Tangled Webs (13 page)

The apparent ruler of Ascarle, an illithid known as Vestress, certainly did nothing to discourage these rumors. A creature of immense magical power and shadowy background, Vestress claimed the title of Regent and ruled the undersea kingdom for the absent kraken. Or so she claimed, and so far none had dared to challenge her. For Vestress’s reign was not limited to Ascarle. A far-flung network of spies and assassins known as the Kraken Society extended her power throughout the Northlands.

Vestress was an oddity among her kind. Illithids did not possessor at least did not exhibit-gender, but this creature projected a mental “voice” that was decidedly feminine and a persona as regal as that of any queen. By human standards, illithids were hideous creatures that resembled some unholy pairing of squid and humanoid. Roughly manshaped in form, the creatures had bald, high-domed heads, lavender hide, and white eyes devoid of expression. Four writhing tentacles formed the lower half of an illithid’s face and concealed a sharp-fanged maw. Somehow, though, Vestress projected an elegance not in keeping with her ungainly form. Pale purple amethysts decked her threefmgered hands and studded the circlet of silver on her head. The full sleeves of her lavender silk robe whispered as she deftly moved the shuttle of her loom.

The Regent of Ascarle was currently at leisure. Weaving was her hobby and her passion, and she took to it whenever the demands of her position allowed. The illithid saw all of life as a tapestry, and she could spin nearly anything into thread: precious gems, stolen dreams. At the moment she sat before a tapestry that depicted a coastal town, peopled by former slaves that once had served her and maintained Ascarle’s airfilled chambers. The weaving was her finest achievement, and Vestress gazed at it with satisfaction. Then, to her astonishment, the seaelven figures on the tapestry began to writhe as if in torment.

Vestress rose abruptly. This could not be. Not that she was adverse to tormenting the seaelven spirits entrapped in the tapestry-far from it! What concerned her was that someone had attempted to contact the spirits of the dead elves. Someone powerful.

The illithid had expected that such an attempt would be made, but the seal hunters could not have reached Waterdeep so soon, and she knew that no clerics sailed aboard that vessel. Something had gone very wrong.

Vestress glided out of the weaving chamber and hastened to the room that housed her scrying crystals. With all the resources of the mysterious Kraken Society at her command, she would have an answer in minutes.

And before the day was out, the illithid’s far-reaching tentacles would ensnare the priest or priestess who had dared to interfere with the Regent of Ascarle.

The Calling Conch, a dockside tavern in Luskan, served strong ale and hearty chowder at bargain prices. Tonight the patrons got even more for their coppers than they’d anticipated, and to a man they blessed Tempus for their good fortune. Rethnor, High Captain of Luskan, had been challenged to battle. The words had barely left the challenger’s mouth before the Conch’s patrons began busily clearing an impromptu arena, pushing chairs and tables against the walls. They ringed the room now, quaffing ale and placing bets as to how long Rethnor’s opponent had yet to live.

The High Captain was an imposing bear of a man, with an uncommon breadth of shoulder and thickness of arm. A proud black beard cascaded down over his leather jerkin, and his thick brows slashed across his forehead in a single dark line. But it was his eyes, as blue and deep and icy as a winter sea, that proclaimed him a dangerous man.

At first Rethnor merely took the measure of his opponent. Their swords met in ringing blows as the Captain tested reach, strength, and resolve. The young man matched Rethnor’s size and breadth, and he seemed well trained-no surprise in the warrior culture of Luskanbut he was still an unblooded youth with more enthusiasm than battle sense. Still, it promised to be an entertaining fight.

Rethnor lunged, his left-handed sword diving toward the heart of his young opponent. It was an obvious attack, and the fighter parried it easily with a flamboyant sweep that threw Rethnor’s sword arm out wide. The High Captain expected this. Before the younger man could recover from the countermove, Rethnor stepped in close—so close the two men’s beards were nearly touching, too close for either fighter to bring his sword into play. No problem for Rethnor-he had a dagger ready in his right hand.

With a deft flick, he severed the waist strap that held up the young man’s leather thigh greave and then slashed down through the X-shaped side bindings that connected front greave to back. The protective garment flopped down over the fighter’s boot, revealing an incongruously thin, bandy leg clad in leggings of faded red wool.

Mocking laughter and huzzahs filled the tavern, and the yOuung fighter’s face twisted with humiliation and rage. Rethnor danced back, savoring the moment and fully intending to play out the fight. This young cub had challenged him-him, Rethnor the High Captain, perhaps the finest swordsman in Luskan-and he intended to make the upstart pay for his insolence.

And so Rethnor was not at all pleased when the ring on his sword hand began to tingle with the familiar, silent summons. He needed to end the fight soon, so he might seek solitude before the large onyx stone revealed itself as the scrying crystal it was. Of course, he wore gloves to hide the device. Magic was not highly regarded by the Northmen, and it was imperative that Rethnor keep this secret from his fellow High Captains, but he could never know whether someone who secretly practiced the thricedamned art of magic might be present during such a summons. If such a wretch detected an aura of magic around Rethnor, he or she would have a powerful weapon to use against him.

But of course the young fighter knew nothing of this, and he advanced on Rethnor with deadly purpose. “I’ll have your guts to replace that garter,” the swordsman promised grimly.

Rethnor’s sigh of frustration hissed through gritted teeth. He parried the young man’s furious overhead strike and countered with a feint. Quickly, skillfully, he worked the fighter’s blade down low. Then once again he stepped in close, this time with his fist leading. A vicious uppercut to the jaw sent his challenger reeling back, both arms flung out wide. Before the younger fighter could regain his defensive stance, Rethnor dug his blade deep into an unprotected armpit. The youth dropped his sword and sank slowly to the floor, a look of surprise on his face.

It was a particularly brutal finale to the fight, but it suited Rethnor’s mood. If he could not have the lengthy battle he desired, at least he could give this challenger a lingering death. The young man’s lungs would slowly fill up with blood, and he would drown in his own stupidity. The High Captain sheathed his wet sword and tossed a handful of silver onto the table to pay for his half-eaten meal. Then he strode into the night to see what information the Kraken Society considered so important that they would summon him, one of their most powerful agents, at a time other than the specified safe hour.

Rethnor hurried to his house, impatiently waVing away his wife’s questions and the ministrations of his servants. He hastened to his private room and set flame to the wick of a whale-oillamp. After bolting the door, he tugged off his gloves and regarded the scrying crystal on his ring. The glossy black color of the onyx had faded completely; in the small magic portal he saw the face of a beautiful, regal woman with impassive lavender eyes.

“Well?” he snapped, staring balefully at the tiny image. “Bad news or good, it had better be worth the interruption!” You be the judge. The cool, feminine voice sounded only in his mind. No sound came from the ring; indeed, the woman’s lips never moved. Rethnor often wondered why she bothered to show her face at all.

The seal hunters did not reach Waterdeep. The ship was intercepted by a Ruathen vessel. We believe it is bound for its home port.

Rethnor swore bitterly. He’d gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to set up this diversion: capturing the sea elves, delivering them alive to a secret drop on the distant archipelago known as the Purple Rocks, taking the bodies back to the coast in Ruathen barrels, putting them on a caravel set adrift in the known path of the Waterdhavian hunting vessel. It was but one of many acts Luskan had arranged and placed upon Ruathym’s doorstep, just one step toward justifying Luskan’s coming takeover of the island. But it was a particularly potent ruse, one that Rethnor knew would strike a responsive chord in the hearts of the Waterdhavian rulers. In fact, the idea had come from Waterdeep itself:

In recent months, reports of attacks on sea-elf communities had filtered ashore. Since it was well known that the Northmen of Luskan and Ruathym had no love for elves of any kind, the Lords of Waterdeep had made pointed inquiries. In truth, Luskan had had little to do with the sea elves’ troubles; that did not stop Rethnor from exploiting them. If the elf-Ioving southern meddlers were determined to make this their affair, why not focus their indignation upon Ruathym? Yes, Rethnor concluded, this plan must be salvaged.

“What do you suggest?” he asked the tiny image.

Stop the ship, of course. We are told it left Neverwinter two days ago, sailing due west upon the River: Stop it, and do whatever you must to affix blame for the seaelven troubles upon Ruathym.

Rethnor nodded. This would actually be easier than it sounded, for the channel of warm water known as the River was relatively narrow and the Ruathen ship had only two days’ head start. The ships of Luskan were fleet; he could close the distance in mere days.

“I will handle it myself,” he promised.

Take two ships, the voice suggested, and as many fighters as they can carry. We have received word that there is a berserker warrior aboard the Ruathen vessel. He destroyed a giant squid, the emblem of the Kraken Society, and in so doing has earned our special enmity.

The High Captain blinked, and for a moment his usually rock-steady confidence wavered. He had fought Ruathym’s berserkers. They were trouble enough ashore; he did not relish the thought of fighting one in the close confines of a ship-to-ship battle. Still, berserkers were only mortal men, and they were even more eager than most Northmen warriors to tak2 a seat in the mead halls of Tempus. He, Rethnor, would happily oblige this one.

“Three ships,” he told the image with grim pleasure. “I sail at dawn with three warships.”

For a long moment Liriel merely stared at the man trapped in her magical web, completed dumbfounded by Ibn’s promise of death. She had acted only to defend herself-surely Hrolfwould not turn against her for this! But Ibn seemed so certain, and he had sailed with the captain for years. And truly, what did she know about the strange ways of humans?

Liriel’s drow instincts took over. Up came her hand crossbow, and a tiny dart flashed toward the fIrst mate. The sleeping poison was potent; Ibn was asleep before he could finish the salty oath he’d begun to hurl at her.

The drow quickly dispelled the magic that had formed the giant spiderweb, and Ibn dropped heavily to the wooden floor of the hold. Liriel dug both hands into her hair and gripped her head as if doing so could contain her whirling thoughts. Granted, her impulsive action had bought her a little time. The potion would hold Ibn for several hours, but what could she possibly tell the others that would explain his enspelled slumber?

“Give him some mead,” suggested a deep voice from the far end of the hold.

Liriel whirled at the unexpected sound. Her eyes narrowed as Fyodor rose from behind the remaining mead casks.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded angrily.

The Rashemi responded with a wry smile. “At the moment, little raven, I am trying to keep you alive. See the cask there with one side blackened a bit, as if it were placed too close to a fire? It holds some of the mead that put the villagers to sleep. Pour a bit of it down him, and a bit of it on him, and Hrolf will assume Ibn got into the stores and picked the wrong barrel.”

The drow stared at him. A dozen questions clamored to be given voice; she picked the easiest. “You know about the mead? But how?”

“Remember, I was at your side during the trip to Neverwinter, paying the merchants for the goods you chose. The gold we used in payment was familiar-I saw some of the pieces when the druid threw them into the river.” He shrugged. “Knowing Hrolf, I was able to find my way to the truth in time.”

Liriel accepted both his plan and his explanation with a curt nod. She pried the lid off the half-empty cask and splashed some of the mead on the sleeping mate. “I can keep him asleep only until tomorrow morning,” she grumbled. “Life would be so much easier if I could just kill him and have done with it!”

The drow looked up at Fyodor, and her eyes narrowed dangerously as she turned her thoughts to another matter. “You were spying on me.”

“Not so,” he protested. “I needed a place to rest, and the hold is quiet and dark. I… have not slept much of late.” She nodded, understanding. Since the Time of Troubles, when Fyodo~s berserker magic had gone awry, he had often been tormented by dreams. When the battle frenzy faded, he seldom remembered the details of the battles he fought. But the faces of those who died by his sword came back to him by night. Liriel thought it extremely fortunate that drow, as a rule, did not dream at all. Most of the dark elves she knew would soon go mad if they were forced each night to face the consequences of their actions. But such thoughts were pushed aside as she focused on Fyodor. She’d hoped he’d overcome his remorse about turning on her during the last battle, but now she saw he had not. He was thinner, and there was a haggard look about him. Liriel suspected it was her face that had haunted his dreams of late.

A silence between them stretched until the tension became too great to bear. “You were chanting,” Fyodor said softly, “but not words of magic. It seemed to me that you were praying. Is that true?”

Liriel nodded, surprised by the turn his thoughts had taken. “So?”

“You cast a spell through prayer; only a priest can do this.” He paused, as if reluctant to continue. “I have seen you dance in the moonlight, touched by the shadow ofEilistraee. Tell me truly: have you become a priestess of the Dark Maiden?”