Tangled Webs (9 page)

“We have him,” Liriel said, flipping open her sheltering piwafwi.

The captain straightened abruptly and whirled toward the sound of her voice. His face bleached in terror at the sight of a dark elf, close enough to touch.

“He is with my people,” the drow continued and was rewarded by the look of horror that came into the captain’s eyes. Clearly, he thought his man had somehow been whisked away to the fell, underground realm of the dark elves. All the better, Liriel thought smugly. She cocked an eyebrow. “We might be persuaded to return him.”

The man tried to speak. No sound emerged. He licked his lips nervously and tried again. “What do you want?” “Half your cargo,” she stated. “Do not try to cheat us, for we will know. I am not alone,” Liriel said, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. She pulled the folds of her cloak about her and blinked out of sight. The captain could not see her or the dagger she pressed against his throat, but the line of blood trickling down into the ruffies of his shirt front was visible, and utterly convincing. Liriel saw in his eyes the terrified belief that his ship had been invaded by an unknown number of dark elves, a deadly and invisible force.

“We will do as you say,” he said in a strangled tone, but there was a desperate cunning in his eyes that Liriel noted and mistrusted.

“It might save some unpleasantness if you know up front that your wizard is useless against us. No human spell can disperse our invisibility charms—magic slides off the drow like water from a seabird’s feathers,” she informed him coolly; “But any magical attack, however feeble, will be parried and answered. Believe me when I tell you that you do not wish to see drow magic tested in battle.”

Liriel saw the light of last hope fade from the man’s eyes and knew she had hit the target squarely. She gave him his instructions, making it clear that she would be at his side until all was done. If he gave the alarm, she promised, if he even hinted at the presence of the dark elves aboard ship, he would lose half his crew in addition to half his cargo… and perhaps his life as well.

The captain did as he was told, but the crew was slow to accept his claim that Drustan had somehow been magically spirited off the ship and that the cost of his freedom would be paid from their cargo. But they followed orders, lowering a large, flat-bottomed skiff and loading it with small oak casks.

“Make room for my people,” Liriel hissed into the captain’s ear. .orwo will attend the skiff; the rest will stay to ensure there is no foolish attempt to cheat us of our toll. We will send your man back with the skiff, and then we will leave as we came.”

While the captain bellowed down orders to rearrange the casks, Liriel, still invisible, floated silently down into the boat. As soon as the men were clear of the skiff: she cast a spell of levitation. The heavily laden craft broke free of the waves and rose slowly into the air. As the dumbfounded sailors watched, it glided silently offinto the mist. It was not an easy spell, but Liriel knew the value of an imposing exit. It would give credence to the captain’s explanation, and the sense of wonder and fear that it inspired would occupy the humans’ minds and keep at bay any thoughts they might otherwise have had about following the ghostly skiff.

When the boat touched down on the Elfmaid’s deck, Liriel slumped over one of the casks, drained by the powerful casting. The crew swarmed to meet her and to examine their haul. They were delighted to learn that the casks were filled with fine raspberry mead, a sweet and fiery honey wine scented with summer fruit.

“See our guest on his way, and then we~ tap a cask for the celebration. The rest we~ use for trade,” Hrolf said with a wink.

The men set promptly to work, following the plan Liriel had laid out. The captured sailor had emerged from the teleportation spell into the darkness of the hold. Two Ruathen had awaited him there, armed with tiny darts from Liriel’s crossbow. One quick jab had sent the sailor into a poison-induced slumber. He was still senseless when they brought him on deck and loaded him onto the skiff.

Liriel handed the precious spellbook into Fyodor’s keeping and then joined the sleeping sailor in the skiff, for one step remained to complete the deception. It would not do to let the Ffolk know their ship had been held hostage by shadows, and that Ruathen pirates lay within easy pursuit. She watched as the Elfmaid rowed away, pulling farther back into the mist.

When the Ruathen ship was beyond sight, Liriel unstoppered a tiny vial that held an antidote to the drow sleeping potion. She poured a single drop into the sailor’s slack mouth. He stirred, scratched, and then grumbled himself awake with a string of curses. His muttering ended in a strangled gulp when he saw a drow bending over him. “Return to your ship,” she commanded him and swept a hand in the direction of the merchant vessel. Instantly the faint, ghostly outline of the Moonshae vessel gleamed through the fog. Liriel had limned it with faerie fIre to guide the sailor back and to further astound those who awaited him.

While the sailor gaped like a beached carp at his ship, Liriel cloaked herself with invisibility and slipped quietly into the sea. Her limbs felt heavy in the frigid water, and the heavy folds of her piwafwi dragged her down. Although she was a strong swimmer, it was a struggle for her to cover the short distance back to the pirate ship.

Several pairs of eager hands were outstretched to haul her aboard. Liriel barely registered the sailors’ assistance, the feel of the deck beneath her feet, or the sight of it hurtling up to meet her.

Fyodor caught the drow as she fell and carried her down to Hrolf’s cabin. He turned away while she listlessly stripped off her wet things, kept his eyes averted until the squeak of the cot’s roping announced that she’d crawled under the covers.

“All went well,” she told him in a drowsy voice, “but I have a feeling itl1 be a while before that captain stops looking over his shoulder. He’ll be seeing dark elves in every shadow for many days to come.”

“You need rest,” Fyodor said quietly. “I will leave you now.”

There was something in his tone that cut through Liriel’s haze of exhaustion. She hauled herself into a sitting position and studied her friend. As she’d suspected, he did not approve of this night’s work. His eyes did not condemn her, but they held sadness, resignation. This stung the drow more than she liked to admit.

“I have tasted Moonshae mead before,” Liriel said abruptly, “and I know its price.” She leaned over the edge of the cot and fumbled through the discarded belongings on the floor until she found a small bag. She tossed it at Fyodor. It fell short of his reflexive grab and landed, with the unmistakable chink of many coins, at his feet.

“That is what the mead would have cost in the bazaars of Menzoberranzan. The captain will find an identical bag in his cabin. The ship’s wizard has also been compensated. Trust me, you don’t want to know the market cost of that spellbook,” she grumbled. “The point being, none of those men suffered loss from this little game. In fact, they made an enormous profit, considering they were spared the cost and trouble of carting their wares into the Underdark!” For a long moment, Fyodor stared at the unpredictable drow. “But why, little raven? Why go to such trouble if you intended only to buy the mead?”

Her smile was pure mischief, but he did not miss the flash of uncertainty in her amber eyes. “Do you think Hrolf and his boys would have been satisfied with a simple business transaction? They had their minds set on piracy! This way, Hrolf got to play out his bluff, the Moonshae merchants have their money, and everyone involved comes away with a good story to tell. No one is the worse for it.” Fyodor was floored by this revelation-for never had he seen anyone go through such lengths to hide an honorable intent-and he was deeply touched by Liriel’s ill-concealed desire to please him. He closed the distance between them and took one of her hands in both his own. Her fingers were still icy cold; he began to chafe them gently as he considered his next words. There was much he wanted to say, but he was not sure any of it would make sense to the drow. Despite her convoluted mind and her delight in plots and intrigues, she had little understanding of the heart’s complexities.

The silence between them was long. Liriel cocked her head and peered up at him in mock astonishment. “You are thinking,” she accused him teasingly. ” ‘There are those who think, and those who dream,’ ” she said, quoting his own words back to him. “You’re not changing sides, are you?”

His answering smile was rueful. “No. Just dreaming, as usual.” He released her hand and turned to leave.

“Don’t go yet.” She sidled over to make room and patted the edge of the cot companionably.

Fyodor looked back over his shoulder. He let his eyes speak what was in his heart, but he kept a careful distance from her. “I am ever your friend,” he said quietly; “But sometimes, little raven, you expect too much of a man.” Understanding flooded the drow’s face, then consternation. Once, briefly, they had been lovers. The unexpected, unfamiliar intimacy of the encounter had torn Liriel from her emotional moorings, leaving her confused and shaken. Such things were dangerous—indeed, forbidden!-among the drow, and she’d readily accepted Fyodo~s suggestion that they move beyond that interlude. The friendship between them was intense but difficult; they were still feeling their way through unfamiliar territory: Looking at her friend now, she realized that for him the matter was far from resolved. The thought both dismayed and intrigued her.

“Do you want to stay?” she asked bluntly.

Fyodor smiled gently into her stricken face. “Sleep well. I will see you next moonrise.” And with that he left, closing the cabin door carefully behind him.

A storm of emotions buffeted the capricious drow: relief, frustration, and then a surge of purely feminine pique. She snatched a knife from under her mattress and hurled it at the door. It bit deep into the wood, quivering hard enough to give off an audible, twanging hum. The drow rolled over and buried her head beneath her pillow to muffie the mocking sound.

“He could at least have said yes!” she muttered.

At first light, the Elfmaid sailed into the Korinn Archipelago, a scattering of small islands north of the Moonshaes. There was an air of anticipation about the ship that Fyodor noted and mistrusted. Hrolf was especially jolly, full to overbrimming with boisterous humor and badly sung ballads.

The young Rashemi liked Hrolf, more with each day that passed, for the captain had an enormous capacity for enjoyment that was both disarming and contagious. Hrolf took whatever life offered-be it a sudden squall, a drinking horn full of mead, or a tale of adventure—with pleasure and gusto. Unfortunately, he also took more than was his by legal right. It was difficult for Fyodor to reconcile his growing affection for Hrolf with the man’s fun-loving larceny, and he dreaded what might occur when they made land.

But the reception lavished upon the Elfmaid’s crew immediately put Fyodor’s mind to rest. It was late afternoon when they made port on Tetris, a small island of rolling green hills and rocky, windswept coasts. The dockmaster greeted Hrolf by name and urged him to hurry along to the festival. As the crew made their way through the village—a cluster of stone-and-thatch huts that lined the river on its meandering way to the sea-many villagers called out cheery greetings. A small, well-rounded woman with glad gray eyes and cheeks like ripe apples ran to meet Hrolt; her skirts flying and her arms outstretched in welcome; The captain caught her up, spinning her around with ease and then enfolding her in a bear hug.

“His woman,” explained Olvir, smiling indulgently as he nodded at the pair. He and Fyodor walked together, following the growing crowd that headed for the hills beyond the town. The two men had become good friends during the voyage, first trading tales of their homelands and then, slowly, confiding pieces of their own stories. From his boyhood Olvir had longed to be a skald, but he could not reconcile himself with the lower status that his warrior culture assigned to their bards. So he went to sea, seeking a fortune to appease his ambitions while collecting the stories that fed his spirit.

“You come to this island often?” Fyodor asked.

“Five, six times a year. ‘Tis almost a home port!”

“Still, that seems too seldom for a man and woman as fond as those two.”

Olvir shrugged. “Moira will not leave the island, nor Hrolf the sea. They suit each other well; always are they glad to meet and content to part.”

The sailor went on to other matters, describing the festival that would take place that evening. The Ffolk here followed ways long abandoned on most of the islands, ancient rites and festivals attuned to the turning of the seasons. Their druid, a doddering old graybeard dressed in robes of an era long past, clung to the worship of ancient spirits of land and sea. Tonight the village would offer the yearly tribute to the river spirit and celebrate the coming of spring.

Fyodor stood with the villagers as the aged druid said his prayers and offered the yearly tribute into the waters: beautifully worked armbands, torques, and broaches of pure yellow gold. Fyodor was a little surprised to see that the pirates, too, stood by in reverent silence as the old man tossed a fortune in gold into the water.

Making the ritual more remarkable was the fact that Fyodor could perceive no magic about the place at all. Like many of his people, he had a touch of the Sight, and he was usually able to sense places of power. Here, he felt nothing. He resolved to ask Hrolf about this later.

With the setting of the sun, the ritual gave way to celebration. Hrolf and his men contributed several casks of their “stolen” mead. Bonfires dotted the hillsides, and around them the villagers and pirates danced to the music of reed flutes, drums, and small, plaintive pipes. Sooner than Fyodor expected, the frenzied, joyous pace of the festival gave way to pleasant languor. Some of the revelers crept away in pairs to seek the shadows beyond the flickering firelight. Those who remained danced and drank to exhaustion, then curled up near the fires and fell into contented slumber.

Taking advantage of the unexpected lull, Fyodor sought out Hrolf: The captain was seated in state upon a tree stump, his Moonshae wife on his lap and a large drinking horn in one hand. Hrolf roared out a greeting and pressed the horn upon the young man, insisting that he have his share. Fyodor drained the vessel-not a difficult task for one accustomed to the fiery jhuild of Rashemen-and then asked the captain about the day’s ritual, explaining his perception that no magic lingered in the river.