

"Not a nobleman," Isabeau assessed in a low voice. "A trusted servant, running an errand. At this hour, and in this place, surely the errand lies outside the law."

Before she could think better of it, Lilly added, "He has not yet completed this errand. He is looking for someone."

Isabeau slanted a look up at her captor. "Well said. That means he will still be carrying payment."

"Most likely."

They were silent for a moment. "We could split it," Isabeau suggested.

"Aye, that we could," Lilly scoffed softly. "An easy thing it will be for the two of us to separate that large and earnest fellow from his master's money! You'll for shy;give me for saying this, but you're not much of a hand at fighting."

Isabeau shrugged as well as she could under the cir shy;cumstances. "No matter. I can always find someone to do my fighting for me."

"Oh, and that would be me, I suppose?"

"Am I a fool to waste such talent?" retorted Isabeau. "You have good hands and quiet feet. I'll distract this pigeon, and you pluck him."

Strange words from a woman clad in silk and jewels. Lilly sat back on her heels and let out a soft, incredu shy;lous chuckle. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Isabeau Thione, bastard daughter of the Lady Lucia Thione of Tethyr," the woman said in a haughty, self-mocking tone, naming a branch of a royal family so infamous that even Lilly had heard of them. The noble shy;woman grinned wickedly and added, "Until recently, known only as Sofia, tavern wench and pickpocket. I'm new in Waterdeep and looking to do well, any way I can."

A tavern wench, and a thief of noble birth! These words, this dual identity, struck a deep, poignant chord in Lilly's heart.

Weren't they much akin, the two of them? Yet Isa shy;beau, with her jewels and silks and the open court paid her by fancy gentlemen, had achieved what she, Lilly, had experienced only in dreams. Perhaps she could learn how the woman had wrought this marvel.

Another, even more enticing possibility danced into her whirling thoughts. Was it possible that the dream spheres that both enchanted and tormented her were not an impossible dream but an augury into a possible future? There was great magic in the dream spheres- Lilly had felt this power in ways she could not understand or explain. Perhaps it was no coincidence that two misbegotten thieves had crossed paths this night.

Lilly slowly eased her grip and backed away. The two women rose to their feet and began to smooth their wrinkled skirts and wild hair. "If we're to do this, we must move fast," Lilly said.

Her fellow thief smiled so that her eyes narrowed like a hunting cat's. "Partners, then. What do I call you?"

She gave the only name to which she was legally entitled. One word, nothing more. No family or rank, history or future. It had always pained her that her name was the sort that might be casually bestowed upon a white mare or a favorite lap cat.

The noblewoman seemed of like opinion. "Lilly?" she repeated, lifting one dark brow in a supercilious arch.

Lilly was of no mind to hear her shortcomings from the lips of this woman. The sneer on Isabeau's lovely face prompted Lilly to give voice, for the first time in her life, to her deepest, most treasured secret.

She lifted her chin in an approximation of a noble shy;woman's hauteur and added, "That would be Lilly Thann."