Windwalker

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Not on my ship, it ain’t,” Ibn retorted. “No message comes or goes without my say-so.”

  The raven turned its bright black gaze upon the red-bearded pirate. “In that case, captain, I urge you not to land in Waterdeep. Danger awaits. You must come directly to Skullport.”

  A faint flush suffused Ibn’s sun-browned cheeks. Liriel’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute–isn’t that what we’re planning to do?”

  “Changed my mind,” Ibn said shortly. “Last trip to Skullport went bad and ended worse. No one knows that better’n you. ’Twas a near escape for us and not something the folks thereabouts will soon be forgetting.”

  “Now we’ve got a different ship, and a different captain,” Fyodor pointed out. “It seems to me the bigger risk lies in ignoring Lady Qilué’s warnings.”

  Caladorn Cassalanter clicked his tongue in a small, dismissive sound. “With all respect due this drow priestess, you are far more likely to encounter trouble in the underground city than on the streets of Waterdeep. I will be met by considerable strength at the docks, and we do not anticipate trouble.”

  So here it was, Liriel thought grimly: Caladorn’s interest in this matter. It would be like Ibn to deliver her up for ransom, and who better to arrange terms than a Waterdhavian lord?

  However, if they thought she would be so easily taken, they had little understanding of the dark elven talent for creative mayhem!

  Liriel kept these thoughts from her face and gave the Waterdhavian nobleman a puzzled smile. “Skullport is not without its moments of excitement,” she agreed, “but if what you say of Waterdeep is true, why did Qilué warn me away?”

  “I would not presume to know her mind, but of this I can assure you: Waterdeep is a lawful city,” Caladorn said firmly.

  “Maybe, but I’ll wager that you don’t see many drow there,” she pointed out.

  Ibn took the pipe from his mouth. “Man just said it’s a law-abiding city. The rest goes without saying.”

  Liriel scowled at this interruption and flung one hand skyward in a sharp, impatient gesture. A cloud of noxious smoke billowed from Ibn’s pipe and clung to him in a faintly glowing green globe. He lurched toward the rail and hung his head over the sea.

  “I hope Xzorsh isn’t following the ship too closely,” Liriel commented.

  Fyodor gave a resigned sigh and turned back to Caladorn. “If drow are uncommon in Waterdeep, Liriel’s arrival will be noted, and word of her presence will spread.”

  “So? Has she any need to conceal her presence?”

  “Survival is a priority to me,” Liriel shot back. “Call it a quirk.”

  The nobleman shook his head. “A dramatic assessment, but not an accurate one. I assure you, all will be well. I and some of my associates are paying the expenses of this ship’s passage, and steps have been taken to ensure the safety of all. The decision is mine, and the captain’s.” He sent an inquiring glance toward Ibn. The rank smoke was drifting away, but the captain still clung to the railing. A distinctly green hue underlay his sun-browned face.

  “Not Skullport,” Ibn said, faintly but firmly.

  “What of the raven’s warning?” pressed Fyodor.

  “Waterdeep is a lawful city,” Caladorn repeated. “If the drow does no wrong, she need fear no harm.”

  Fyodor’s jaw firmed. “If you are mistaken, Lord Caladorn, if danger awaits Liriel in your Waterdeep, who but me will fight for her? You? Your ‘associates?’ ”

  The nobleman crossed his arms. “You seem very certain that there will be fighting.”

  “I have reason,” Fyodor said flatly. “Can you truly claim that the good folk of your lawful city will smile and wave as a drow passes through? Once the ship reaches port, Liriel and I will stand alone in a hostile place, and you know it well—you, and perhaps also your associates, who, as you say, will be meeting you at the dock with considerable strength.”

  For a long moment the men faced each other down. Finally Caladorn faltered before the accusation in the Rashemi’s glacial stare. “I mean the drow no harm, but perhaps there are others in the city who might,” he conceded.

  “You will speak for her?” Fyodor pressed.

  “I cannot,” Caladorn said flatly, “for reasons I do not care to discuss. Do either of you know anyone in Waterdeep? Anyone who can help her pass through unnoticed if possible, and speak for her if needed?”

  A memory popped into Liriel’s mind: a chance-met encounter with a human male. He’d been clever enough to take her measure without alerting his vapid companions that the “noblewoman in drow costume” was in fact the genuine article.

  This man knew a way to Skullport, and he knew of Qilué. Perhaps he was even one of Eilistraee’s followers. During the dragon’s hoard battle a few moons past, Liriel had noticed a few humans and even a halfling among the priestess’s band. At the very least, surely this man could send Qilué a message.

  “There might be someone,” she said slowly. “We met at a costume party in the meadowlands outside of Waterdeep. I was not told his name, but I can describe him. Fair hair, gray eyes. Caladorn’s height. He was quick to smile and jest. I saw him playing an instrument with strings on the front, and a wooden back so rounded that the thing looked as if it were about to give birth.”

  “A lute,” Fyodor supplied.

  Caladorn considered Liriel’s description with a wary expression that suggested he knew the man of whom she spoke and heartily wished he did not. “What colors was he wearing?”

  The drow shrugged impatiently; she had yet to understand the human preoccupation with the color of things.

  “If you are speaking of the color of his clothes and gems, then the answer would be green,” Fyodor supplied. “If you are speaking of heraldry, I noticed that one of his rings appeared to be a heraldic image: a unicorn’s head with a raven.”

  Exasperation flooded Caladorn’s face. “Naturally,” he muttered. “Should Judith ever wish to find her brother, all she need do is hire a diviner to seek out the nearest impending disaster!”

  “You know this man,” Liriel observed. “Name him, and his house and birth order—or whatever other thing passes for rank in this law-abiding city of yours.”

  “Rank and wealth are closely related. Waterdeep is ruled by her merchant families,” explained Fyodor.

  The nobleman shook his head. “The noble houses do not rule the city,” he corrected. “The Thann family is richer than any three gods combined, granted, but Danilo is a younger son. The youngest of six sons, I believe. Danilo is amusing enough, but that’s the best can be said of him.”

  Liriel privately disagreed and adjusted her opinion of Caladorn accordingly. Among the drow, younger siblings concealed their ambitions, and sometimes their abilities as well, until they were ready to take their desired places.

  “Can you get word to this Danilo of House Thann?”

  Caladorn hesitated. “I can send a messenger once the ship docks.”

  She shook her head adamantly. “Not good enough. I won’t let the ship reach the harbor unless he meets Fyodor and me at the dock, bringing enough muscle and magic to ensure our safe passage through Waterdeep. Assure him that I can and will reward him for this favor. Just to make sure there are no misunderstandings, tell him that the drow repay betrayers with their own coin.”

  For a long moment Caladorn stared toward the faint, silvery border between sea and sky, his face carefully neutral—at least, neutral by human standards. Liriel watched with fascination as emotions chased each other across the man’s face. Finally he turned back to them and gave her a curt bow. “Very well. I will do as you ask.”

  Liriel and Fyodor watched him stride away. The raven cleared its throat. “Your response, Princess?”

  The drow’s gaze snapped back to the avian messenger. “Tell Qilué what was said here, and assure her that we will come to her with all possible speed.”

  Black wings rustled as the raven lifted off into the night. Perceiving that the show was over, the sa
ilors drifted off to their duties or their rest.

  Fyodor waited until they were alone before speaking his mind. “It seems to me that Lord Caladorn will do as you ask, and more beside.”

  The drow lifted one eyebrow. “You noticed that, did you? If he can send word to this man before we reach the harbor, he can alert others, as well. Well, let him. We could use a bit of excitement.”

  At that moment a scream, furious and female, rose from the rear of the ship. Liriel watched with amusement as Ibn grappled with the revived genasi, shouting colorful warnings at his men to stand aside as he carried the struggling, cursing creature over to the side of the ship. Closer at hand, two sailors stumbled by, dragging a bullywug carcass by the feet. Fyodor helped them heave the dead monster over the rail.

  That accomplished, he sent a wry smile toward the drow. “I am most interested to know, little raven, what you would consider excitement.”

  Liriel drew near and told him, in a sultry whisper and with considerable detail. When she paused for breath, Fyodor shook his head in half-feigned astonishment.

  “The midnight watch begins in four hours. Is there time for all that?”

  She sent him a sidelong glance and strode toward the hold. “I don’t know,” she said casually. “So far, no one has survived the first hour.”

  The Rashemi chuckled, but his laughter faded after a moment passed and Liriel did not join in. “You were jesting, were you not?” he called after her.

  No answer came from below decks. After a moment, Fyodor shrugged and started down the ladder. The night was young, the moon was bright, and there were many worse ways to die.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEEP WATERS

  In the waters far below Leaping Narwhal, Xzorsh swam eastward, intent upon ensuring that the drow’s journey continued on a relatively sedate course. All around him, however, was evidence that his chosen task would not be an easy one.

  Bullywug carcasses drifted lazily downward, and blood spiraled out into the dark water. The sharks would soon gather, harbingers of slower but even more fearsome scavengers.

  Human sailors knew the surface of the sea and understood something of her moods and caprices. The depths were a mystery to them, a vast and unfathomable place described in song and story as the “silent halls of Umberlee.” The sea Xzorsh knew was far from silent. Bubbles murmured and popped on their path toward the stars. The subtle swish of current-tossed sea grass gave a precise report of tides, currents, depths. Fish clicked and squealed as they schooled through the dark waters. A low chorus of grumbling croaks, fading in the distance, marked the bullywugs’ retreat. Whale-song from a distant pod rose and fell in a haunting, plaintive melody. A discreet clicking pattern, almost inaudible above the complex murmur of the sea, warned Xzorsh of the ambush ahead.

  He loosened the weapons on his belt: a fine knife, fire-forged by land-dwelling elves, and one of his precious throwing crabs. Seizing the element of surprise in his own webbed hands, he pulled his spear and dived toward a thick stand of sea grass.

  Several sea elves erupted from their hiding place, scattering and then regrouping to surround Xzorsh. One of them, a large female whose head was shaved to better display her skin’s dramatic green-and-silver markings, was known to him. He noted the trident in her hands, the grim purpose on her face.

  Xzorsh tipped his spear skyward in a gesture of peace. “Greetings, Coralay. Do you seek me in particular, or did I swim into the wrong trap?”

  The female lowered her trident but kept it at the ready. “A bullywug swarm gathered and sang songs of war. Why didn’t you summon help?”

  “None was needed,” Xzorsh said.

  Another elf swam to Coralay’s side, a young male with a sea-going swagger and a spear still unblemished by battle. “What need has Xzorsh, the great sea ranger, of our help?” he said scornfully. “What need for sea elves at all, when Xzorsh counts every monster of the deep among his friends?”

  Xzorsh stiffened at this sneering reference to Sittl, his long-time friend and partner, recently revealed as a deadly traitor to the Sea People. Sittl had been a malenti, a mutant of the evil sahuagin race. Like all malenti, Sittl hid a dark heart beneath the fair form of a sea elf.

  “If you accuse me of treason,” Xzorsh asked coolly, “you speak at cross currents with the Council of Waves. The court has heard the matter and declared me blameless.”

  “The malenti made a fool of you,” persisted the youth.

  “He fooled us all,” Coralay said in a tone that demanded an end to the matter. She fixed a steady gaze upon the scout. “We’re not here to swim yesterday’s tides.”

  Xzorsh nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “Many bullywugs attacked that ship. Only eleven returned to the sea, dead or alive. You are known as a friend to human folk. You would not have left one of their ships in the hands of those monsters while you could still stand and fight.”

  “For those words, I thank you,” Xzorsh said cautiously.

  “Yet here you are.”

  For long moments they faced each other. “The bullywugs were defeated,” he said at last.

  “That many?” she said incredulously. “What manner of humankind sails that ship?”

  “Northmen pirates, for the most part. With them sails a warrior from a land far to the east, and a powerful wizard.”

  The female’s face hardened. “Speak of this magic user.”

  Xzorsh spread his hands. “The battle was won. What more need be said?”

  “I have heard wordier tales told of another battle recently won,” Coralay countered, “a battle fought on the shores and seas of Ruathym. There was magic there, as well. Tell me plainly: Is the drow priestess of Ruathym aboard that ship?”

  “Why do you seek this knowledge? What use will you make of it?”

  Coralay’s eyes narrowed. “A strange response from a ranger, whose duty it is to inform the People.”

  “To inform, yes, but also to protect,” Xzorsh added. To ensure that his meaning left no room for doubt, he lowered his spear back to guard position.

  Astonished rifts of bubbles burst from the sea folk. “You would defend an evil drow against your own people?” one of them demanded.

  The sea elf ranger turned his gaze toward the speaker. “Have you ever met this dark elf?”

  The other elf blinked. “No.”

  “In that case, I respectfully suggest that you are in no position to judge her. Liriel is a princess in her land, trained since childhood in the ways of magic. She is a proven friend both to the humans of Ruathym and to the Sea People. It might interest you to know that she too was raised on stories of evil, deadly elves, with one difference: The villains of her childhood tales were the fair-skinned elves of the sky and sea!”

  Coralay scowled. “It is not the same thing.”

  “Isn’t it?” persisted Xzorsh. “People are not always what they seem. Night-black skin does not prove an evil heart any more than a fair, familiar face offers guarantee of friendship. The malenti Sittl wrote this lesson in runes of blood.”

  The elf war leader regarded him in silence for a long moment. “We will consider your words. Will you also consider mine?”

  Xzorsh inclined his head respectfully.

  “As you say, people are not always what they seem. We often see what we expect to see, or what we wish to see. Perhaps you are right about this drow. She has fought at your side and given you weapons of magic. It is even said that she promised to teach you the Lost Art.” She lifted one green eyebrow quizzically.

  “That is true,” Xzorsh admitted.

  “Fine things all,” she agreed. “Perhaps we are wrong to look upon this dark elf and see only evil, but is it not possible that you see only the good things she has offered and refuse to swim the depths beneath?”

  Xzorsh wanted to deny these words, to reject them utterly. Perhaps he might have been able to do so had he not seen the battle on Ruathym’s shore.

  “It is my duty to protect,” he sai
d slowly, “and it is possible that the best service I can do the People is to guard Liriel well. While I live, no harm will come to her—or from her.”

  At last Coralay lowered her trident. “That is all I wished to hear. Go, and do.”

  A fair-haired young man, green-clad in garments of fine summer silk, whistled a popular tavern ballad as he sauntered toward Blackstaff Tower. The rounded black keep was a Waterdeep landmark, an ancient marvel of smooth black stone unmarked by either windows or doors.

  The visitor walked straight toward the tower as if he intended to pass through solid stone. He hit the wall hard and staggered back a few steps, clutching his head with bejeweled hands and cursing with great vigor and imagination.

  His next few attempts were more tentative—a prod here, a careful kick there. Finally a slim feminine hand thrust out of the wall and seized a handful of his tunic. His guide tugged him through the invisible door.

  Danilo Thann looked down into the indulgent face of Sharlarra Vindrith, an elf wizard apprenticed to Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun. He removed her hand from his tunic, gazed into her eyes—violet with flecks of gold, he noted—and raised her fingers to his lips.

  “Lovely Sharlarra,” he murmured, “once lauded as the most beautiful elf in Waterdeep.”

  Still smiling, she lifted one brow in challenge. “Once?”

  “Well, naturally.” Danilo gingerly touched his forehead. “Since I’m seeing two of you today, you’ll have to share the honors.”

  The elf laughed and tucked her arm into his. “I assure you, there is no one else quite like me,” she purred.

  “Pity. The possibilities were, to say the least, intriguing.”

  “Are you both quite finished?”

  The question was spoken by a deep male voice made familiar by a slight burr and a certain irritation of tone. Sharlarra let out a startled gasp and spun to face her master.

  Khelben Arunsun was, or appeared to be, a powerfully built man in late middle years. His dark hair was touched with gray and a streak of silver divided his neatly trimmed beard.