The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

STOLEN DREAMS

Everyone knows some variation of the story about the six blind men and the elephant. Even as a kid, I understood that this tale was universally applicable. No one, no matter how good his eyesight or how fair and balanced his view, ever sees the whole picture. Two different points of view can yield two very different tales without contradicting each other. I decided to experiment with this notion and retell the events of "Speaking With the Dead" from the perspective of Sophie, a human barmaid who was left with the gnomes as an infant and raised without knowledge of her name or heritage.

The bustle of an arriving caravan filled the courtyard of the Friendly Arms tavern. Inside the tavern's great hall, a tiny brown woman-short even by the standards of the gnomes who ran the fortified travelers' rest-scrambled onto one of the smooth-planked tables and clapped her small hands for attention.

"Caravan from Waterdeep coming through! Step lively, now." Her voice boomed through the vast room, surprising in its depth and resonance. In response, a small army of gnomes began to scurry about in frenzied last-moment preparation, like roaches scattering before the light of an unexpected lantern.

Or so they seemed to Sophie. She'd lived among these small folk for all of her twenty-odd years, and never had she been so heartily sick of them as she was this night. Although she was only a serving wench, she dreamed of grander folk, better places, and opportunities only the wide world could offer. Some odd quirk of fate had left her a foundling babe, and a second, darker turn had landed her on the doorstep of gnomes who insisted that she stay until she worked off the cost of her early keep.

The other girls-there were seven of them-had similar tales. Indentured servants all, they occasionally bemoaned their ill luck but seemed content to accept their fate. Not Sophie. Let other fools toss their coins into the alms pots at Tymora's temples and pray for Lady Fortune's favor. Sophie had noticed that the harder she worked, the better her luck seemed to be. Tonight she would work very hard indeed.

She wiped her hands on her apron and tugged at the hem of her tightly-laced bodice, pulling the crimson garment as low as she dared. It was easier to steal from the travelers who frequented the Friendly Arms once their attention was fixed upon something interesting.

"You're selling ale and stew," observed a gruff voice behind her, "but you're advertising other wares. We don't sell that here, girl, so stop teasing the customers."

Sophie hissed a sigh from between gritted teeth and turned to glare down at the gnome who called himself her guardian and employer. Her jailer, more like it!

Bentley Mirrorshade was stout and brown-skinned and much weathered by the passing of years and the use of magic. To Sophie's eyes, he had little in common with the magic-users who passed through on their way to better places. Not for him the embroidered spell bags, the studied grace of gesture, and the trained resonance of tone. No fine robes draped his squat form, and no potions of longevity smoothed the wrinkles that seamed and whorled his face like the patterns in wood. Indeed, except for the rosy hue of his bulbous nose and the slightly darker crimson of his jerkin, he might well have been carved from wood.

"My fingers tingle," she informed him. "I can't smell the stew over the scent of money. Listen to the din out there! Look at the fine weapons the merchant's guards carry. Tonight is the night, I feel it!"

The gnome sighed. He had long ago become resigned to the larcenous streak in Sophie's nature and had worked out a compromise that served both his reputation and her sanity. But he could not resist wagging a stubby brown finger in admonition.

"Remember the Mirrorshade Cipher, wench."

Sophie rolled her eyes and held her hands out to her sides, palms up, pantomiming a scale see-sawing in a fruitless quest for balance.

"The treasure worth keeping, the risk worth taking," she recited in a mocking singsong. "But what risk could there be this night? Waterdeep merchants are fat and smug and lazy."

"There are wizards in Waterdeep," the gnome reminded her. "Play your games if you must, don't get caught lifting some silly trifle. That sort of thing ruins an inn's name, and what would you be without the Friendly Arms?"

Sophie tossed her head. "Free," she retorted.

Bentley Mirrorshade sent her a look that was both dour and long-suffering. He fell silent as a small group of the travelers came into the hall, and his small, shrewd blue eyes scrutinized each one in turn.

As she waited the gnome's verdict, Sophie reached into her pocket for a handful of long, thin leather thongs. One of her favorite tasks was peace-binding the left thumb of visiting mages to their belts. On the surface of things, it was a foolish convention-most spells could be cast one-handed-but it had its purposes. For one thing, it left the visiting magic-users smug, certain their gnomish hosts were ignorant of magic and awed by those who practiced it. Bentley Mirrorshade was in truth a highly skilled illusionist, but he was not above using simple, mundane ploys to distract the eye and create a desired effect. Peace-binding also gave Sophie a decided edge. The pressure of the thong, the awkward position of the hand-this was enough to nudge the senses off balance. Men thus distracted were less likely to notice a sudden lightening of their purses.

"This caravan carries more magic-users than a bugbear has ticks," the gnome observed. "Peace-bind that fat man wearing purple, and the woman in leather armor. And those two over there, the young skinny ones tripping over their robes. And be looking for a tall elf with silver hair. When he comes in, bind him tight, but otherwise leave him be." A new swirl of wind drew the gnome's gaze back to the door, and he sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

"Danilo Thann," he said flatly. "Better wizard than he wants you to think. Bind him well, or there'll be trouble later, sure as kobolds are ugly."

Sophie's eyes lit up with pure avarice. The newcomer handing his coat to the doorkeeper was the most promising pigeon she'd seen in a month of tendays. A young man, tall and fair, splendidly attired and wearing more jewels than any sensible traveler would dare display. He wore two fine swords, which he handed to the gnomes who collected weapons at the door. Sophie slid a measuring eye over him. A nobleman, judging from the heraldic crest embroidered onto one shoulder of his tabard and the easy, innate arrogance of his stance and manner. The green leather bag at his belt was too big to lift without risk, but the coin purse hanging over his left hip, the small silver knife tucked into his boot, his emerald pendant-these were as good as hers.

Sophie pushed past the gnome, ignoring his protests as she eased her way through the growing crowd. With practiced calculation, she stepped into the path of a thick-bodied merchant. They collided, and she bounced off him and all but fell into the young nobleman's arms.

She pulled away with a laughing apology, running her hands through her abundant dark hair as if to smooth it into place. It was an artful move, one she'd practiced and perfected, designed to lift her bosom to impressive heights and draw an admirer's eyes slowly up to her equally remarkable face.

"And what can I get you, my lord?" she said meaningfully.

The nobleman took note of her performance, but did not seem inclined to applaud. "Killed, most likely," he said mildly. "Or severely wounded at the very least."

Her puzzled look earned her nothing but a smile and a request for expensive wine. A cold fish, this one! Sophie took off in a huff with his coin purse tucked into her pocket. When Bentley sent her back a few moments later to peace-bind the nobleman, she tied the thong more tightly than necessity demanded.

The night wore on without further incident. Sophie collected coins, bangles, even a few travel cups and personal table knives. The cups and knives would be easily returned to their owners when the night's sport was through, explained as a wench's error in clearing the tables. The other things would be more difficult, but only slightly so. Sophie was as adept at returning the stolen items as she was in acquiring them. And return them she would. So far, she had collected nothing worth keeping. According to Bentley, never had she done so.

It was beginning to dawn on Sophie that, as far as Bentley Mirrorshade was concerned, she would never find a treasure whose value outweighed the risk. They were playing a game that only one could win, and the winner was the gnome who made the rules. If she desired to be completely honest, Sophie would have to admit that she'd realized the truth of Bentley's ploy long ago. She had pretended otherwise, for the game amused her and gave her an opportunity to hone her skills. More importantly, it allowed her to hope that someday she could win free of this place.

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?"

"No cap'n," the man agreed.

"And here I could use some company. Let me buy you a meal and drink, and you can remind me why we're here."

The man's eyes widened and then shone with pleasure at what was apparently an unaccustomed honor.

It took Sophie the better part of an hour and several of the coins she'd taken from the fair-haired nobleman, but finally the scrawny mercenary was getting around to the part of the story worth hearing. Worth the risk of stealing a shapeshifting potion, worth the risk of wearing a borrowed form, worth risking the possibility that her friend Belle might not keep the real captain busy until Sophie's task was done.

Worth any risk.

Sophie gestured for another round and edged the full tankard closer to her informer. The thin man was weaving now, wearing the beatific smile of one who totters on the brink between sentience and sleep.

"This wench we're looking for," she prompted. "How are we to know her?"

The mercenary turned a stare of bleary-eyed puzzlement upon her, but he obediently repeated what he thought his "captain" should know. "Got a mark on her thigh." He dipped an unsteady finger into the trencher and used a bit of gravy to draw three lines on the table. "We're to work our way through the wenches, careful like, until we find her."

Sophie stared at the familiar mark. "A birthmark."

He snorted. "Something like. The mother cut that onto her baby's thigh so she'd know the brat if ever she had cause to look for her. A piece of work, that woman."

That woman. Her mother. For a moment, Sophie conjured a wistful image of a pleasant home, the comfort of being the pampered daughter of a human household, not the servant of a gnome clan. The mark cut into her flesh was nothing-a bit of unremembered pain. It was the potential that interested Sophie.

"What cause does she have to be looking for the wench now?'

"Cause enough! Things down Tethyr way got turned boots over britches. Time was, everyone with a drop of royal blood was butchered like a hog."

Royal blood! Hers?

The man started to tilt slowly to one side. Sophie grabbed a handful of hair and hauled him upright. "And now?" she prompted.

"Some folks still see things thataway. Some don't." He paused for an enormous yawn. "Craulnober took bids from both sides. We get the wench and sell her to whoever comes up with the best price."

Sophie had heard enough. She released her informer and fled the great hall. Behind her the thin man snored contentedly, his scarred cheek pillowed on a half loaf of bread. She hurried behind the tavern. Once alone, she took a second vial from her sleeve and drained it, then leaned both hands on the wall for support as the waves of magic swept through her, reversing the illusion and returning her to herself.

No, not herself. At least, not Sophie the tavern wench. Not that, never again. If the mercenary's tale was true, Sophie no longer existed-had never existed! And if this was the secret Bentley Mirrorshade hoarded, his theft was far greater than anything she had managed in her years of honing her thieving skills. He had stolen her heritage from her, her birthright, her dreams!

She found the gnome in the kitchen, standing over a vast kettle and tasting soup from a large wooden spoon. "Is it true?" she demanded.

Bentley held her gaze for a moment. He put down the spoon and turned toward the back door, gesturing for her to follow. He did not ask her what she meant. To Sophie, that was as good as an admission. With difficulty she held her tongue until they reached the back alley.

"How could you do this?" she said in a low furious voice. "You stole my freedom, my future. My name!"

The gnome heaved a sigh. "Sophie-"

"Not Sophie! Never that again!" She threw back her shoulders. "I am the daughter of Lucia Thione, a noblewoman of Tethyr with ties to the exiled royal family. Did my mother give me a name?"

"Isabeau," the gnome said faintly. "It's a lovely name she gave you. More than that, she gave you life, not once, but twice. She left you here in safe fosterage in a time when such bloodlines meant death. In some circles, it still does. The high bidder gets you, and your fate is not something the elf bothers himself over."

This agreed with the tale Sophie-no, Isabeau, she reminded herself-had already heard. Fury and terror battled for supremacy in her heart.

"You planned to collect that high bid yourself, I suppose. No wonder you warned me away from the elf!"

"Mind your tongue, wench! I made an oath to keep you safe, and that I've done for twenty years. I'd-a done it another twenty if you weren't too mule-headed to listen." Bentley's ire passed quickly, and he sighed again. "There are maybe three or four treasures worth keeping and never mind the risk. A baby's life is one. But there's no safety for you here. You'll have to leave."

All her life she had waited for this moment. Why did it seem less a triumph than a banishment? "You'd send me away, just like that?"

He sent her a reproachful look. "What do you take me for? I'm not turning you out to fend for yourself. You're to leave the fortress and hide at my fishing camp. When it's safe, I'll send for you and get you set up in a new place, with a new name."

"But not my name," she said bitterly. "I just learned it, and I have to give it up?"

The gnome folded his arms. "You'll be keeping your skin. Don't look upon that lightly. There's too many in Tethyr that would be happy to nail it to the wall. If you listen to me, maybe Elaith Craulnober won't have a chance to peel it off you with that there dagger."

A shiver passed through her. "Tell me what I have to do."

The rest of the night passed swiftly. Excitement and fear carried Sophie along, quickening her steps as she hurried along the faint path that cut through the forest. Never had she been this far from the fortress, and the sheer novelty of it thrilled her. By the time the sun rose, however, the thrill was long gone. Dew moistened the ferns and brush, dampening her skirts until they clung to her legs and left her shaking with chill. By the time she reached the tiny cabin, she was ready to do precisely what the gnome had told her to do: rest and wait until he could send for her.

That docile mood lasted for perhaps an hour, while she built a fire from the pile of wood outside the hut and boiled water for tea. Her anger grew as warmth and strength returned to her limbs.

How dare Bentley Mirrorshade use her as a servant! All those years of waiting tables, enduring the limp jests and questing hands of the tavern's patrons. She was a lady, not a common wench! The men she admitted to her bed should have been lords, not the motley assortment of lovers she had taken over the years. None of them had been worth her time. None! Well, perhaps the minstrel who had lingered at the Friendly Arms through the waning and waxing of two moons, sharing her bed and tutoring her in the finer arts of thievery. He was worthwhile-not just for the training, but also for the collection of picks and knives she had stolen from him on the day of his departure.

The thought of this coup still brought a smile to her lips. But her smile quickly faded as she considered her loss. Her hidden heritage was the most egregious of thefts! Her dreams of wealth, position, society-all stolen by a parcel of gnomes.

Not once, but twice stolen. Bentley had sent her away to save her life. But the risk of being Isabeau Thione was nothing compared to the gain. Sophie gathered up her travel pack and stormed out of the cabin. She slammed the door shut, and kicked it for good measure.

"I will find a way to reclaim my heritage," she vowed. "And my first act as Lady Thione will be to avenge my stolen dreams! Bentley Mirrorshade will pay for what he has done to me. I'll kill the little wretch!"

"Too late," said a low, musical voice behind her.

Sophie whirled, her eyes wide and one hand clutching at her throat. A tall, thin figure slipped into the small clearing. It was the elfwoman from the stables, and she moved toward Sophie with the unmistakable grace of a warrior.

The woman took an involuntary step back, and bumped into the cabin. Her gaze darted about the clearing for escape, and saw none. The only possible weapon was the pile of deadfall wood piled up for kindling. But Sophie would fight with tooth and nail, if it came to that, to keep her day-old freedom.

She threw back her head and glared a challenge at her visitor. "You're working for that elf. He sent you after me. Well, I'm not coming with you."

"Wrong, and wrong twice again." The elfwoman lowered her hood, revealing a tumble of black curls and a delicate face dominated by large, gold-flecked blue eyes. "My name is Arilyn Moonblade. I work for the Harpers, who have an interest in Tethyr's future and, therefore, in yours."

Sophie's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you. You elves always stand together."

"I am half-elven," Arilyn said evenly, "and at the moment, Elaith Craulnober is in no position to offer any threat to you."

"Lies!" Sophie dived to one side and came up with a stout limb in her hands. Lofting it like a club, she ran at the half-elf.

Annoyance flickered over her opponent's face. The half-elf dropped one hand to the hilt of her sword, but otherwise stood her ground.

More fool she. Sophie brought her club down with skull-splitting force and deadly intent.

The stick thudded dully into the packed earth of the clearing floor. Sophie found herself off balance and bent low by the force of her blow. Before she could regain her balance, the half-elf kicked her in the rump.

Sophie hit the ground facedown and hard, but she didn't lose her grip on her club. Agile as a cat, she rolled onto her back and surged to her feet, swinging as she went.

Arilyn sidestepped another blow and caught Sophie's flailing wrist. The woman struggled and cursed and slapped wildly with her free hand until the half-elf captured that one, as well. Nearly frantic now, Sophie kicked the half-elf in the shin, hard, and aimed another kick at her knee.

But again the warrior was too quick for her. Arilyn accepted the first blow and saw the second, disabling one coming. A quick twist of her body took her beyond reach of Sophie's vicious kick. She kept turning, holding Sophie's wrists and forcing her to turn as well. When they were back to back, Arilyn bent over suddenly.

The world spun as Sophie flipped over. She hit the ground, stumbled, and dropped to her knees. Overmatched she surely was, but she refused to concede. Dark, furious resolve filled her and she rose unsteadily to her feet. With one hand she hiked up her skirt, and with the other she snatched the knife she kept sheathed to her thigh. Holding it high and shrieking like a fiend, she rushed at the half-elf.

Lighting flashed, or so it seemed. The half-elf drew her sword, so fast that the hiss of drawn steel blended with the clash of weapons. Sophie jolted to a stop, stunned by the impact of the blow. The two females stood nearly toe to toe, and Sophie saw her own resolve mirrored in those elven eyes.

"What do you want?" she panted out.

"I told you. I'm supposed to take you to safety."

Sophie wretched her knife free and danced back. "Not this time. I've tried to leave the fortress before, and I've been delivered back to the gnomes by people who need the Friendly Arms and Bentley Mirrorshade's sufferance. Never again."

As she spoke, she hooked her toe under her fallen club. With a quick kick she tossed it into the air. To her enormous surprise, she caught it. Clutching it in a two-handed grasp, she began to circle her opponent.

The half-elf turned with her, sword held in guard position. But there was exasperation on her face-the expression of a tutor enduring a student's tantrum.

Something snapped in Sophie's heart. She threw herself at the half-elf, shrieking and kicking and flailing. She was beyond reason, beyond anything but a fury fueled by years of frustration and the desperation to regain her stolen dreams.

Her frenzy ended quickly, suddenly, in an explosion of pain that filled her mind with sizzles of crimson fire and then blinding white light. When the light receded and vision returned, Sophie realized that she was sitting on the ground. Her jaw ached and throbbed. She raised one hand and wiggled it experimentally, then she cast a baleful look up at her tormentor.

The half-elf glared at her. "Don't move. It would have been a lot easier to kill you than to keep you alive. You're not worth that much trouble twice."

Sophie acknowledged that this was simple statement of fact. She was alive at the half-elf's sufferance, of that she had little doubt.

But for what purpose? The gnome's warning came back to Sophie: many were the factions in her native Tethyr who sought out those with even a drop of royal blood. Few of them wished her well.

"Who are you working for, if not the elf?" she ventured.

"I told you. The Harpers want you alive. Elaith Craulnober is in no position to take action against you. At the moment he's in the dungeons under the Friendly Arms, being held for the murder of Bentley Mirrorshade."

"I don't believe it!"

The half-elf folded her arms and gave Sophie a long, speculative look. "I saw the body."

So Bentley had been right about the dagger; the risk of keeping it had been too great. But that realization brought no remorse to Sophie's heart, and no gratitude. The gnome had stolen her life and had forfeited with his own. There was a certain justice in his fate, and Sophie celebrated it with a short, bitter laugh.

This seemed to anger the half-elf. "The gnome was your guardian. You owe him your life many times over. This is the regard you show him?"

The woman shrugged. "Have you never heard of the Mirrorshade Cipher?"

"You can tell me about it on the way." The half-elf took a step toward her.

Sophie shrunk back. "I'm not returning to the Friendly Arms. I won't!"

"You don't have to. I'm supposed to see you safely to Waterdeep."

She considered the gnome's warnings, and the words of the scarred mercenary. There was danger in Tethyr. Waterdeep would be safer, certainly, but would it be much of an improvement?

"And what awaits me there?" she said bitterly. "Another tavern, more years of working off my debt to you and your Harpers?"

Arilyn hissed out an impatient sigh. "You will be introduced into society as the daughter of Lady Lucia Thione. You will have possession of your mother's estate and fortune. And as long as you stay out of trouble, you need have nothing more to do with the Harpers. It's the best offer you're likely to get. I advise you to take it without further argument. There are limits to my patience."

Sophie stared up at the half-elf for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception. Arilyn's face spoke of distaste for the task, but determination to see her duty through. A smile began to dawn on Sophie's face. No. Isabeau's face.

She held out her hand and lifted her chin to an imperious angle. "Help me rise," she said haughtily.

This seemed to amuse the half-elf. She nodded approvingly. "Good idea. It'll take a lot of practice to make a noblewoman out of you. Might as well start now."

Isabeau rose to her feet unaided and brushed off her skirts with as much dignity as she could muster. "Let's be off," she ordered.

The half-elf shrugged and led the way into the trees, where a pair of horses waited. They rode in silence until the sun was high. Isabeau passed the time counting her new fortune, picturing herself living in splendor, thinking about the noblemen she would dazzle with her charm and beauty. She would start with the man who had ignored her the night before. He had scorned the offer of a tavern wench, but surely he would not resist Lady Isabeau Thione! Already her life at the Friendly Arms seemed a distant thing, a rapidly fading dream.

"Well, what is it?'

The words popped Isabeau's glittering fancy and jerked her rudely into the present moment. She focused with difficulty on the half-elf's face.

"The Mirrorshade Cipher," Arilyn prompted.

"The treasure worth keeping, the risk worth taking. Bentley Mirrorshade said those words often enough. He lived by them, and it's only fitting that he died of them."

"I'm not following," Arilyn said, in a tone that indicated she didn't expect to like the explanation.

"It's simple enough, wench." Ah, but it felt good to say such words, rather than to hear them! "I am Lady Isabeau Thione. I have title, wealth, a house of my own. A position in Waterdeep society. This is the treasure that Bentley kept from me. So great a treasure entails great risk. He took that risk, and the loss is his. It is right and fitting."

The half-elf studied her for a moment, then she shook her head. "You should do well in Waterdeep," she said coldly.

"I intend to," Isabeau said with a smile. "I intend to do very well indeed." Originally published in Realms of the Deep Edited by Philip Athans, March 2000