She snatched a quick breath and dived deep. The Witchboat came to a stop directly over her. She began to swim toward the western shore, glancing up frequently at the magical boat. It followed her but remained a length or two behind. There was room for her to come up for air when she needed to do so. Apparently the boat had no intention of drowning her.
Liriel considered her situation further. Fyodor had said that a powerful witch called Zofia Othlor had foreseen her coming. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that the witch had perceived their approach and sent both the nereids and the boat to bring them to Rashemen’s shores.
The drow started for the surface. Suddenly her way was blocked by another elflike female, a familiar creature with a beautiful blue face and insanity burning bright in her sea-green eyes.
Liriel twisted in the water, but she was not fast enough to evade the genasi’s leaping attack. The blue creature seized Liriel’s hair and dragged her to the surface.
The drow fought with every ounce of ferocity she possessed. They tumbled and kicked and clawed, churning the water into foam.
Finally Fyodor made his way out to the battling females. He thrust his way between them and tucked one under each arm. He stood and made his way to shore in three quick steps.
Liriel wriggled free and lunged for her pile of weapons. She snatched up a long knife and whirled back toward her foe.
“Why did you fight me?” the creature demanded, her angry gaze fixed accusingly on Liriel and her blue fists propped on her hips. “You could have been drowned.”
“You’ve just answered your own stupid question,” Liriel shot back. “I was trying to keep you from drowning me.”
The genasi looked genuinely shocked. “You thought I was trying to kill you?”
“Seems like a reasonable assumption, given our last encounter.”
The genasi frowned as she struggled to sort through this logic. “Vestriss is dead,” she said at last.
It was Liriel’s turn to be puzzled. “Vestriss? The illithid?”
“I killed her,” the genasi said proudly. “I, Azar, daughter of the Elemental Planes. The walking squid will never again enslave her betters.”
This was starting to make sense—after a fashion. “Vestriss sent you out after me. We fought, you lost. So you traveled halfway across Faerûn to drag me ashore when you thought I was drowning. Why?”
“The illithid wanted you dead,” Azar explained. “That is reason enough to want you alive. You inspired hatred in me, so of course I owed you a debt. It is no great matter for me to travel from one body of water to another.”
With that “explanation,” the genasi splashed back into the Ashane.
Liriel pursed her lips and shot an inquiring glance at Fyodor. “Is there lots of water around here?”
“Many streams and rivers, and hot springs as well.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Chances are I won’t be lonely, then. Rashemen’s given me quite a reception so far.”
“We haven’t arrived yet,” Fyodor said lightly, but there was something in his eyes that turned the words into warning.
The drow quickly dressed and armed herself. The Witchboat was making its way toward them at a slow, stately pace. As they waited, Fyodor took out a knife and began to chip away at a thick piece of driftwood. The wood was extremely pale, almost white, and marked by tightly-packed swirling patterns.
“Pretty,” she observed.
“Rashemaar ash. There is no wood stronger.”
Liriel recalled the cudgel he had carried when they first met. “Not a bad weapon,” she said. “It’s lightweight, hard, and strong.”
“All that and more. Rashemaar driftwood holds the power of the land and water both.”
“That’s important?”
“It can be. There are strange creatures in this land. Some must be fought, others appeased, and some avoided. Sometimes it is difficult to tell which is which or to know what is required,” he cautioned. “It is best that you take my lead.”
“I’ll be as docile as a Ruathan maiden,” Liriel promised, a demure smile on her lips and a wicked gleam in her eye. They exchanged a smile that was both teasing and deeply intimate.
Thorn rose from her place by the fire. Her stern face was softened by a faintly wistful expression. “The Witchboat’s approach is slow, no doubt to give you two time to warm yourselves. For that, my presence is not needed.” She lifted a hand in farewell. “Run swiftly, hunt well.”
She turned away and with a few quick strides disappeared into the forest.
Liriel settled into Fyodor’s arms and began to loosen the fastenings of his vest. “I could get to like that elf. Who would have thought?”
He chuckled and smoothed back her wet hair. “Docile Ruathan maiden?” he teased her.
“Why not? Anything’s worth trying once.”
The moon rose, the fire burned low, and the patient Witchboat waited at the water’s edge to bring the warrior and the Windwalker home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CITIES OF THE DEAD
One day in Blackstaff Tower was enough to convince Sharlarra of her error in returning. The round of lessons and chores seemed endless, the opportunities for mischief few. To make matters worse, the Lady Laerel had gone off to visit her sisters, leaving Sharlarra under the watchful eye of the archmage. Not that she was ungrateful—after all, Khelben Arunsun had followed her on her last misadventure and had appeared in time to save her from some very nasty dark elves.
He had followed her.
This thought stopped Sharlarra dead. The cauldron she’d been stirring bubbled over. Paying no heed to the spilled potion or the aggrieved complaints of her fellow apprentice, she spun on her heel and raced up the winding stairs to the small sleeping chamber assigned to her.
She threw open her trunk and rummaged. Sure enough, the faded satin lining had been peeled aside and her treasure trove plundered. Missing from it were the two perfectly matched bits of pale green peridot she’d appropriated from the bag of gems she’d lifted from Danilo Thann.
So that’s how the archmage had been able to trace her steps.
Sharlarra bit her lip and considered her future in light of these new developments. The missing stones were not the only ones she’d taken as a private transaction fee. Several very nice diamonds had entered her possession. They were the perfect accompaniment for the obscenely huge ruby Laerel had left among the gems carelessly strewn across her dressing table. Even before Sharlarra had gone off in search of the drow’s ship, she’d had the ruby and the diamonds set into a necklace. There was a dwarf down in South Ward who kept a variety of silver settings on hand, artfully tarnished to suggest vintage pieces. Setting the stones was a small matter of choosing a reasonable fit and pressing the silver prongs firmly around the gems. His services had come in handy more than once. Loose stones vanished into “family heirlooms,” and jewelry was quickly recast into less recognizable form. In minutes after leaving the shop, she’d been on her way, and she hadn’t taken the necklace off since.
Though the elf had few scruples, she did not steal from her friends. Borrow without permission, yes, but never steal. The necklace was a gift for Laerel, who loved jewelry but couldn’t be bothered to shop for it. The beautiful mage would love this gift, not caring in the slightest that the ruby was already her own, but Sharlarra had not seen Laerel since the necklace’s creation. She couldn’t resist the temptation to wear the opulent piece herself, if just for a short while.
She reached under the collar of her shirt for the chain and undid the clasp. Wearing a fortune in diamonds and rubies had been a pleasant interlude but not one she could afford to continue. As long as she wore it, she was tethered to the archmage by invisible chains of magic.
The elf held the necklace up to admire it one last time—and let out a yelp of surprise and outrage.
The ruby was gone.
Sharlarra called the dwarf every foul name in her extensive repertoire and threw the silver piece into
her chest. It landed with a clatter of metal on metal.
Her eyes darted to the chest. The jeweled sword she’d been wearing on her last misadventure lay at the top of the chest. She had not yet had time to replace the gems that the drow warrior had pried from its hilt.
“Damn,” she said aloud.
So that was it. Her necklace must have swung free during the fight with the drow. He’d pried out the ruby as well as the ones in her sword. Now, that was a trick she wouldn’t mind learning herself! Still, it was odd that he should take the ruby and leave the matched diamonds surrounding it.
If the drow simply wanted to track Liriel, there were enough gems left in the bag to accomplish that purpose. If his interest lay in the value of the stones, he would have cut the chain on the entire necklace rather than pry out a single gem. The ruby had some particular significance.
Well, so did the necklace. It was a gift for Laerel, and even if every god in the elven pantheon had ideas to the contrary, Sharlarra intended her mentor to have it.
She quickly dressed in her working clothes—dark green breeches and shirt, warm cloak and boots, bags to hold her picks and loot—and strapped on the despoiled sword. She strode out of Blackstaff Tower, setting a relaxed but purposeful pace.
It was late afternoon, and most of high society would be gathering in festhalls and taverns for tea, a meal usually eaten away from home while their servants prepared for the evening meal and entertainments. Most thieves preferred to work under cover of darkness; Sharlarra had better luck at teatime. Anyone caught sneaking around at night would be stopped and questioned, but those who went about their business openly and without fanfare were usually given the benefit of the doubt. Especially in Sharlarra’s case. People saw her pretty elf face and red-gold curls and immediately concluded that she was on the side of angels and paladins.
In Sharlarra’s opinion, people that shallow and stupid deserved to be robbed.
Within the hour she had completed her work and was leaning over the dwarf jewelsmith’s shoulder.
“The new ruby is considerably smaller,” the dwarf observed, his eyes shifting from Sharlarra’s newly acquired gem to the damaged necklace, “and the prongs were dinged up something fierce. One of ’em’s twisted so bad the metal thinned out some. Might not hold. Go to the kitchen and pour yourself some ale, and I’ll have these sparklers in a new setting before you see the bottom of the mug.”
“And the sword?”
“Easy job. Off with you, then.”
As it turned out, the ale was surprisingly good. Sharlarra downed two dwarf-sized mugs before the job was finished and she was on her way. Perhaps as a result she was less attentive than she might otherwise have been.
She noted the long, black-draped carriage sweep toward her, the four matched horses setting a brisk pace toward the City of the Dead. It did not occur to her that the horses’ trot was unseemly, given the usual somber pace afforded this last journey. Nor did she notice that the carter drove rather too close to the flagstone walk. None of these thoughts entered her mind until the curtained door swung open and burly arms reached out to seize her.
Rough hands dragged her into the hearse and threw her to the floor. Sharlarra’s head struck the edge of an open coffin. She lay where she fell, too stunned to scream or struggle.
Two men, rough-bearded rogues whose dark garments were too coarse for any self-respecting member of the undertakers’ guild, regarded her with sneering satisfaction. One of them seized her wrist and tugged her to her feet.
Her first impulse was to cast a spell. As the first word of the chant spilled from her lips, the other ruffian balled his fist and slammed it into her stomach.
The elf folded. Every whisper of air wheezed from her chest, leaving her too empty to draw more.
Dimly she felt rough hands paw aside her hair and rip the necklace from her.
“Got it!” exulted the smaller of the two. He nodded to the wooden coffin that stood empty and waiting. “Kill her, and have done with it.”
“Not yet,” the other replied. His voice hitched, sounding as breathless as if he, and not the horses, had been drawing the hearse.
A sick knowledge filled Sharlarra. She forced herself to focus on the man’s face, and there she read the confirmation of her fears. His teeth were bared in a leer, and in his eyes was a terrible hungry gleam.
The man roughly lifted the elf and tossed her into the coffin. The sudden jolt forced a bit of air into her lungs, and the vise that gripped her chest relaxed just a bit. She could breathe now. She could live—at least for a little while.
Sharlarra did not breathe. Instead, the proud elf closed her eyes and willed herself to die.
Chadrik clambered out of the coffin, still fully clad and as pale as chalk. He tripped over the side in his haste and stumbled to the floor. The notion of taking the elf wench in her own coffin appealed to him. The reality of finding himself sharing a box with a corpse did not.
His companion hooted with raucous mirth and clapped him on the back. Chadrik threw off the man’s hand.
“We’ve still to go to the City,” he grumbled. “There’s little enough to laugh about behind those walls.”
The other man sobered abruptly. The City of the Dead, a large section of Waterdeep surrounded by walls and gates and magic, had been the city’s cemetery since time out of mind. Many rich and ancient tombs lay behind those walls, walls that conspired to keep out all those who would despoil these tombs. The walls also served to keep the restless dead contained within.
The hearse slowed to a decent pace, and the creak of iron gates announced their arrival at the City of the Dead. The two men hopped down from the hearse and presented the gatekeeper with forged papers naming the dead elf and her intended tomb.
The official studied the papers, gave the men an odd, almost pitying look, and waved them in.
“Make it fast,” he warned. “You’ve not much time before full dark.”
All three men knew what that meant. The iron gates closed with nightfall and would not open again until dawn. The carter lashed his horses into action, and the carriage took off with a lurch.
They rumbled down the narrow, winding path, passing massive monuments and moss-draped trees. They passed the potter’s field, where the indigent and the nameless took their final rest, and finally stopped at a stand of bizarrely twisted trees.
The carriage could go no farther, so the two ruffians slid the coffin out and shouldered it, going on afoot. Although twilight had not yet come, the shadows seemed deeper here, the night frighteningly close at hand.
They stopped before a small grassy mound and tapped out a rhythmic code on the ancient door. It swung open, unaided. A soft, phosphoric glow seemed to beckon them in.
The men exchanged a glance, shrugged, and started down the well-worn stone steps that led to a swiftly descending passage.
At the end of the tunnel was a circular crypt. Glowing lichen grew on the walls, and the soft light revealed a number of shelflike openings carved deep into the stone. They shoved the coffin into the first available place and eyed the several doors leading out of the room.
“Which one?” Chadrik wondered aloud.
The other man shrugged and settled down on a boxy stone tomb. “Don’t hardly matter. The Serpent’s man said the buyer would come to us. Break the summoning stone and let’s get the deal done.”
Chadrik removed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from his bag and took from it an azure stone. It was a costly thing, but never once did he think to keep or sell it. There was money to be made in the Serpent’s employ, but any man who thought to cross the moon elf ended up mysteriously and messily dead.
He tossed the stone to the crypt’s floor. It shattered into sparkling bits of lights. They rose like a swarm of tiny blue bees and disappeared into a crack in the stone wall.
Chadrik sent a nervous glance toward the stone ceiling and thought of the coming night. “Let’s hope they’re quick about it.”
His partner
took out a small knife and began to carve the dirt out from under his nails. “Worse comes to worse, we spend the night here. I wouldn’t wander the City, mind you, but what harm could come to us in here?”
“What about Dienter?”
The other thug snorted with laughter. “Think that corpse-hauler would risk his hide on our account? He’s likely long gone, and the carriage with him. Might as well settle yourself down.”
Not seeing an option, Chadrik took this advice and took a seat on an old marble sarcophagus.
The glowing lichen suddenly ceased to cast light, throwing the room into utter darkness. The two men leaped to their feet and dragged out their weapons.
“Put them away,” suggested a sonorous male voice—a voice too deep for a halfling, too fluid for a dwarf, too musical to be human. “Drow can see quite well in the dark, you know, whereas you can see nothing at all. You can’t possibly hurt anyone but yourselves.”
Drow.
An invisible fist of dread clenched around Chadrik’s throat. His companion started to whimper. The moss began to glow again, faintly at first and growing gradually brighter, pushing back the shadows at a tantalizingly slow pace—as if to grant the dark elves time to fully savor the men’s misery.
Finally their doom stood revealed. There were four drow, all of them male. Two hung back, taking the unmistakable posture of subordinates standing guard. Of the other two, Chadrik was unsure which led and which followed.
One of them wore a warrior’s leather armor and carried more fine weapons than Chadrik had owned in his most extravagant dreams. The drow’s white hair was cropped close, probably to deprive his foes of a handhold, and a stylized dragon tattoo was emblazoned on one cheek. The other was clad in fine garments and gems, his long hair carefully woven into a multitude of braids. A large red gem was set in his forehead like a third eye. He regarded the men with a smile, the meaning of which was unclear to the terrific ruffian.
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