The elf cut sharply to the foundation of her fears. "Do you believe that Lord Thann invited me to his family home so that I might meet with these assassins?"

"No!"

"Neither do I." Elaith seemed ready to say more, but he shook his head and turned away.

Arilyn let him go. As he had observed, she had another battle ahead. Once Elaith was well out of sight, she began to follow his trail through a maze of underground paths. This ended with a hidden door and then a short flight of stone stairs leading to an open bulkhead. Arilyn glanced up into what appeared to be a garden shed. Above her was the black velvet sky, and a moon well past its zenith. Her side trip had taken far longer than she realized.

The Gemstone Ball awaited. Offhand, Arilyn could name a dozen bloody battlefields she had faced with more enthusiasm and less dread. With a sigh of deep frustration, she squared her shoulders, hitched up her borrowed gown, and resolutely climbed the stairs.

* * * * *

The oil lamp on the bedside table flickered and went out. By the dim light of the hearth fire, Oth Eltorchul regarded the woman stretched out languidly at his side.

"A pleasant end to an otherwise regrettable evening," he said.

Pleasant was she? That was the best he could do? Not trusting herself to speak, Isabeau bared her teeth in a brief, answering smile.

Her gaze flicked to the mage's discarded garments, which he had hung neatly on pegs. Isabeau's practiced eye measured the weight of the hidden pockets and estimated the worth therein. It would have to be considerable to make the evening—and the man—worth her while.

Her own ruby-colored gown pooled on the floor like spilled wine. Rings, eardrops, and a necklace of matching red stones were scattered on the bedside table. They were glass, of course, clever copies that were all Isabeau could currently afford—a situation she intended to remedy as soon as possible. So far, the night had been less than profitable. Danilo Thann's intervention had set her back considerably. Eager to get on with things, Isabeau impatiently studied Oth's face for signs of slumberous contentment.

The mage, however, was in an expansive mood, ready to reprise the complaints she had endured all the way to The Silken Sylph. "They will regret refusing me, you know. They treated me like some importunate commoner, with none of the honor due a member of the peerage. A small investment, a moment's endorsement—what is that to such as Thann, Ilzimmer, and Gundwynd? The dream spheres could have made all three families exceedingly wealthy!"

Isabeau twined a strand of Oth's flame-colored hair around her finger. "They are wealthy already, my lord."

Oth sent her a sharp, angry glance, a movement that tugged the red lock from her grasp. He did not seem to notice. "You do not regard the dream spheres with appropriate respect. You would if you tasted but once of their magic!"

This notion seemed to galvanize him. He sat up abruptly, absently smoothing back his tousled red hair. "What is your heart's desire? What wonders do you wish to experience?"

She gave him a slow, warm smile. "My lord, at this moment I am well content."

The mage waved aside this flattery. "You are of the Tethyrian royal house, but I hear that you were raised in fosterage and have never stepped foot in your native land. Would you like to claim what might have been yours, if but for a moment? Would you like to see the palace? Enjoy an audience with the new queen?"

Not waiting for her reply, Oth leaped to his feet and paced over to his cloak. He flipped back the folds and took a small, softly glowing sphere from one pocket. This he placed in Isabeau's hand.

"Hold this. Close your eyes and envision the sun upon towers of pink marble," he instructed.

Isabeau did as he bade, more to humor him than from any desire to experience the illusion. Why would anyone content herself with a fleeting dream? She had always lived by a simple rule: What she wanted, she took. No longer were her horizons defined by the boundaries of the out-of-the-way, gnome-run tavern that was the only home she had ever known. Now her territory was a vast, glittering city, and her fingers fairly itched with the desire to grasp all that her eyes had seen so far.

Nevertheless, a strange fragrance beckoned her, seduced her. Isabeau breathed in deeply, letting the scent of the southern sun flow through her in all its complexity of thick, flower-filled heat, musky-sweet fruits, and rare spices. The aroma suddenly burst into light, like festival fireworks, which in turn slowly focused into a scene so lavish that Isabeau's heart throbbed with longing.

Lords and ladies, viziers and courtiers were finely dressed and seated at tables draped with embroidered linens and set with silver plate. Behind them were the pink marble walls of the palace, enlivened by wondrous tapestries. The table was set with a royal repast. Rare tropical fruits were piled high on silver platters. Fragrant steam rose from plates of tiny, savory pastries. On each table was a roasted peacock. Their bright blue and green tails had been reattached in unfurled splendor, creating the impression that the proud birds were courting the diners to partake.

At the moment, no one ate of the feast. All present lifted their goblets in salute. It occurred to Isabeau that they were all looking at her, Lady Isabeau Thione of the House of Tethyr. She nodded graciously, regally, to accept their acclaim.

"To Queen Zaranda!" exclaimed a fat man with oiled black hair.

"Zaranda!" echoed the others in one voice.

Isabeau swallowed her mortification and hastily reached for her own goblet. She barely had time to lift it to her lips before the toast was drunk. To her relief—and her chagrin—no one seemed to notice her faux pas. All eyes were fixed upon the woman seated at the royal table behind and to the right of Isabeau's seat.

Isabeau cast a careful, sidelong look at the queen. Zaranda was a handsome woman in early middle life. She possessed the sparse body of a warrior, strong features, and thick dark hair emblazoned by a streak of white. She was simply dressed and wore no jewels but a silver crown, and she looked not at all impressed by the acclaim or the splendor. It seemed to Isabeau that the new queen was ridiculously out of place—a commoner and a northerner, a minor mage and mercenary who had inexplicably grasped the throne.

Her throne.

Where the thought came from, Isabeau could not say. She had never seen her newfound heritage as a path to be pursued but as an opportunity to exploit. Now she saw the subtle glances sent her way, the slight inclination of several dark, southern heads in her direction as they lifted their glasses in false tribute to the false queen.

Isabeau awoke abruptly, her eyes still dazzled with the vision. She glanced down at the crystal sphere in her hand and willed the magic to continue, but the little ball was cool, quiet, and as milky as a baby's smile.

Furious, she whirled toward Oth. "Bring it back! It was not enough!"

The mage threw back his head and laughed delightedly. "That is the beauty of it, don't you see? One dream is never enough! New vistas open, new possibilities beckon. Since few men have the wit, talent, or character to turn their dreams into reality, they will happily turn over coin again and again for dreams more easily purchased."

His heedless words restored Isabeau's resolve. She had the wit and the will to make her own way, but this dream sphere had suggested a whole new world of possibilities.

"A wondrous toy, my lord," she said, inclining her head in a gesture of one swordsman conceding a point to another. "The merchant lords were fools to refuse you. That I would never do." She smiled in blatant invitation and patted the rumpled sheets.