Tangled Webs

by Elaine Cunningham

  At last the twilight colors beyond the cabin’s portal gave way to darkness. Liriel leaped from her cot and quickly dressed and armed herself. Although Hrolf clearly thought the surprise would be a good thing, Liriel could not forget that not all the pirates had intentions that mirrored those of their captain.

  Fyodor was waiting for her at the top of the ladder. He met her with a smile, but his eyes were deeply shadowed. She gave him a quick, cautious hug—for he moved stiffly and was bandaged in a dozen places—and an inquisitive look.

  “It is nothing,” he said softly. “A dream.”

  “Something about Ibn tossing me overboard in a tuna net?” she whispered back. She’d wondered if anyone had seen the attack, but Hrolf had said nothing to her of Ibn’s treachery, and the first mate stood at the rudder, his red-bearded face as inscrutable as usual.

  Fyodor recoiled. “It is true, then. I promise you, little raven, the traitor will not live out the day!” he said with grim earnest.

  The drow smiled and claimed her friend’s arm. “Oh, yes he will, and many days to follow! There’s an old drow saying, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ That usually means revenge is more fun if you take the time to cool down, to plan and savor the act, but it works in other ways, too. Let Ibn wonder and worry. That will serve him better than hot steel and a quick death. And he is needed until the Elfmaid makes port; for all his faults, he’s a capable sailor,” the pragmatic drow added. “In the meanwhile his failed attack will keep him in line—although it might be wise to let him know that you are aware of what he did, so he doesn’t think his secret will die with me. Now, let’s see Hrolf’s surprise!”

  Fyodor looked doubtful, but he held his opinions to himself and led her through the broadly grinning pirates, up to the prow of the ship. Bjorn stood there, clearly embarrassed to be the focus of all eyes. His face gleamed red beneath the yellow tufts of his virgin beard, and behind him loomed his latest—and largest—work of art.

  The elf-maid figurehead, inanimate once again and back in her proper place, had been repainted to resemble a drow with golden eyes. The flowing wooden locks were now white, and the still-wet paint of the face a glossy black. Some attempt had even been made to whittle the figurehead’s lavish curves down to something more closely approximating Liriel’s lithe form.

  An unfamiliar emotion tightened the drow’s throat as she gazed up at her own likeness.

  Hrolf came to drape a massive arm around her shoulder. “Looks good on the old girl, doesn’t it?” he said happily. “And by Tempus, won’t the new elf maid spook damn near anyone we happen to meet! Umberlee take me if I shouldn’t ha’ thought of this years ago!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  STRANGE ALLIANCES

  The Cutlass sped toward the Purple Rocks, its skeleton crew spurred to exhaustion and beyond by their grim-faced captain. Rethnor was determined to reach Trisk in record time, for there was much at stake. He had lost not only his sword hand, but also his magical onyx ring—his only means of receiving messages from the western command center of the Kraken Society.

  The captain could send missives—the magic pendant that he wore hidden under his tunic would relay his words to the western outpost—but this was not enough to meet his needs. He sailed to Trisk, not only to replace the scrying device, but also to enlist the help of Kraken agents who lived on the remote island.

  Or, more to the point, around the island.

  Rumors were plentiful among the people of the Kraken—this was to be expected in an organization that dealt in information brokering. Many of these were whispered tales of the strange magics and deadly beasts that haunted the western outpost. Even allowing for poetic license and the usual tavern boasting, there was no denying the dangerous nature of the waters around the Purple Rocks. Rethnor believed many of the rumored sea creatures were real and that some of them answered to the bidding of the Kraken Society. And more importantly, he had come to suspect that small and modest Trisk was in reality the primary base for the entire network of spies and assassins.

  Rethnor intended to demand an audience with the leader of the society, and he did not think he would be refused. No matter how powerful the dark network of the Kraken might be, the base itself could not survive without trade. And Luskan was the island’s strongest trade partner. In Rethnor’s estimation, he had more than enough leverage to warrant all the demands he intended to make.

  The captain pulled his magic pendant from its hiding place and began to dictate his orders into the shining disk, sending messages across the sea to the Purple Rocks and to hidden outposts on the mainland. For the first time he understood why the unknown, unnamed woman with the lavender eyes appeared to him in his scrying crystal. Without such reassurance, it was hard for him to accept that the magical messages truly reached their destinations.

  As he looked out over the icy sea, the Northman—despite his inbred distaste for things magical—found himself wishing he had some knowledge of the art so that he could sense the far-reaching ripples that carried his commands to distant shores. Power he had, wealth in abundance, great strength and remarkable fighting prowess. But it occurred to him that these things provided little protection against the might of magic. The thought was new to Rethnor, and deeply disturbing. For some reason it chilled him, and he felt as if he’d heard the call of an unseen raven—the harbinger of a warrior’s death.

  The High Captain shook off his dark thoughts and fixed his eyes firmly on the western horizon. No doubt there was magic at work around the Purple Rocks, but there was power to be had, too. If he had to face the one to gain the other, he would take his chances as they came.

  The town of Yartar was an important crossroads of the Northlands, located as it was on the River Dessarin and the trade road between Triboar and Silverymoon. Many important goods came through this town, not the least of them information.

  Baron Khaufros, Lord of Yartar, was an ambitious man. He had inherited his wealth and title, but he’d earned his position as ruler of Yartar by his ability to build alliances of trade and politics. He was a steadfast member of the Lords’ Alliance, that group of cities that tied their interests closely to those of Waterdeep. Khaufros was also a member of the Kraken Society, and the hidden chambers and tunnels under his mansions were frequent haunts of those spies and assassins who did the society’s dark work.

  At the moment, the baron was alone, engrossed with the pile of messages on his desk. Late spring brought a thawing of the Dessarin and a flow of messages from many towns—and many sources.

  Khaufros absently tossed back the contents of his goblet and read the missive from his unknown Luskar contact once again. The plot against Ruathym was proceeding nicely, but for reasons unspecified it was decreed that the blame for many of the island’s troubles was to be affixed upon a certain rogue sea captain of Ruathym. Khaufros was to do whatever he could to augment and support the new “facts” that spoke against this man. The Kraken leader from Luskan was also calling in all markers, demanding that the Ruathen ship be stopped by any means possible before it reached its home port, for the accusations could not be as easily made if the man lived to refute them.

  “My lord baron.”

  Khaufros instinctively crushed the damning message in his hand and looked to the door of his study. The entrance was flanked by two suits of Cormyrian plate armor, priceless things forged of mithril and tested in battle against the Tuigan horde. Standing between them, utterly dwarfed by their martial glory, stood his elderly and impeccable steward, Cladence.

  “The diplomatic courier from Waterdeep is here, m’lord, awaiting your pleasure.”

  The baron smiled and leaned back in his chair, the needed plan already forming in his mind. “Show him in, Cladence, and send my scribe in with him. Shut the door after them—we may be in conference for some time.”

  The messenger was a young man of common stock, too ignorant of court ways to change his travel-stained gear before seeking audience. Since this was the last mistake the lad
was likely to make, Khaufros was inclined to let it pass. The baron accepted the letter from Waterdeep, broke the seal, and quickly scanned the contents. Routine information, for the most part, some of which he had already heard in greater detail from his Kraken Society contacts.

  Khaufros looked up, his eyes focusing on a point somewhat behind the waiting courier. “Semmonemily, if you will, please,” he said politely.

  There was a metallic creak of plate against plate, and one of the empty armor suits stirred to life and began to advance on the messenger. The young man turned toward the sound just as a spiked metal gauntlet lashed out. His head snapped sharply to one side, and bits of broken teeth clattered to the floor like so many bright pebbles. Before the messenger could cry out, the empty metal hand struck again, and then again. Calmly, efficiently, the armor suit went about its grim task.

  The baron and his scribe looked on with impassive eyes, for they were too accustomed to such events to feel much of a response. Once they’d watched such executions with horrified fascination and just a touch of perverse pleasure. Now it was mere routine. Nor did either man blink when the armor suit blurred and melted, reforming itself into the mirror likeness of the dead messenger. This, too, was a commonplace event.

  Semmonemily was a doppelganger, a shapeshifting being able to adopt any form it chose. By taking the place of the slain courier, the doppelganger could return to Waterdeep with altered missives.

  The creature was one of the baron’s most valued allies. The other was the wizened scribe seated at the writing table, bottles of various-hued inks before him and quill poised. This scribe was also a shapeshifter of sorts, for he could perfectly duplicate the writing of any man alive. As Khaufros spoke, the scribe bent over his parchment, transmuting the original messages into unimpeachable copies, subtly changed to reflect the baron’s will.

  Information was power; that was the basic tenet of the Kraken Society. But those who wished to know true power understood that it was not enough to gather information—one had to control it. And, upon occasion, create it.

  Shakti Hunzrin was becoming accustomed to annoying disruptions. Since the day she had entered Triel’s service as traitor-priestess, she had been expected to attend the Baenre matron’s every whim. But this night’s summons was by far the most abrupt and the most unusual.

  The Black Death of Narbondel, the dark hour of midnight and the time when Menzoberranzan’s magical timepiece was enchanted anew, had come and passed. Shakti had been comfortably asleep in her bedchamber, her door guarded by vigilant golems she’d enspelled to ensure that her dreamless slumber would end with the coming of the new day. Such precautions were not unusual among future matrons who had no wish to mysteriously die in their sleep.

  But this night the stone guardians did not attend their given task. Shakti awoke with a start, literally shaken from slumber by one of her own golems. Its stone fingers closed around her upper arms; its impassive stone eyes returned her startled gaze.

  Then she was hauled out of bed and thrust toward a glowing door that had appeared in the center of the bedchamber. Before she could so much as curse the offending golem, the thing gave her a shove that sent her reeling through the luminous gate.

  Shakti landed on her rump, her night robe hiked up around her plump thighs and her hair flying in wild disarray around her furious face. By the Mask of Vhaeraun, she vowed grimly, Triel would pay for this indignity!

  “Welcome, priestess,” said a cold and unexpectedly masculine voice.

  The Hunzrin priestess froze. She knew that voice, as did all of Menzoberranzan. Those who cared to listen heard it every day, when the archmage celebrated the darkest hour by casting a spell of renewal upon Narbondel. But what, she wondered with extreme foreboding, did Gromph Baenre want with her? And by all that was dark and holy, how many Baenres would she be forced to endure?

  “I am delighted to entertain one of my daughter Liriel’s former classmates. Please, take a seat,” Gromph continued, his manner an ironic parody of the gracious host. “I’m sure you can find one that is more to your liking than that carpet.”

  Shakti scrambled up and smoothed her robe decently back into place. Mustering all the dignity she could, she seated herself across from the archmage’s polished table. Never had she been so close to the dreaded Gromph Baenre, and only with great effort did she refrain from staring. He was an exceptionally handsome male, young and vital in appearance despite his reputed seven centuries of ill-spent life. His eyes were of the same rare amber hue as his daughter’s, but Shakti had never seen that expression of icy calculation in Liriel’s golden eyes.

  The wizard reached for a bellpull on the wall. “Will you have wine? Or tea?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Shakti returned flatly. His polite manner was a subtle but obvious form of mockery, and the proud priestess bitterly resented any male—however powerful—taking his amusement at her expense. “I would not presume to take so much of your time.”

  “Ah.” Gromph laced his fingers and placed them on the table before him. “You fit my sister’s description well; she says that you are ever one to attend to the business at hand. Matron Triel is seldom wrong, of course, and I readily admit you have worked wonders in matters of agriculture. Your contribution to the restoration of the farms and rothe herds has not gone unnoticed. But I must draw your attention to another matter, one that remains unresolved.”

  The archmage held out his hands to her, palms up. Although they had been empty a moment before, cradled between them was a tiny bowl of dark red crystal. It grew rapidly until it was identical in every respect to the scrying bowl given to Shakti by the drow god Vhaeraun. The priestess stared, too stunned to hide her astonishment.

  “You are acquainted with my daughter,” Gromph continued in his cool, measured tones. “Yet I doubt you understand the half of Liriel’s value. She is a wizard of no little ability. Did you know I arranged and supervised her training myself? And do you think I would go to such trouble for no purpose?”

  Shakti could do no more than shake her head, but Gromph seemed to consider the answer sufficient.

  “I am sure that you, of all people, can understand the importance of one who has a foot firmly in two camps. Of course I knew that Liriel would someday attend Arach-Tinilith, would be trained as priestess to Lloth. But I had her first, and the earliest marks on the mind cut the deepest! Liriel was created to be one of my strongest supporters—a Baenre priestess who is first and foremost a wizard. Despite the recent unpleasantness with the amulet, she still could be useful to me,” Gromph concluded, “and I want her back.”

  The archmage leaned forward, his amber eyes intent upon Shakti’s face. “It has come to my attention that you have sought assistance from beings from the elemental plane of water. If, as you suspect, Liriel has taken to traveling the waterways of the surface, this was not an unwise choice. Yet I understand that your threats and blandishments met with rebuff, is that not so?”

  Shakti managed to mutter something in the affirmative.

  “Not surprising. As a priestess of Lloth, you are accustomed to the creatures of the Abyss—entities of pure evil. The creature you have summoned is more complex; thus your methods must be more subtle.”

  Shakti’s mind reeled as she tried to take in the implications of Gromph Baenre’s words. How could he know so much? And more importantly, what did he plan to do with this knowledge?

  The archmage plucked a bit of parchment from the empty air. “In the interim since your foray into the plane of water, I have gone to no little trouble to learn about the creature you summoned. On this parchment is written her true name. Use it only as a last resort, for there are easier ways to command the loyalty of this being. She calls herself Iskor, and she deals in information. She is messenger for a god worshiped on the elemental plane and, apparently, by many creatures of the sea. As you surmised, Iskor is not content with her role and wishes to amass power of her own. Thus she also carries information to creatures that make their homes in
the surface waters. Promise to be her eyes and ears into the Underdark, and demand that in return for your aid she will seek out Liriel.”

  “You want the amulet,” Shakti stated, more to buy time to gather her thoughts than for any true purpose.

  This seemed to amuse Gromph. “Of course. Who would not? But I also want Liriel. See that she is returned alive.”

  The archmage rose to his feet. “That will be all. You should have all the information you need. If you require more, I will know. Kindly do not approach me directly. That might be … inconvenient.”

  Shakti could well imagine why. She would never accuse the archmage of Menzoberranzan of consorting with Vhaeraun, but what other explanation could there be? Where else could Gromph have acquired that scrying bowl? Or have learned so much about her plans? Or have gotten past the god-given wards on her chamber? Yes, she had a very good idea why Gromph Baenre had no wish to be seen in the presence of his sister’s traitor-priestess.

  But no matter what powers he might command, what information he possessed, Gromph needed someone like Shakti. The archmage was tied to Menzoberranzan by the task of enchanting Narbondel—an honor that was also a chain with links forged anew with the coming of each midnight hour.

  The young priestess found no pleasure in this realization, for it was well known that no one who had dealings with Gromph ever did better than break even. For that matter, few survived. There was nothing to be gained by this enforced alliance, and much at risk.

  Shakti had little choice but to agree to the archmage’s demands. But if some means of escape presented itself, she vowed to take it.

  Iskor, the water wraith, slipped into the door that led from her home on the elemental plane of water to the hidden city of Ascarle. The passage was brief but exhilarating—like swimming through a cloud of merrily roiling bubbles. On the other side she emerged from a pond filled with brightly colored fish, exploding upward into the dry and brittle air with the exuberance of a playful sea lion.