There was a smattering of applause and rude gestures from the beggar folk. Shouts of, 'Save it for the real performers!' had Hatsolm throwing up his hands and laughing.
'Eat hearty, all of you,' he said, and he waddled off to find his own bowl. 'We're fed and clothed and grateful, and the troupe's comin' in. What more could kings ask for?'
'The troupe?' Icelin said. But Hatsolm was gone, and the others were immersed in their own conversations. The temporary distraction of their arrival had passed; the people seemed to be waiting for something. They kept shooting glances at the bow of the ship, but Icelin saw nothing except a stack of rotting crates. Rats weaved among the loose boards.
'Surely Arowall doesn't provide food and entertainment for 'em,' Sull said. 'Not when he'd just as soon be killin' 'em.'
They looked to Ruen, but the monk shrugged. 'They seem in high spirits, which is more than I expected. Perhaps one of them is a musician.'
Hatsolm came around again to collect their bowls. Icelin tugged on his rag cloak. 'Are they waiting to see a show?' she asked politely.
He grinned. 'Aye, lass, the best in Waterdeep, though we're the only folk knows it. Sit you all right here and see what there is to see.' He patted her arm and settled back on the ground.
A crow flew over their heads, descending into the ship to pluck a rat from one of the crates. The bird was large and sleek, with oily black eyes that watched the beggars even as it snapped the rat's neck. Icelin cringed.
The sun had risen outside the ship, but a shadow fell across Icelin and the rest of the crowd. She looked up; more crows were flying in an uneven formation, clustering close and snapping at each other as they dived down into the belly of the ship.
Instinctively, Icelin ducked. The birds flew over her head and landed on the rotting crates. The air filled with restless caws, but a hushed silence had fallen over the beggar folk. Every face, including Hatsolm's, was tuned in rapturous attention to the crows.
'What's going on?' Icelin whispered to Ruen.
'Halt your lips, you ungrateful lot!' shouted a voice that made Icelin jump.
A crow's head stretched, its black feathers shrinking into pale flesh. The bird stood up on two spindly legs, which lengthened and shed more feathers. The creature shook itself, and was suddenly not a bird any longer, but a boy, a boy grown from the body of a crow. The ungainly creature hopped up on one of the crates and surveyed the crowd.
'Are we the show this night or not?' the boy demanded. He looked to be about eleven years old-human-with greasy black hair tucked under a brown cap. A crow's feather rested behind his ear like a quill. His eyes shifted around like restless insects, never settling on one object. 'Answer me, dogs! Are we the entertainers?'
'Ho!' A chorus erupted from the beggar folk. For a breath, Icelin thought she was back in the Cradle.
'They're new arrivals, Kaelin, not true Drawn Cloaks,' said Hatsolm. 'Give them a chance.'
The boy regarded Icelin's group with interest, his gaze fixing on each of them in turn. 'They're false fronts,' he said.
Ruen glanced up sharply. He'd avoided eye contact with the boy until that instant. 'We're refugees, the same as any person here,' he said. 'What of you? What do you have to say for yourselves?'
The boy hopped from crate to crate, his arms spread. 'Do you hear, friends? He wants to know who we are.'
The crows flapped their wings in a grim chorus, and suddenly the air was full of feathers. When the black shades fell away, a dozen men and women stood where the crows had been.
Icelin gasped. The crates were gone, transformed into a wide, foot-high stage that stretched from the port bow to the starboard. The boy pranced from one end to the other, pulling lit torches from a bag at his hip. He placed them in sconces at the edges of the stage. Their fiery brilliance lit up the suddenly shadowed hold. It was as if all the sunlight had been sucked from the ship, replaced by torches that gave off light but no heat.
'They can't be real,' Icelin whispered to Ruen. 'It's wizardry. Illusion.'
'Complex magic that can transfigure and interact by itself, all for a crowd of beggars?' Ruen said. 'No one would take such trouble.'
'Then what are they?' Sull asked.
It was Hatsolm who answered. 'Ghosts,' he said.
CHAPTER 14
A woman strode to the center of the stage and pulled a lute from her back. She began to play a lively tune for a pair of jugglers that somersaulted onto the stage. They tossed a dizzying handful of colored balls into the air and caught them before they gained their feet. Hatsolm laughed and clapped. The beggars were enraptured.
'They're such a motley troupe,' Icelin said. 'Shouldn't they be haunting a playhouse?'
'That's the charm of it,' Hatsolm said. He leaned closer so his voice wouldn't carry to the stage. 'They've never said, but I think the whole group was lost in a shipwreck. I'll wager they're chained to it still, so they seek out the audience that's closest. Before we came, they said they performed for the crows. After we arrived, they took the shape of the crows and performed for us. Isn't that lovely?'
'They sound friendlier than the sea wraiths, but are they dangerous?' Icelin asked.
'Not so long as you fix your attention on them and keep your tongue between your teeth,' Hatsolm said pointedly. 'They don't like to be interrupted.'
'Of course.' Icelin gave up and fell silent. She sat back against the hull and watched the boy, Kaelin, flitting through the crowd. He straightened a cloak here, shushed an errant tongue there, and teased an old woman who called him her boy. He seemed excessively fond of touching everyone. Icelin didn't know if they could feel him, but all the faces turned up eagerly at his approach.
The jugglers bowed and ran offstage, leaving behind a trail of balls that burst into sparkling fireworks. When the light spots faded from Icelin's eyes, the lute player was back, changing her tune to something mournful. It took Icelin a breath to recognize the tune.
The last falling twilight shines gold on the mountain. Give me eyes for the darkness, take me home, take me home.
Icelin's heart stuttered in her chest. It was the same song she used to sing for Brant. The woman on stage looked directly at her while she strummed the lute.
'What's wrong?' Ruen asked. He reached out but stopped short of touching her with his gloved hand.
'Nothing,' Icelin said, 'I'm cold.' She wrapped her arms around herself.
Ruen continued to watch her intently. Icelin kept her eyes forward, but she couldn't look at the woman's face. The song was painful enough. She stared at the bard's feet and tried to blank her mind.
She felt a weight across her shoulders. She looked up, off balance as Ruen pulled her against his side. His arm, hidden under the cloak, was draped across her shoulders. He was staring straight ahead.
'Ruen,' she said, fighting a smile, 'your arm seems to have fallen on me in a suspicious gesture of comfort.'
'Is that so?' He still wouldn't look at her. 'I suppose your virtue is distressed by this turn of events?'
'Terribly. I believe I will expire from shock.'
'Better than expiring from the cold. Why is the song bothering you?'
'Brant, my great-uncle, loved this song,' Icelin said. She let the words in. The lute players voice enveloped her like a warm blanket covered in needles.
'It's a sad song,' Ruen said. 'He's lost in the wilderness. Does he ever find his way home?'
'The song doesn't tell,' Icelin said. 'What do you think?'
'I think a bard should say what she means. Otherwise what's the point of the show?'
'What's the point? 'Kaelin shouted incredulously from right behind them. The lute player's song ground to a halt.
Icelin sucked in a breath. Kaelin's hand came down on her shoulder; it was ice cold and strangely invasive, as
