The Dream Spheres

Both men leaped to their feet. Danilo reached for his spell bag, and Regnet drew his dagger.

The yeti crashed to the floor, taking a table with it and sending ivory chess pieces flying like shards of ice. It rolled over onto one dead side and lay where it fell, leaving the real danger revealed behind it.

Myrna Cassalanter stood there, her hands fisted at her sides and her face as twisted and furious as a harpy's. She was dressed for seduction: Her he

"You thrice-bedamned troll! Son of a poxed whore!" she shrieked. Her hands hooked into rending claws, and she came on like a rampant dragon.

Regnet tossed aside his dagger and leaped over the chair he had just quit, turning it so to put some barrier between himself and the flame-haired virago bearing down on him.

She leaped onto the chair in her frenzy to get at the man who had scorned her. Regnet dodged to one side, barely escaping her raking nails. The chair, no longer supported, crashed onto its back and sent Myrna tumbling over it and onto the floor.

She rolled toward the hearth but was on her feet with an agility that a traveling juggler might envy, brandishing an iron poker in a determined, two-handed grip.

Regnet backed away, tripping over the upended chair. "Munson!" he roared.

The halfling steward appeared in the doorway, wringing his hands. "I tried to warn you, sir," he began.

His next words were lost in Myrna's shriek as she took a mighty swing. Regnet leaned away from the blow, but the tip of the poker traced a sooty path across the front of his shirt. On the back swing, Myrna fetched him a glancing blow to the head. Encouraged by this success, she came on, shrieking like a banshee and flailing the poker with all the verve, if none of the skill, of an elven bladesinger.

Danilo settled back on his heels, folded his arms, and considered Regnet's dilemma. If Myrna had been a man—or for that matter, a woman trained in the fighting arts—Regnet could have settled the matter in a swift contest. Propriety forbade him to mishandle a gentlewoman. Even using force to subdue her was skirting the line. To all appearances, subduing Myrna would not be an easy matter. She bolstered this suspicion by smacking Regnet in the gut with enough force to double him over.

Danilo supposed he ought to come to his friend's aid. He firmly intended to do so. At the moment, however, he found the spectacle vastly entertaining. Moreover there was no denying that it held a certain justice. Danilo doubted that Tyr Himself could come up with a more fitting retribution for a casual and thoughtless lover than the wrath of one he had scorned. Who was he, the merest of mortals, to intervene in so apparently divine a pattern?

Just then Myrna landed another solid whack, this one a two-handed upswing that would do justice to a master polo player. It caught Regnet under the chin, and his head snapped painfully back. He dropped and rolled beyond reach just as another vicious, chopping blow clanged onto the floor.

The halfling steward rushed in and grabbed at Myrna's arm. She flung out an elbow and caught him in the face. He staggered back, clutching an eye already swollen and darkening.

"Do something," Regnet implored his friend.

Danilo relented and quickly formed the gestures for a cantrip—a small spell that would heat metal. The tip of Myrna's iron weapon began to glow with red heat, which slithered up the handle toward her white-knuckled fists. She took no notice, following Regnet's retreat as he rapidly crab-walked away from her, flailing away until the poker was entirely aglow. With a sudden yelp of pain, she released the weapon. It fell to the carpet, which began to smolder.

For several moments, chaos reigned. Munson rushed to douse the fire with the first available fluid—which, unfortunately, was the flagon of zzar he had fetched for his master. The potent liqueur set the carpet aflame. The halfling snatched a stuffed trout from its pedestal and beat out the flames.

Finally all was relatively calm—all but for Myrna, who looked ready for another round. "How could you have anything to do with that trollop!" she demanded of Regnet.

"Have a care how you speak," Danilo told her.

She sent him a withering look. "Not the barmaid. That does not signify. But Galinda Raventree! How could you offer me such insult?"

Myrna gathered up her skirts and stormed out. She whirled at the door to deliver a final shaft. "You will regret this. Both of you." Out she went, with the halfling sneaking behind her, suddenly less concerned about the visitor's spent wrath than that which was likely to ensue.

Regnet, though, was of no mind to scold his steward. He sighed in mingled relief and consternation as he rose to his feet. "I am sorry for that, Dan. What will come of this, I ca

That did not concern Danilo, and he said so. After all, what part could the gossipmonger have played in Lilly's death? She was a silly, shallow woman, venal in casual conversation but lacking the will and focus to do any real harm. He did not regret the conversation, for if it had shed no light on Lilly's fate, at least it had set his mind at ease concerning Regnet's involvement.

However, as Danilo left the gates, it occurred to him to wonder how Myrna knew Lilly was a barmaid. He had been careful not to refer to his sister in such terms. It seemed apparent that she had known about Regnet's involvement with Lilly—at least, she had not reacted to it with surprise and anger.

Danilo decided to cut though Regnet's property. It was a pleasant walk, shaded by large elms and lined with a hedge of lavender—leggy and outgrown this time of year, but still fragrant. It was a good place to think, and he had much to ponder.

Foremost in his mind was puzzlement over why Myrna did not show anger about her would-be lover's involvement with Lilly. Was it because a simple tavern wench just, as she'd put it, "did not signify"? Most of Waterdeep's nobles readily overlooked the small foibles and dalliances that were common among their class.

Or perhaps Myrna had responded with rage when the tale of Lilly and Regnet was newly told. If so, what form had her anger taken? In light of her display, Danilo had potent reason to believe that she was capable of ordering a rival's death—especially the removal of a person she considered to be without much consequence.

He was wondering still when the first blow came out of nowhere and sent him staggering into the fragrant hedge.

Sixteen

Danilo hauled himself to his feet. Through eyes swimming with stars, he made out three dark shapes dropping from the elm tree: three, in addition to the man who had already hit him.

He reached for his singing sword, for its magic served to galvanize the wielder and those who fought beside him, while disheartening those who fought against. Against four men, he would need that edge.

He pulled the blade free. At once it broke into melody, but not the ringing, comic ballads that Dan had magically "taught" it. The sword intoned a dismal little dirge in the nasal tones of the Turmish language.

The sword's magic had no power over the fighters. They fell into place around him. The man who faced him swept his sword in a taunting circle, then tossed it from left hand to right and back. It was a show meant to intimidate.

"And it succeeds," Danilo murmured under his breath.

He reached for his spell bag and called to hand the components for a slow-movement spell. To his dismay, the casting had no effect on the men circling him, but the falling leaves suddenly defied the brisk wind, dripping slowly through the sky like honey from a spoon.