For the first time, Shakti thought she understood why Liriel Baenre might have desired to explore the surface worlds. This foreign plane showed her amazing things, and her new eyes drank in every strange detail.
On the far edge of the watery landscape was a strange sight: a cloud of bubbles, roiling and seething. It was a being of some sort, though unlike anything Shakti had ever seen or imagined. Although formless, it was not without intelligence or ambition. The traveling spirit of the drow perceived the being’s emotional storm—an overwhelming sense of discontent, frustration, and rage—and turned to follow it to its source.
The drow was reassured to know that even here there were beings who were disillusioned, eager to break from their traditional ties. They were like loose threads, seeking a new and orderly pattern they had not yet defined. Shakti was more than willing to provide them with one. She had vision enough to spare and could easily weave any number of loose threads into her growing web of power.
The light of a waxing moon shimmered on the surface of the water as the little craft slipped away from the coast of Ruathym. It was a clear, cold spring night, and in the frigid skies each star burned with stark clarity. Hooded and cloaked against the chill, a single sailor settled down among piles of wet, bulging sacks—a strange cargo, and one that could destroy many a Ruathen in the days to come.
The oars dipped quietly into the water, taking the boat out past the shallows where the people of Ruathym went to swim and to gather clams during low tide. From time to time, the traitor cast a furtive glance up at the stars, which seemed to burn down like so many accusing eyes.
Yet the boat moved forward steadily, each stroke of the oars scattering the reflected moonlight like broken dreams. From time to time, the quiet rhythm was interrupted as the rower paused to drop into the waters seed that would bear a bitter fruit.
The night was old before the sacks were empty, and the moon had sunk low behind the forested hills of Ruathym. The lone sailor quickened the rhythm of the oars, for there was one task yet remaining. Tonight, death must come to the quiet village, and the spirit of a potential hero must take its place in the mead halls of Tempus, god of battle. It would not be a place of honor. The man’s death would not be a glorious passage, bravely won, but a bitter gift from the hand of a friend. It was this, more than the murder itself, that formed the deepest betrayal.
With a crunch of pebbles, the boat struck the shore. Moving quickly, the assassin pulled the craft onto dry land and secured it in its accustomed place. The port village of Ruathym lay sleeping—even the fisherfolk were still abed. But soon the people would begin to stir, and a cloaked figure would seem suspect. So the assassin tossed back the cowl and walked openly down the streets that led to the cottage of the young war leader. If any saw, none would question.
And so, in the quiet before dawn, death came in a single, quick stroke. One stroke—that was all it took to steal the glory of one Ruathen and slay the honor of another. The assassin knew the single flash of the knife would send many others to Tempus’s mead hall as well, for the loss of this leader would weigh heavily in the scales of fortune, fortune that would turn against Ruathym in the war that was soon to come.
The assassin slipped out into the streets, marveling that the villagers could sleep, unknowing. Or perhaps they did know, these folk who from childhood could read the changing moods of sea and sky. Perhaps they tossed fearfully in their sleep, dreaming of a coming storm despite the clear skies and fair winds.
CHAPTER THREE
THE OPEN SEA
A single glass-covered portal, not much wider than the palm of Liriel’s hand, admitted a narrow stream of light into Hrolf’s cabin. The drow sat cross-legged on the cot, her books scattered about her. The dim light, softened by the setting sun to a rosy glow, did little to banish the claustrophobic gloom of the tiny space, but it was more than enough illumination to meet the needs of a drow wizard.
At last she closed her spellbook and stretched, working out the stiffness caused by several hours of study. She rose and padded over to the portal to watch the fading sunset colors and wait for her time under the stars.
Liriel had grown accustomed to the brightness of the surface lands, but daylight at sea was another matter. The endless vista of sea and sky was a brilliant, blinding shade of blue. Even on cloudy days the glare from the silver water pained her eyes. And the relentless sun that baked the humans’ skin to a weathered brown had set hers painfully aflame after but one day at sea. None but Liriel could see the burn on her ebony skin—to her heat-sensitive eyes, her face and arms shone like molten steel—until the blisters rose the next day. A penitent Hrolf, aghast at his own lack of forethought, had insisted that the drow take his cabin as her own. So Liriel hid herself away during the lengthening days of spring to sleep and to study her spells, and each day she added to the Windwalker’s store of power.
The young wizard fingered the golden amulet that hung over her heart. The Windwalker was a simple thing, a small sheathed dagger of ancient make suspended from a chain of gold. Simple, but it held enormous power. It was her link with her drow heritage and her hope for the future.
The amulet had been crafted long ago by magic-users who took their strength from natural sites of power and from the place spirits that once were common in the northern lands. It could store such powers temporarily, so that a magic-wielder could leave the place of power for a time.
Liriel had reasoned that the innate magic of the Underdark drow, which dissipated in the light of the sun, was a form of place magic. She had adapted spells and rituals that stored her innate drow magic and dark-elven spells in the amulet.
The drow waited until the last rays of sunlight had vanished; then she carefully twisted the amulet’s tiny hilt. Instantly the cabin was flooded with eerie blue light—invisible to the heat-blind—that pulsed with the strange radiation magic of the Underdark. Quickly, as she did every night with the coming of darkness, Liriel performed the rituals that stored her newly learned spells in the amulet.
The Windwalker did not accept and retain all of Liriel’s spells, but held enough to indicate a seemingly endless capacity. No wonder Kharza-kzad, her former tutor, had told her half the drow of Menzoberranzan would cheerfully kill to possess such power. Yet it saddened Liriel that the power she most wished to master—the ability for Fyodor to control his berserker rages—remained stubbornly beyond reach.
When her day’s work was finished, Liriel snatched up a book of Ruathen lore and made her way up to the deck. It promised to be another clear night, with an endless sky and stars beyond counting. Most of the crew had been released from their labors. A group of them sprawled comfortably on deck, spooning up seafood stew and listening as Fyodor spun a tale from his homeland. The young man was a natural storyteller, and the sailors were caught up in the rhythm of the tale and the rich cadences of Fyodor’s resonant bass voice. The story was one Liriel had heard before, one that described a battle between Rashemen’s warriors and the Red Wizards that ruled neighboring Thay. The sailors met each mention of the wizards with hisses and dark murmurs and cheered the exploits of the Rashemaar berserkers. Fyodor paused in his storytelling long enough to meet Liriel’s amused gaze with a sober nod.
The drow caught his meaning well enough. Most Ruathen distrusted wizardly magic. The daring escape from Skullport had left the crew shaken and in awe of the elven wizard, and most of them gave her a wide berth.
“You’re out and about late this evening,” observed a tentative voice behind her.
Liriel turned to face Bjorn, the youngest member of Hrolf’s crew. The lad had a mere tuft of yellow beard and gangly limbs too thin for strength and too long for grace. But Bjorn could read the winds and sense the coming weather with an almost magical precision. This gift earned him a solid place aboard any ship. Nor was it his only gift. When not about his work, the lad whittled wood into clever little statues and painted them in the bright colors loved by the Northmen. At the moment Bjorn was seated on the dec
k, packing up the pots and flasks that held his paints.
The drow stooped to examine his latest work. It was a wall plaque depicting a single ship upon a storm-tossed seascape. A beautiful, wild-eyed goddess emerged from the crest of a crashing wave, her hand outstretched—perhaps to steady the faltering vessel, perhaps to crush it.
“Umberlee?” Liriel asked.
“Yes. The Lady of the Waves,” Bjorn said reverently, but he made a sign of warding as he spoke of the goddess.
Liriel understood his reaction completely. She’d heard enough about the capricious Umberlee to recognize that particular brand of devotion. Fear and worship—Lloth inspired and demanded both, as well. The drow nodded and copied Bjorn’s gesture, which seemed to puzzle the young artist.
“Is Umberlee your goddess?” he asked.
Liriel shrugged. “No, but dry her off and paint her black, and you’d hardly notice the difference.”
The lad’s eyes bulged, and he repeated the warding sign as if to stave off the result of such blasphemy. Eager to change the subject, he reached for a steaming bowl and handed it to the drow. “You were late this evening. I saved you some soup, knowing there’d be none later.”
Surprised and grateful, Liriel took the bowl and settled down on deck beside the boy. He picked up his own supper, and they ate in silence. Still, it was the most companionable moment she’d spent with anyone other than Fyodor or Hrolf since coming aboard. Most of the twenty-odd crewmembers dealt with Liriel’s presence by ignoring it.
Most, but not all. From the corner of her eye, the drow noted that Ibn was watching her again. There was something about the burly, red-bearded sailor that seemed disturbingly familiar to Liriel. Where most of the Ruathen approached life with a bluff, straightforward manner, Ibn seemed to think far more than he spoke. His few words gave away little, his eyes still less. More complicated than his mates, Ibn occasionally reminded Liriel of a drow. Which was to say, he was trouble.
Liriel pondered the matter as she finished off the saltladen chowder. The first mate was plotting something; in Liriel’s mind, that was a given. She could wait for him to play out his hand, or she could confront him in an open and forthright manner. She’d learned the latter approach often befuddled dark elves, who fully expected their plots to be met with equally convoluted counterstrategies. The response this tactic invariably elicited—a moment of veiled surprise, followed by a frantic effort to ferret out the layers of conspiracy that surely must be hidden under the seemingly simple approach—amused her. How, she wondered, would Ibn respond to a direct challenge?
At length, Liriel decided to take the man’s measure. She bid Bjorn a good night and made her way over to the red-bearded sailor.
“Speak your mind and have done,” she demanded.
The mate seemed not at all disconcerted by her blunt words. He took the pipe from his mouth and tapped the ashes into the sea.
“Every hand aboard shares the work. I don’t see you doing aught but sleeping away the days and staring into books by night,” he said scornfully, nodding toward the lore book tucked under the drow’s arm.
Liriel’s chin lifted. “Might I remind you that I am a paying passenger? If you feel the need to assign me a role, you may consider me ship’s wizard.”
“Wizard!” Ibn leaned over the rail and spat to demonstrate his contempt. “There’s things that need doing, but magic ain’t one of them. Harreldson’s been cooking. Waste of a good sailor.”
The drow’s eyes widened with disbelief. This man expected her to take the part of a scullery servant? “In my family’s household only slaves prepare food,” she said coldly. “Male slaves, at that. What you suggest is absurd.”
Ibn folded his arms. “Not so, if you plan to eat. I have command during the night hours. On my watch you’ll help with the provisions or you’ll go without.”
Liriel gritted her teeth as she held the man’s implacable gaze, and she entertained herself with fantasies involving traditional drow methods of retaliation. Artistic dismemberment was a favorite indulgence. Slow-working poisons added a piquant ambiance. Giant scorpions played a significant role.
The gist of her musings must have shown on her face, for when she suddenly whirled and seized a harpoon from the weapon rack, Ibn backpedaled fast and dove for cover behind a barrel of salted fish.
Nor was he the only one to think ill of her intentions. A strong hand seized the drow’s wrist and spun her about.
“What are you thinking, little raven?” demanded Fyodor.
Liriel let out a hiss of exasperation and jerked her hand free. “I’m thinking of fishing! According to that idiot behind the barrel, I’m expected to help with provisions. I assume it’s either that or cook!”
“Ah.” A glint of humor appeared in the young warrior’s eyes, and he turned to Ibn’s hiding place. “I have traveled with her for many days, my friend. In this you may trust me: it would be the wiser course to let her gather the food.”
The sailor picked himself up, all the while glaring with undisguised hatred at the drow. Liriel blew him a kiss and then strode to the rail, harpoon in hand. She kicked off her boots and quickly peeled off her clothes, for they would only hamper her in the water. All she needed was the Windwalker, her amulet of Lloth, and a few of the daggers and knives strategically bound with thin leather straps to her forearms and calves.
From the corner of her eye, Liriel saw Fyodor’s frown and the warning glance he sent toward the other men on board. Hrolf had forbidden the men to touch her; Fyodor’s grim stare commanded them to avert their eyes.
The drow’s exasperation increased fourfold. She had yet to accustom herself to human notions of modesty. Drow had a keen appreciation for beauty—including that of the body—and had few taboos about nudity. The main reason they wore clothing at all was because it offered protection from attack and hiding places for weapons!
Ignoring her too-fastidious friend, Liriel climbed the railing. She tossed the harpoon into the water and dove in cleanly after it.
The icy shock stopped her heart. One beat lost, then the rhythm picked up again, thundering in Liriel’s ears as she struggled to move her benumbed limbs. The drow was accustomed to the waters of the Underdark, which came from melting ice in lands far above her homeland, but this was cold. She could not remain in these waters for long. Getting down to business, she broke the surface, grabbed the floating harpoon and a lungful of air, and dove deep.
Starlight filtered through the water, turning the sea into a silvery, dreamlike world. It was beautiful, but Liriel knew better than to linger. In moments the drow marked her prey, a large fish favored by the pirates for the pink flesh that tasted equally good raw, cooked, or smoked. She lifted the harpoon to her shoulder and hurled. The barbed weapon flashed through the water, trailing a length of thin rope behind it and taking the fish through the gills. Liriel immediately swam for the surface, the rope’s end in hand. As she rose toward the boat, she noted that there were several strange markings carved on its underside—curving patterns oddly reminiscent of drow script.
Calling upon her levitation magic, she shot out of the water and floated lightly up to the railing where Fyodor awaited, grim and watchful. He’d taken off his cloak and had it ready for her. With a nod of thanks, she took the warm garment and handed him the rope. The fish was at least half her weight, and she could hardly be expected to haul it up herself.
As she wrapped herself in the cloak, Liriel noticed that Ibn was looking past her out to sea. His face was unreadable, but an air of malevolent satisfaction rose from him like a miasma. Liriel knew with certainty that this time Ibn would not speak his mind if asked.
Well enough—there were other ways of getting answers to her questions.
Beneath the cover of Fyodor’s cloak, the drow’s hand crept up to her symbol of Lloth. Her fingers closed around the obsidian disk, and she silently cast a mind-reading spell, one of the first lessons taught to novice priestesses. From Ibn’s thoughts she took a single word—
shark—and several quick images: a triangular fin slicing through the water like a small gray sail; rapacious jaws lined with rows of sharp teeth; a small, dark-skinned body torn past recognition.
So. This shark was a hunter, a dangerous one, and if Ibn had his way, she would be its prey. Again, well enough—she was forewarned.
Angry now, Liriel strode over to the weapon rack and selected another harpoon, this one larger and heavier than the first.
“Going down again?” Ibn asked casually as he refilled his pipe.
From the corner of her eye, the drow gave him a long, measuring gaze. No sign of his intent showed on his face, and not once did his eyes shift toward the place where he’d spotted the shark. Liriel noted this with a touch of perverse admiration. She had grown up in Menzoberranzan and had survived many such games, but few were the drow who could play them better than this red-bearded human.
At that moment Fyodor pulled the fish over the rail. It dropped to the deck, still thrashing weakly and splashing icy water upon the boots of the men who’d gathered to watch the peculiar scene.
“I’m going back in for another fish,” Liriel announced. Taking full advantage of the audience, she turned to face Fyodor and then dropped his cloak to the deck. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten your cloak all wet. Would you mind getting me a warm blanket? I think there’s one somewhere in Hrolf’s cabin. Ibn will haul up the next fish for me.… Won’t you?” she asked, turning to the first mate.
Ibn did not respond, though Fyodor gave her a narrowed, suspicious look. She returned it with a smile. Of course the warrior knew she was up to something, but he had to choose between staying to question her, or doing something about her disconcerting nudity. With a deep sigh, Fyodor chose the latter and disappeared into the hold.
Tangled Webs Page 5