Mistshore

'No vault can hold all of what rattles around in my head,' she'd complained. But her teacher had only smiled indulgently.

'Once you have walked the halls of Candlekeep, with permanent wide eyes and slackening of the jaw, you may feel quite different,' he'd said. 'But let us stay in more familiar territory. Picture a building like your great- uncle's shop, but with an infinite number of levels.

'Follow a winding stair, up and up until you reach the place where magic dwells. Can you see it? Be playful, be mysterious, whatever suits your nature.'

Icelin remembered squirming. 'But I don't see how-'

'A red, plush carpet, so soft you can sink your feet right in.' Her teacher had carried on as if she hadn't spoken. 'Gold brocade curtains that shine in the sunlight, a fireplace covering an entire wall. And on the others: row upon row of bookshelves-empty now-but soon to be filled with the wonders of the Art. Everything you will ever learn or discover will be housed on these shelves.

'Picture a large wingback chair with leather cushions. Draw it before the fire and find upon the seat a single book-a very old, worn tome. The leather is cracked, the pages heavily browned by fingerprints of students who long ago became masters. Open the book. See what secrets lie inside.'

When Icelin had opened her eyes, her teacher had presented her with a book exactly like the one he'd just described. It was to become her first and only spellbook. Icelin had been fascinated, and had loved her teacher from that day on. She would have done anything, mastered any spell, to please him.

Better that she'd never opened that imaginary room in her mind. She hated the thought of it now.

'Come on,' she said to Sull. Distraction was better than a locked door for keeping memories at bay. 'We're wasting time.'

She approached the group of dicers and cleared her throat. No one paid her any heed. She cast a pointed look at Sull.

'New player, lads!' the butcher boomed.

Three heads turned to regard Icelin with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

Hesitandy, Icelin let her hood fall back and held out Ruen's dice. Suddenly she didn't feel so confident. She felt exposed, naked under the gazes of the rough men.

She cleared her throat again so her voice would be steady. 'I've been told these are lucky dice,' she said. 'Do you gentleman mind if I throw with them?'

'No outsiders,' one of the men snarled. 'You throw our bones or none, girl, 'less you'd like a private game.' He leered at her.

Sull stepped forward, but the man who'd been chalking the board spoke up.

'You're not welcome at this game,' he said, watching Icelin closely. His eyes fell on the dice she held. 'You should try the shore. There's a woman there, prostitute named Fannie Beblee. Give your dice to her. She'll get you what you need.'

'My thanks,' Icelin said, and to Sull, 'Let's go.'

The men resumed their game while she and Sull headed for the tent flap. She glanced back once and saw the man in the red coat watching them from behind the makeshift bar. He looked away quickly.

When they were outside, Sull said, 'Awfully accommodatin' fellows. Oh yes, I feel much more secure under their direction.'

'You think it's a trap?' Icelin said dryly.

'I think I won't be puttin' my cleavers away any time soon,' Sull said.

'Aren't you the least bit curious?' Icelin asked, picking her way along the unstable wooden path to the shore. 'About this Fannie Beblee? Or Ruen Morleth?'

'Least it gets us to shore,' Sull said, 'and off this stinkin' water.'

'And we'll be able to fight better on land, assuming it is a trap,' Icelin said.

'Now you're thinkin'.' Sull clapped her on the back.

The shore, for all its stability, was not in much better shape than the floating parts of Mistshore.

Crude tents and lean-tos had been erected all along the shoreline. There must have been hundreds of the structures. Fires crackled in crudely dug pits, for there was little to burn here. In most cases a pot or spit hung over the flames. The meat on them was meager, consisting of rodents or small fish.

The people moved around in a sort of forced communal camp, talking or sleeping, huddled together for warmth. Icelin heard snores, hushed whispers, and a baby wailing in the distance.

She bent to speak to the nearest woman, who was stirring a pot of fat white beans in a watery broth. The lumpy mixture and its smell turned Icelin's stomach.

'I beg pardon, but I'm looking for someone,' she said.

The woman ignored her and kept stirring the pot. The slow, rhythmic task absorbed her entire attention. Icelin might as well have been a fly buzzing in the air.

Sull put in, 'Her name's Fannie. She's a friend of mine-'

Tinkling coins interrupted him. Icelin had pulled two silver pieces-nearly all of her remaining coin-from her neck pouch, drawing the woman's gaze from the pot as if by a mind charm.

'She's a prostitute,' Icelin said, handing the woman the silver. 'Fannie Beblee.'

The woman curled her fingers in a claw around the coins. She pointed with her spoon to a spot south along the shore where two fires burned, one next to the other, then went back to stirring. The tents behind them were tied shut.

'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