Windwalker (10 page)

“She speaks well of you, too,” Laerel said with exaggerated sweetness.

Khelben refused to be baited. “Tell me all.”

The lady mage paused for a long-suffering sigh. “Qilué said that inquiries have been made, bribes paid. She believes the search for Liriel has spread to Waterdeep. Have you been listening to the tavern songs, Dan?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand all I hear,” he admitted. “There appears to be a very impressive bounty on someone named Raven. I couldn’t make out more than that.”

“That’s enough to tell the tale.” Laerel sighed again and tucked a silver lock behind one ear. “Qilué’s young friend will be sought by every unlawful faction in Waterdeep, not to mention every scoundrel looking for a way to pay his gambling debts.”

“Not to mention those folks who consider battling evil, which by most lights would include all dark elves, to be their righteous duty,” Dan put in.

The woman grimaced. “I was hoping no one would mention them.”

“Waterdeep’s well-intentioned are the least of our problems.” Khelben took a small mesh bag of gems from a hidden pocket in his sleeve. “This is part of a deepdragon’s treasure hoard, used by Liriel to purchase the freedom of Elfmaid, a Ruathymaar pirate ship owned by Hrolf the Unruly. Since these gems were in the drow’s possession for several days, they can be enspelled to seek her out. More than that: They can show us who also seeks her by means both magical and mundane.”

Danilo watched intently as Khelben sped through the gestures of a spell. In moments there floated before the archmage a wondrous map, a miniature landscape showing the islands and coastal lands of the northern sea. Khelben produced a vial from his bag and took from it a pinch of sparkling powder. This he tossed over the map. Tiny, falling lights twinkled down over the illusion, releasing a complex aroma into the tower chamber.

The young man studied the illusion, watching as threads of silver raced across land and sea. He pointed to a particularly bright web connecting Luskan and Ruathym.

“The recent sea invasion, I would imagine. What is the connection between these two old enemies and our new friend?”

“The captain in charge of the assault was Rethnor,” Khelben said, “one of the Five Lords of Luskan.”

“Captain Rethnor,” Danilo said thoughtfully. “He is said to be subtle and devious, the sort of man unlikely to accept blame for his failures. And what better scapegoat than a drow?”

“Waterdeep,” Khelben said, as if Danilo’s question had sought an answer. “Even now, he spreads rumors that Ruathym has made powerful and dangerous alliances—alliances that justified this attempt on their sovereignty. Rethnor claims that Ruathym is allied with dark elves and that Waterdeep gives tacit approval, perhaps even support, to their dark schemes. Liriel set sail from Waterdeep. If she is accepted back into the city and allowed to go her way, we give credence to his words.”

“That’s absurd!” Danilo protested. “Who would believe such reasoning?”

Khelben let out a derisive sniff. “Since when did logic govern the path of rumor? If a thing is said often enough, there are fools aplenty who will believe it to be true.”

“So what do you propose to do? Turn Liriel over to Captain Rethnor?”

“There are many who would gladly sell her, and not just to Rethnor.” Khelben intoned another arcane phrase. Silvery threads filled the sea like fishermen’s nets and sank deep into soil and stone.

“The Kraken society,” Danilo reasoned, nodding toward the sea, “and the underground network, I suppose, would be the drow. It would seem that Liriel has been busy.”

“Would that she had stopped there.” Khelben tossed another pinch of powder, and the map took on yet another aspect.

Several translucent spheres overlapped, the images overlaying each other like multi-layered rainbows. Threads streamed from all these planes of existence and converged in a shadowy tangle in the sea just to the east of Waterdeep. The overall shape resembled a spider’s web.

“This can’t be good,” the young man muttered.

“It could hardly be worse! This divination suggests that our young wizard has drawn the special interest of a certain drow goddess.”

The ire faded from Laerel’s silver-green eyes as she met Khelben’s somber gaze. “You’re saying that wherever Liriel goes, Lolth is likely to follow.”

“That is my fear,” Khelben agreed. “It has been long years since the drow goddess turned her attention to the surface world. Liriel must be followed and if necessary stopped.”

“Very well.” Danilo took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Allow me a hour or so to pack, and I’ll be off.”

The archmage shook his head. “Not you, Dan, not this time. The elves of the Pantheon Temple have an agent of their own.”

Khelben turned his gaze toward the chamber door. His apprentice appeared in response to his silent summons. “Bid our guest attend.”

In moments Sharlarra returned, a tall female elf at her side. The newcomer was raven-haired, clad in well-worn leathers and a chain-mail vest and armed with sword and bow. Her long black hair was loose except for one silver lock, which had been gathered into a neat braid.

“This is Thorn, a champion of Eilistraee, lately come from Ruathym,” Khelben announced. “You will leave this matter in her capable hands.”

“As you say, Uncle,” Danilo agreed. He turned his most charming smile upon the newcomer. “It’s a great relief to know that Liriel has made friends among Eilistraee’s own.”

“As to that, I could not say,” the elf responded in a husky, oddly accented voice. “I never met her.”

“But you have come from Ruathym?”

“What of it? She is a quarry, not a comrade.” The elf’s strange eyes, a color more gold than green, narrowed at him. “Most humans outgrow the need to ask endless questions when they leave childhood behind. Or perhaps it just appears to be so because the inquisitive seldom survive for long.”

“You say that as if it were a warning,” Danilo observed.

In a lightning-quick move, the elf swept her bow off her shoulder and sent an arrow spinning toward the young man. It dived between his boots, piercing the ancient oak planking and quivering fast enough to produce an audible hum.

“That,” she said, “was a warning.”

Danilo took a careful, belated step backward. “What bard or diplomat in all of Waterdeep could match elven subtlety?” he said in admiring tones. “Obviously, the good archmage is quite right: I must not meet our drow friend at the harbor. Lady Huntress, my Lord and Lady Arunsun, lovely Sharlarra, I bid you all a good day.”

The rainbow layers of the illusionary map filtered over him as he bowed deeply, first to the elf warrior then to the wizards. As he strode from the room, he gave Laerel a friendly kiss on the cheek and Sharlarra a kiss that was friendlier still. The elf girl watched him go, then sent an inquiring glance at her mistress.

Laerel sent her apprentice off with an absent-minded wave and turned her attention to the warrior. “It has been long years since the Dark Maiden took a champion.”

“You know the history of the People,” Thorn observed. “You must also know that an equal amount of time has passed since Lolth granted the powers of a Chosen to any mortal.”

The color drained from Laeral’s face. “You don’t mean to suggest that Liriel…”

“I do not suggest,” the elf said coldly. “I know. I saw. Her path led to Skullport then out to sea. I followed until my ship was captured by sea ogres. Those aboard who were not killed were imprisoned in the undersea realms of Ascarle. A band of sea elves freed the prisoners and led us through a magical gate to Ruathym. We joined the battle between the Northmen of Ruathym and Luskan. I saw this drow channel the power and fury of Lolth against the invaders.”

“Then Caladorn did well to persuade the captain to dock in Waterdeep,” Khelben said. “Lolth’s power will be considerably stronger in the underground city.”

Laerel’s eyes widened. One slender hand flew to the cheek Danilo had kissed.

The archmage noted her chagrin. “Problem?”

“You might say that.” Laerel lowered her hand, fist clenched. “Liriel will go straight to Qilué. We must get word to my sister at once!”

Khelben frowned. “You know that isn’t possible. It takes hours for a mere message to bypass Qilué’s wards and magical diversions. No one can teleport directly into the Promenade Temple.”

“I can,” Laerel said grimly, “using the ear cuff my sister gave me—the cuff I was wearing just moments ago.” She unclenched her fist. Her hand was empty.

The archmage’s brows knit in puzzlement then flew up as he realized what had happened. “Danilo said he would not meet the drow! Goddess knows the boy has his faults, but he has never gone back on his word.”

His lady cast her eyes skyward. “He agreed he would not meet the drow at the harbor. Khelben dearest, you really must learn to speak Rogue. Consider this: Where is your powdered essence of sky, sea, and stone? Where are Liriel’s gems? Where is the missive the merfolk brought from Caladorn’s ship? Where are all the things that will enable one wizard to find Liriel’s ship—and ensure that another wizard cannot?”

Khelben’s gaze darted from the writing table to the scrying platform. The delicate vial was gone, as were the bag of gemstones and the sealskin parchment.

He uttered a single word—a barnyard epithet delivered with great force and little regard for the dignity of his high rank.

“The boy’s gone straight to the ship! Damn and blast it! Why did I entrust Mystra’s Art to such a hopeless fool!”

Laerel fingered the unadorned curve of her ear. “Now that you mention it, I probably shouldn’t have taught him those pickpocket tricks, either.”

“It would seem that your overschooled protege has a few lessons yet coming,” Thorn announced. She plucked her bowstring, which sang like a battle harp.

Khelben’s irritation disappeared, chased from his face by a flash of paternal panic. Power rose like mist around him, creating an illusion of an imperious, elf-blooded wizard, ancient and mighty beyond words—an illusion that held more truth than his familiar form.

“Whatever comes of this, the boy is to be spared,” he demanded in a voice ringing with power.

The elf champion shrugged, unimpressed. “If possible,” she said. As she strode from the room, she repeated, “If possible—and provided he doesn’t annoy me overmuch!”

Khelben’s enhanced image dissipated like a sigh, leaving his mortal facade looking old and careworn. He sent a troubled glance toward his lady. “Do you suppose she meant those terms quite literally?”

“Well, she does seem give her threats a bit more emphasis, but how many elves have you met who don’t mean precisely what they say?”

The archmage nodded as if he’d expected this response. “In that case,” he muttered, “the boy’s as good as dead.”

Laerel shook her head as another thought occurred to her. “Sharlarra has been getting restless of late.”

Khelben stared at her as if she had gone moonmad. “And you mention this because …”

“I go to Skullport from time to time. I need to, and not just for the information I can find there.”

He nodded, acknowledging the side of his lady that he did not share and could not quite understand.

“Did I ever tell you where I met Sharlarra?”

“Lady Sharlarra of the Vindrith clan? I had assumed Evermeet, but something tells me that would not be the correct answer.”

She laughed shortly. “Hardly. We met in Skullport.”

“No! A gold elf, in that cesspool of a city? What the Nine bloody Hells was she doing there?”

“Surviving,” Laerel retorted, “and doing a damn good job of it. She lifted my purse. The thing was magically warded, and she still almost got away with it.”

The archmage huffed indignantly. “That convinced you to bring her to my tower as an apprentice?”

“Why not? Talent is talent. For that matter, Sharlarra isn’t a gold elf. But we’re getting sidetracked. Sharlarra stood right over there while your light-fingered nephew robbed us blind. If she hasn’t gone to reclaim the goodies, I’ll shave my head.”

Khelben lifted one brow. “It has not escaped my attention that you spoke of Sharlarra’s boredom. Will you place the same wager that your Skullport protegee will return these stolen items at first opportunity?”

Laerel took a thick handful of silver mane in each hand and draped it over the archmage’s shoulders. She entwined her arms around his neck and gave him a lascivious wink. “You should probably bear in mind that it would take me two hundred years to grow it back to this length.”

A reluctant smile tugged at one corner of Khelben’s lips. “In other words, no deal.”

The wizard sighed and lowered her bright head to his chest.

“Afraid not.”

DARKNESS VISIBLE

Stalker Lemming lurched down the narrow Skullport street, his peg leg clicking briskly against the ragged cobblestone and sloshing through fetid puddles. Though he was almost home, he affected the air of one who had miles to go and scant time to get there.

A small man in his youth, he’d been further diminished with every lost battle and each misspent year. Hunched and potbellied, the native swarthy hue of his skin faded to ash by long years of underground living, he was occasionally mistaken for a duergar dwarf. Stalker did little to discourage this misapprehension. Indeed, he grew a straggly beard to heighten the illusion. Ruffians who would consider a pudgy, one-legged human easy prey might think twice before attacking a deep dwarf.

Stalker dodged a particularly unpleasant puddle and impatiently waved away the underfed and over-painted courtesan who stepped into his path. Hair like straw, he noted with disdain, and skin the color of a fish’s underbelly. In his land, the women were pleasantly rounded, and they had melting black eyes and sun-warmed skin. The thought quickened his step, as if such a woman might be awaiting him in his hovel.

He dreamed, from time to time, of returning to southern lands as the dashing, wealthy captain of his own pirate ship. More often his dreams were simpler, almost wistful: to feel the sun on his face, to see the vivid purple and gold of one more sunset. Just that, and he could die a happy man.