Windwalker (18 page)

“And Xzorsh knows your ship,” Brindlor concluded meaningfully.

The captain studied him with eyes that were suddenly clear and shrewd. “You seem mighty helpful, even for a man’s got a half keg of ale in him. You got a stake in this?”

“I’d like to.” He leaned forward confidingly. “I’m looking for a ship to take a cargo to the north Moonshaes. Good money in it for both of us, long as the ship makes port with no questions asked. Might be smart to cut down on the risks where we can, if’n you follow my meaning.”

Ibn tossed back the rest of his ale and crossed his arms. “As long as you’re buying, I’m listening.”

The bells of the Temple of Ilmater sounded the second hour past midnight, releasing the penitents from their painful devotions. They staggered out into the night, indistinguishable from those who made their unsteady way home from one of the many dockside taverns. The soft clanging drifted across the Waterdeep docks and rolled out to sea, where they mingled with the whisper of unseen waves.

Ibn strolled across the dock, hands linked behind him in a studiously casual pose. He nodded to the guard, an elderly sailor nearly as taciturn as himself. Stopping a few paces away, he turned toward the sea and pulled out his pipe.

“Smoke?” he offered, holding out a small packet of the fragrant weed.

The guard accepted it, packed and lit his own pipe. The two men puffed in companionable silence and watched the moon sink toward the sea.

“Had enough of the city,” Ibn commented. “A man needs to have the sea close to hand.”

“Yep,” the guard agreed.

“Can’t sleep in them stinking inns, those flat beds. You’re a man of the sea. Bet you still sleep in a hammock.”

“Yep.”

“Mine’s on yonder ship, and that’s where I’d like to settle for the night. Bends the laws a mite, that I know. Reckon it’ll cost me some.”

The guard held out his empty pipe to indicate the desired currency. Ibn reached into his jacket and pulled out several small packs of pipe weed. The old man studied them for a moment, then held up three fingers.

“Fair price for a night’s sleep,” Ibn agreed. The goods changed hands and the pirate paced quietly toward his ship.

He made his way down to the galley, and shouldered open the portal set above the water line. A wooden chest stood just below the portal. Ibn opened it and took out a hurdy gurdy, a peculiar instrument that looked like a lute but was played by turning a crank to vibrate the strings and pressing keys to produce a tune. He thrust it into the water and began to grind out a few measures of “Lolinda, She’s a Lusty Lass,” a tune accompanied by strange clicks and squeaks that had no meaning Ibn could follow.

It had been Hrolf’s idea to use tunes and musical rhythms as signals. The boisterous pirate had had a fondness for a well-sung tale. His own singing, however, had inflicted nearly as much pain as his sword. A rare smile came to Ibn as he remembered.

Then the surface of the water stirred, and a too-familiar face popped up beside him. Ibn tossed aside the hurdy gurdy and reached for his pipe.

Xzorsh regarded the human with astonishment. Never before had Ibn used the summoning song, never had he sought audience with one of the Sea People. He hid his puzzlement as best he could and waited politely for the captain to speak his mind.

Ibn sent a smoke ring drifting toward the open portal. “I’ve come about the drow wench,” he said at last.

The sea elf nodded and waited for the sailor to continue. Ibn seemed edgy, uneasy. Xzorsh put this down to the man’s dislike of elves and his reticence to pass along a favor.

“Here,” Ibn said at last, thrusting a silver medallion into Xzorsh’s webbed hands. “It’s about the teacher. This will take you where you need to go. Don’t ask me no more questions,” he concluded in querulous tones. “What I said is what I know.”

The sea elf thanked him and slipped the medallion around his neck.

Immediately the familiar chill of the sea vanished, to be replaced by stone walls and too-dry air. Water puddled on the floor, but it felt thin and somehow unhealthy. Curious, Xzorsh stooped and dipped his fingers into the shallow pool. He tasted it, and his eyes widened with delighted understanding.

“Fresh water!” he exclaimed, marveling that such a thing truly existed.

“Hardly,” said an amused, musical voice behind him.

Xzorsh rose swiftly to his feet and turned to face two drow males.

His first instinct was fear, and his hand flew to his weapon belt. He caught himself before drawing steel, and silently chided himself for his reflexive, narrow-minded response. Of course these were the teachers Liriel had promised him. He had not expected drow, but what other wizards was she likely to know?

The two males watched him come, and their flat, cold eyes reminded him of a shark’s gaze. Xzorsh’s smile faltered, and he came to a stop a few paces away.

“The gems,” one of them said.

Xzorsh produced the little mesh bag given him as surety and handed it over. “These belong to Liriel. Since you know of them, I assume she offered them to pay for my tutelage. Although that’s kind of her, I would prefer to pay my own way. Will you return these gems to her, and accept my word that an equal value in coin and gems will replace it at first opportunity?”

The short-haired drow responded with a thin smile. “She will get what’s coming to her. I can promise you that.”

There was no mistaking the drow’s meaning. Or, now that Xzorsh considered it, his character. Evil rose from the drow like ink from a squid, filling the too-thin air with an almost tangible miasma.

Too late Xzorsh realized that a terrible mistake had been made. He saw the knife in the drow’s black hand, noted the deft toss, the spinning approach. The thud of impact felt more like a fist than anything else. He stared at the hilt buried between his ribs.

His fading eyes sought the drow’s faces. “It’s true, what they say of you.”

“That, and more,” hissed the short-haired drow. He closed the distance between them, seized the hilt and began to twist.

The second drow stepped forward and caught his comrade’s hand. He looked into Xzorsh’s face, and it seemed to the sea elf that his faint smile held sympathy, possibly even warmth.

“I imagine you’ve heard some unpleasant things about her, as well,” he said in a beautiful, musical voice.

Xzorsh nodded, and waited for this kind drow to dispel these slanders, to remove the undeserved mantle of evil from Liriel’s shoulders.

Brindlor smiled gently into the dying elf’s face. “Those terrible things you heard? They’re completely true.”

The deathsinger watched with pleasure as the sea elf’s eyes filled with despair, and then emptied of everything. He looked to Gorlist and winked.

“There is more way than one,” he announced, “to twist a knife.”

Sharlarra swung herself down from her “borrowed” horse and took the reins in hand. She knew this forest well enough to trust her own footing better than she did the horse’s.

She followed the river while the moon rose above the forest, casting flirtatious glances through its leafy veils. The savory smell of roasting rabbit led her to the campsite, which had been set at some distance from the spring.

Liriel was seated by the campfire, studying a small book by the dancing flames. She glanced up at the elf’s approach. A sudden dark flame flared in her eyes, quickly extinguished. Sharlarra understood. She’d felt much the same about drow until she’d met Qilué’s bunch.

“Where’s your friend?” Sharlarra asked as she strode into the circle of firelight.

“Hunting. Scouting. Setting up camp.” The drow shrugged, dismissing mysteries about which she knew little.

Sharlarra took the book from her and glanced at the intricate markings. She quickly handed it back, knowing better than to gaze too long upon the magical runes. “Not a familiar spell.”

“I should think not! It’s drow.”

“The script looks a bit like the magical calligraphy used in Thay,” she observed.

A shadow crossed Liriel’s face, quickly dismissed. “Tell me about the Red Wizards.”

“Well, they’re bald …”

The drow cast her eyes skyward. “Not much of a storyteller, are you?”

“Something tells me you’ve got a story of your own,” Sharlarra stated.

After a moment’s silence, the drow nodded. She began to speak of her first encounter with a human wizard. He had been a captured slave, a quarry she was meant to track through the tunnels of the Underdark and slay with steel or spell. In the end, her mentor was actually the one to fight and slay the human. Liriel ended the tale with an insouciant shrug, as if none of it mattered. Sharlarra got the distinct impression that she left out far more of the tale than she told.

“It’s a rite of passage,” she concluded. “Do you have these in Waterdeep?”

“In a manner of speaking. Young men of Waterdeep go about in groups of three and four to frequent fest houses, get roaringly drunk, and piss into public fountains. I’d have to say that your ritual is, on the whole, far more dignified.”

Liriel’s lips quirked in appreciation for the dark irony, but her gaze remained steady. “That’s not what I meant. What of you faerie elves? How do you mark the passage from childhood?”

The elf averted her eyes. “Couldn’t tell you. Each clan or settlement has its own customs.”

“But surely—”

“A band of Thayan slavers caught me when I was a child. I was dragged down to Skullport and sold.” She gave a quick shrug. “Hard to leave a childhood you never had.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “And now you’re a wizard,” said Liriel.

“I know a few spells, but it’s not my first profession.” By way of explanation, Sharlarra held up one of Liriel’s throwing spiders.

The drow’s eyes rounded with astonishment, then narrowed in menace. The moment quickly passed, and she threw back her head and laughed delightedly. “Well done! I’d like to learn that trick.” Sharlarra took a silver flagon from her bag and passed it to the drow. She took an experimental sip, and her amber eyes widened with surprise and pleasure.

“That’s qilovestualt! How did you get hold of a drow wine?” The elf spread her hands in modest disclaimer. “You can get anything in Waterdeep, provided you’ve got deep pockets, light fingers, or disreputable acquaintances. No—keep it,” she said when Liriel tried to hand it back.

Instantly the drow’s eyes turned wary. Few people, whether they lived beneath the sky or under fathoms of stone, gave something for nothing. Sharlarra smiled a little, understanding the path her thoughts had taken. “Tell me about the drow, and we’ll consider the debt paid.”

Liriel lifted one snow-colored brow. “What do you want to know?” “Anything. Everything!”

A small smile curved the drow’s lips. She handed Sharlarra the flask and motioned for her to take a sip. At a precisely timed moment, she said, “Well, to begin with, that wine is made from fermented mushrooms.”

The elf gave a startled cough, a reflex that sent the potent beverage searing down her throat and spurting from her nose. After a few moments spent coughing and sputtering, she wiped her streaming eyes and gave a rueful smile.

“Drow humor?”

“A very tame example of it,” Liriel agreed with a grin. “There aren’t many ways to have fun in Menzoberranzan. Playing tricks is one of them—the more malicious, the better.”

“Things tend toward chaos, do they?”

“Of course! How else would the structure be maintained?”

The elf’s brow furrowed. “You maintain structure through chaos?”

“There’s another way?”

She chuckled at Liriel’s genuine puzzlement. “Tell me how that works.”

“On the surface, it’s very simple. Everyone and everything has a rank. First comes the Houses—you would probably call them families, or clans. They are ranked according to strength, with the matrons of the most powerful houses ruling on the Council of Eight. Within each House is a constant battle for rank and position. It’s the same in the schools, the arenas, the guilds, the markets, even the festhalls.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” Sharlarra said. “There’s constant competition within a rather rigid structure. That would account for the fine drow weapons and the fabled power of your magic.”

“In part,” Liriel agreed, “but bear in mind that there are two ways for a sword smith to rise in rank. One, he can work very hard and improve his craft. Two, he can simply kill the better smith.” She smiled again, but this time the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That technique also requires good weapons and powerful magic.”

“Good point,” the elf said. “Don’t take offense, but from what I’ve heard of the Underdark drow, it’s safe to assume that the second method is the one most preferred.”

Liriel’s smile disappeared completely, and her amber eyes turned grave. “Where drow are concerned, it’s never safe to assume anything.”

“I’ll keep that it mind.”

They passed the flask of drow liquor back and forth a few times. Fyodor joined them, took the offered flask, and tossed back a swallow of the bitter brew without a grimace or flinch.

“How do you know anything about the Underdark drow?” Liriel wanted to know.

Sharlarra waved aside Fyodor’s offer of his own flask. She had very unpleasant memories of a morning after her first flirtation with the potent Rashemaar jhuild.

“A wizard from the Harkle clan—eccentric bunch, even as human wizards go—conducted a lengthy interview with a wandering drow from your home city. Harkle wrote a treatise, which has been circulated among city leaders and leading wizards.”

Liriel smirked. “Which of these things are you?”

“Both, and more besides,” Sharlarra returned with mock gravity.

They shared laughter and passed the flask again. “I’ve had occasion to speak with Qilué. She told me a few things about the drow.”

“How do you know her?”

“Through her sister Laerel Silverhand, the lady—and possibly the sole redeeming virtue—of my former master, the archmage of Waterdeep.”

Liriel considered this for a moment. Her gaze shifted to Fyodor, and an expression of hope and contentment lit her remarkable eyes. Sharlarra wondered briefly what message the drow had heard in these words. With a pang of regret, she realized that she lacked the time to find out.