Tangled Webs (4 page)

“That it was. Lost the cargo, though.”

The captain winked. “Never you mind. We’ll make up the difference on the way home, and more besides!”

Fyodor stopped in his tracks, stunned and enlightened. He quickly recovered his wits and hurried over to Liriel. Seizing her by the arm, he drew her well away from the scheming sailors.

“There’s something you must know,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “I fear that this is a pirate ship!”

The drow stared up at him, her amber eyes full of genuine puzzlement. “Yes,” she said slowly.

He fell back a step, incredulous. Liriel already knew, and it mattered not! Though why he should be surprised, he did not know. The drow girl was not lacking in character. She had proven to be a fiercely loyal friend and possessed a fledgling sense of honor. Yet she was utterly practical, as amoral as a wild snowcat. There was little in her experience that equipped her to fathom Fyodor’s stricter code of honor.

“Liriel, these men are thieves!” he said, trying to make her understand.

The drow huffed, then threw up her hands in exasperation. “Well, what in the Nine Hells did you expect? Just for a moment, Fyodor, think. Don’t you suppose it might be a little difficult for a drow to book passage with a shipload of paladins? Out of Skullport, no less?”

Fyodor was silent for a long moment, absorbing the truth of his friend’s words and struggling to find a balance between honor and necessity.

“Well?” Liriel demanded, her fists on her hips and one snowy eyebrow lifted in challenge.

The young warrior smiled, but ruefully. “It would seem, little raven, that this sea voyage will be more interesting than I’d expected,” he said, deliberately using his pet name for her to help defuse her ready temper.

Liriel relaxed at once and slipped one arm through his. “That’s the problem with humans,” she said as they strolled companionably across the starlit deck. “You never expect half the things you should expect. One step, two steps ahead, and you think you’re done!”

“And the problem with drow,” Fyodor teased her in return, “is that you can never stop thinking. With you it is always the head, and never the heart.”

But the girl shook her head, and her golden eyes were bright as they looked up into the endless, starlit sky. “There are those who think, and those who dream,” she said softly, repeating one of Fyodor’s favorite maxims. “But I, for one, refuse to choose between the two!”

It was early spring, and the northern seas were chill and inhospitable. Huge chunks of floating ice made navigation treacherous. Pods of whales swam northward, returning to the cold waters of their summer home and providing an additional hazard to ships. Other, more dangerous creatures were also on the move. The Northlands’ brutal winters forced them to find shelter in the depths of the sea. Now, with the coming of spring, these creatures stirred from their torpor and sought the surface, and food. Some of these monsters had never been seen by a man who lived to tell of them, but they left behind evidence of their ability to crush ships and devour entire crews.

The coastal waters north of Luskan, known as the Sea of Moving Ice, were particularly dangerous, and Caladorn Cassalanter had been hard pressed to find a ship that would venture so far. Finally he’d booked a place aboard the Cutter’ a sturdy merchant cog that traveled north every year during this season, when sea lions gave birth on the rocky islands and large ice floes. Harvesting the pups was grim business, but the silky white pelts brought a fine price from the decadent nobles of Waterdeep. And with piracy on the rise, even at this uncertain time of year, the ship’s captain had willingly accepted Caladorn’s offer of a strong arm and a keen blade to help protect the valuable cargo.

Caladorn’s family was among the richest ofWaterdeep’s nobility, but the young man had set aside name, rank, and privilege to earn his own way. Despite his best intentions and the rough garments he wore, he stood out among the crew. Broad-shouldered and tall, he wore his weapons well and moved with the measured grace of a seasoned fighter. There was a natural, unconscious pride to his bearing and a certainty of purpose in his eyes that belied his claim of being a bored young nobleman out for adventure. For Caladorn was one of the secret Lords ofWaterdeep. Troubling rumors, rumbles of some pending conflict, had been filtering south for some time. Caladorn sailed north to find answers.

The sun had newly risen, and the young Lord stood first watch in the crow’s nest. It was not an enviable position. Heavy mist hung, like a shroud, over the water, drenching his cloak and clinging to his dark red hair in salt-scented icicles. But all thought of discomfort vanished as his eyes settled on the apparition taking shape before him.

A ship slowly emerged from the mist, floating toward them like a vast and silent ghost. Her sails hung in tatters, but the port flag-the bright silk banner that claimed Waterdeep as her home-snapped and fluttered in the chill wind.

Caladorn shouted an alert and climbed nimbly down the rope webbing to the deck. Most of the crew had gathered near the port side, weapons at hand. Caladorn shouldered his way over to Captain Farlow, a stout, black-bearded former mercenary. Rumor had it that in battle Farlow slaughtered his enemies as coldly and efficiently as he dispatched seal pups. At the moment, Caladorn was glad of the captain’s fierce reputation.

“What do you make of it?” he asked, nodding at the apparently deserted ship. “Stripped by pirates?”

Farlow shook his head. “Not any that sail these waters. No Northman would leave a good ship adrift-they hanker after ships like most men crave cold ale and warm women. And look to the deck,” he added, pointing. “Rows of barrels, neat as you please. Pirates would’ve torn the place apart and stolen anything worth taking.”

“What took the crew, then?” demanded one of the hunters. “Plague?”

“Not likely, at this time of year,” Caladorn said. It was not unusual for far-traveling ships to pick up some deadly illness along with their intended cargo, but that was a hazard peculiar to summer. “The ship can’t have been adrift that long. Unmanned, it couldn’t have survived the winter amid these ice floes. And see the port flag? It would be torn to ribbons by this wind in a matter of days. Hours, perhaps.”

The captain shot a quick look at the young nobleman. “A trap, then?”

“It is possible,” he admitted, understanding the path

Farlow’s thoughts had taken. A Waterdhavian ship, appearing in the known route of a merchant vessel laden with expensive pelts? And the ghost ship was a caravel, one of the fast and sturdy vessels for which Waterdeep’s shipyards were justly famed. Several similar ships had been lost at sea over the last few seasons. Not odd, considering the dangers of a seagoing life and the whims of Umberlee, the unpredictable goddess of the sea. Not odd at all, until one considered the fact that two of these ships had recently reappeared in southern ports, flying Ruathen colors.

Caladorn did not doubt that this vessel had also fallen to the Northmen raiders. But that, he suspected, was not the entire story. He had fought beside-and against-men of Ruathym, and he knew them to be proud and fierce warriors. They would fling the stolen ship into battle, not use it for ambush. Yet it certainly appeared that the caravel had been left there for them to find. Not a trap, he reasoned, but a message.

“I’m going aboard,” Caladorn said abruptly. “Keep the Cutter back a safe distance, if you will. All I ask is the use of one of the rowboats, and that you stand by to await my findings. Be this piracy or plague, word of the ship’s fate needs to reach the city.”

The captain gave a curt nod. Like all men of the sea, he knew that every lost ship was sought by dozens of longing eyes. Those who had the misfortune to love a missing sailor would never stop searching the watery horizon with mingled hope and dread. When the waiting stretched out into years and love became an undead thing, even bad news was preferable to none at all.

“You-Narth and Darlson. Lower the skiff. The rest of you, stand steady to fight or sail, on my order,” Farlow commanded.

Maneuvering the tiny craft through the choppy seas took longer than Caladorn expected, but at length he stood on the deck of the abandoned caravel. He quickly searched it from hold to aft castle but found no crew, either alive or dead. Nor was there any sign of a recent battle. Finally, desperate for clues, he decided to examine what was left of the cargo.

With the flat ofhis dagger, he pried the wooden lid off the first of the barrels. A ripe, salty smell emerged-the familiar scent of pickling broth used to preserve the spring herring catch. Yet floating in the brine were long, lank strands, the green of kelp, but of a strangely familiar texture.

Caladorn pushed back his sleeves and plunged both hands into the brine, getting a good grip on the coarse green stuff. He hauled sharply upward, expecting to pull a clump of the peculiar seaweed from the brine. To his horror, he found himself looking into the open, sightless eyes of a female sea elf

Even in death she was beautiful, her delicate features and the intricate mottled pattern of her skin perfectly preserved by the brine. Caladorn was of no mind to notice this fact. His hands shook as he lowered the elf gently back into her macabre coffin. After giving himself a long moment to compose his wits and settle his innards, he opened the rest of the barrels, some dozen in all. All of them were stuffed with pickled sea elves.

The young Lord’s thoughts whirled as he tried to sort out the meaning of this atrocity. It was no secret that the Northmen held little love for elves. This was as true of the tundra barbarians as it was of the seafaring folk of Luskan, Ruathym, and the northern Moonshaes. But who would do such a thing, and for what reason? And why would they leave the dead sea elves for a Waterdhavian ship to find?

Many possible suggestions came to mind, each more dire than the last. There had been reports of recent attacks on sea-elf communities. Perhaps this was a plea for help; perhaps the elves themselves had left their slain comrades behind after a battle, hoping to send a grim message to Waterdeep that they dared not take in person. After all, a port flag flown so far from home was a well recognized distress signal. But Caladorn rejected this notion almost as soon as the thought formed. It seemed unlikely that the proud elves would subject any of their kindred to such an indignity.

Perhaps some faction within the Northmen had declared war upon the sea elves, possibly in a dispute over fishing rights or, more likely, just for the sport of it. The Northmen gloried in feats of arms-many of them vener—

ated Tempus, god ofbattle-and they had been deprived of warfare for an uncomfortably long time. Several years earlier, Waterdeep and her allied cities had enforced a peace between the warring kindred of Ruathym and Luskan. Since then, piracy had risen sharply, and raids on small coastal villages had become commonplace. Life was easier, Caladorn thought grimly, when the Northmen fought among themselves and left others alone.

He carefully replaced the lids and began the process of loading the barrels aboard the Cutte1: There was no question in his mind that the bodies must be taken to Waterdeep. Caladorn knew elves were reticent to disturb those who had moved past this life, but perhaps a cleric at the elven pantheon temple would be willing to seek out the spirit of one of these slain elves. And if no priest would yield to reason, Caladorn would find one who could be persuaded at the point of a sword.

Let the other Lords worry about diplomacy. This puzzle involved his beloved city, and he resolved to have the answer, at whatever cost.

Rethnor stamped the snow from his boots as he strode into the council chamber. It was a simple room, constructed according to the Northmen taste with an intricate webbing of exposed wooden beams and furnished with a massive pine table and five unpadded chairs. The only concessions to comfort were the fire blazing in the fieldstone hearth that lined one full wall and the presence of a serving girl who would bring ale or mead upon command. Rethnor thrust his fur hat into her hands and took his place at the table where the other High Captains of Luskan awaited him.

There were five Captains, men whose task it was to rule the city and oversee its trade and its ambitions. Luskan was a strong and prosperous port, controlling much of the valuable trade of the northern lands. Silver from the mines of Mirabar, timber taken from the edges of the vast Lurkwood forest, scrimshaw from Ten Towns, dwarf-crafted weapons-all passed through the customs of Luskan and went out upon her ships. Yet no man seated in this room was content with Luskan’s riches, or her boundaries.

“Your report, Rethnor?” demanded Taerl, who currently presided as First High Captain. The five of them took turns as leader of the council, conceding the role to another with the coming of the new moon and low tides. It was ancient custom, and it served well to keep five ambitious men from battling each other for ascendancy.

“We are making progress in the conquest of Ruathym,” he began.

“Progress?” Suljack, a distant cousin of Rethnors and ever a competitor, spat out the word as if it were a bit of spoiled meat. “Have we become so soft that even our words are weak things? Victory,” he proclaimed, pounding the table for emphasis. “That is the concern of warriors.” Rethnor leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs nonchalantly in the broad strap of his swordbelt. He was the best swordsman in the room, and they all knew it. From his position of strength, he could propose subtle strategies that would be scorned and spurned if they’d come from the lips of a lesser warrior.

“Ruathym is weak and growing weaker,” he said in an even voice. “So far this has been accomplished without attracting the attention of Waterdeep and the so-called Lords’ Alliance. If we continue this course, we can conquer the island in one sudden, brutal attack. Waterdeep and her minions will be less likely to object if presented with an accomplished fact, but a prolonged war would surely draw the attention of the meddlesome southerners.”

“What of it? I do not fear Waterdeep!” growled Suljack. “Nor do I,” Rethnor retorted. “But need I remind you, Cousin, that Waterdeep forced an end to our last war with Ruathym? Although we were close to conquest, we lost all!” “There is honor in honest battle,” persisted Suljack. “There is no honor in a stupid refusal to learn from the past!” Rethnor thundered, past patience with his fellow Captain. His cold gaze settled upon Suljack, daring him to make the challenge personal. The other man turned away, subsiding into sullen silence.