第 22 页

The merchant rose from his chair. Placing both hands on the desk, he leaned down to look directly into the old wizard's face.

"Risks," he said in a confidential whisper. "Every follower of Vhaeraun must be prepared to take them."

With that final taunt, he left Kharza-kzad alone to sputter out his usual denials. It was an odd game, but one Nisstyre enjoyed playing. In time, perhaps Kharza would become so accustomed to the insinuations that he would come to think of himself in those very terms. This was unlikely, to be sure, but a Xorlarrin wizard, a master of the famed Sorcere, would be a prized addition to Vhaeraun'a band.

The merchant hurried from the Spelltower Xorlarrin to his rented house near the Bazaar. Now that he had met Liriel Baenre face-to-face, he was more interested in her than ever. She thought for herself, followed her own rules. No slave to the fanaticism that paralyzed so many of Menzoberranzan's drow, she was a prime candidate for conversion to the ways of Vhaeraun. Granted, she had in full measure the haughty arrogance of noble females, but that could change in time. In fact, the task of humbling the little princess greatly appealed to Nisstyre.

First, of course, he would have to win her over. That she would hire him for this task was a stroke of purest luck. It was also ironically amusing, for of course the dead drow Liriel had described were his own lost thieves. She had saved him the trouble and expense of hunting them down.

Nisstyre did not mention that fact to her, and he saw no reason to enlighten her now. He hurried to his hired barracks and selected three of his strongest fighters. When they had been briefed and armed, he led them swiftly back to Spelltower Xorlarrin.

Liriel was there already, fairly bursting with impatience. She looked the males over and pronounced them adequate. With Kharza-kzad's help, she sent the drow fighters into the gate toward their dead comrades. Nisstyre she left to his own resources. If he was not wizard enough to handle such a task, it was better she knew it now. When her forces had gathered, she led them to the site of the dragazhar battle and quickly laid out her plan.

"Five drow came into this cavern. Two of them you see dead before you; the other three are bat food. Now, we can do this one of two ways. We can retrieve what's left of the three drow in the cave and risk rousing the deepbats, or the three of you can help stage a false battle, then leave a fresh trail to the surface and beyond."

The fighters exchanged glances. Two of them were plainly relieved at this turn of events—not even the most battle-thirsty drow relished the idea of fighting the deadly bats—but the third, a tall drow with short-cropped hair and a tattooed cheek, sneered in open contempt.

"This was not your original offer," Nisstyre pointed out. "What of the dragazhar lair? The treasure, the baby deep-bats?"

"My original offer specified you would do as I say, without questions," Liriel said impatiently. "After this task is accomplished, I will show you the cave. You can harvest the bats and treasure later, on your own time."

The merchant accepted her terms with a bow. "As you say. But I am curious why I am here, if there is to be no battle with the dragazhar."

"Who says there won't be?" she retorted. "You wouldn't ask if you knew how close the dragazhar cave is. The longer you stand there talking, the greater the risk."

"I see." Nisstyre considered for a moment. 1 know of another opening to the surface, not far from the Drygully Tunnel. It is nearer, and it is a shorter path to the Night Above. Shall I have my fighters use it?"

Liriel agreed readily. She did not want Fyodor of Rashemen to meet the three drow on his way back. That the human would be back, she did not doubt, and he would be no match for these three trained and well-armed drow. Perhaps he could track Nisstyre's band to the surface; perhaps he could even catch up with them. But she doubted it. More likely he would follow them as long as the trail lasted, and then once the trail was lost he would go on his way, seeing no reason to return to the alien dangers of the Underdark. That suited her perfectly.

So Liriel supervised the fighters as they hoisted the two dead males and carried them to the mouth of the Drygully Tunnel. Nisstyre came in handy after all, casting spells of levitation that floated several of the giant bat carcasses to the cavern. The wizard also arranged the faux battle scene with gory flair and an artistic eye. In all, Liriel was pleased.

One more thing remained to be done. Liriel selected the largest of Nisstyre's fighters, the bold male with the dragon tattoo festooning one cheek. In her estimation, this one could best survive what she had in mind. Also, the fighter had made little effort to hide his disdain for this errand. Liriel was not accustomed to such insubordination from a servant and she did not want to see his attitude go unrewarded.

So she ordered the fighter to remove one of the leather bracers that protected his forearms. He did so, and as he held out his arm to her a curious, slightly mocking smile played about his lips. Liriel grabbed his wrist and squeezed it, hard,

"What is your name, and what do you find so amusing?" she demanded.

"I am called Gorlist. I destroy my enemies; I do not waste time laying false trails for them to follow," the drow said with no little pride. For good measure, he tightened his fist, so the muscles in his arm swelled and rippled impressively. The display of strength broke Liriel's grip with contemptuous ease.

"No false trails," she echoed with a touch of dark humor as she renewed her grip on the fighter. "Funny you should say that, Gorlist."

In a single lightning-fast movement, Liriel drew a knife and slashed a long, deep line across the male's arm. Gorlist's eyes widened incredulously as blood gushed from the cut. He snatched his arm from her grasp.

"Do not bind it; do not try to stanch the bleeding in any way," she instructed him. "Leave a trail to the surface even a heat-blind idiot could follow. Note that I do not insult you by asking you to leave a false trail. Real blood, I'm sure, is much more to your liking."

"But the loss of blood! I may not survive to reach the Night Above!" he protested.

"Oh, stop whining. You don't have to bleed all the way to the surface. Just mark the trail to the right tunnel, that's all I ask," she said impatiently.

Gorlist's outraged scowl did not lessen. Apparently, this male did not know his place; Liriel was more than happy to remind him- She took hold of his wrist again. With the forefinger of her free hand, she traced the edge of the cut with one finger,

"If I had wanted to kill you, I would not have cut you there," Liriel said. Using his blood as ink, she slowly, teas-ingly traced another line on his arm, this one a fraction to the side. "I would have cut you here"

A knife appeared suddenly in her bloodstained hand, and she pressed hard against the line she had drawn. She met the male's angry glare with a cold smile and a challenging gaze.

Nisstyre intervened. "And we are grateful for your expertise," he said as he gently disengaged his fighter's wrist from Liriel's grasp. "You, Gorlist, will do as you are bid. The three of you, go with all haste to the surface. And after that?" he asked, turning the question to Liriel. "Where shall they go?"

She paused, not sure how to answer. Her only thought had been to lay a trail out of the Underdark, and she did not know of any surface destination to give them. Wait: yes, she did.

"Waterdeep," she said decisively.

The merchant captain's thin lips curved in a smile. "Well chosen. It is a long trip, but one they would soon make regardless. The Dragon's Hoard has a base near that city."

"In Skullport?" Liriel asked, thinking it more likely the drow merchants would thrive underground than in a human stronghold.

Nisstyre's smile broadened. "For a noble female of Menzoberranzan, you know much of the wider world. I would not be surprised if we should meet again soon, my dear Liriel."

"Not unless you plan to enroll in Arach-Tinilith," Liriel responded, using a tone of voice designed to quench the too-familiar spark in the wizard's black eyes. "I shall be there for a number of years."

"Such a waste," the merchant said fervently.

"Such blasphemy," Liriel returned lightly. "But since you are not of Menzoberranzan, perhaps Lloth will overlook your words. Now, perhaps you'd like to see the way to the dragazhar lair?"

Nisstyre followed the girl to the narrow tunnel that led to the deepbat cave. He noted the confident way she moved through the wild terrain, her utter lack of fear despite the fact that they were merely two against the dangers of the wild Underdark. The young female was clearly a seasoned adventurer with a lust for the unknown. Yes, he could lure this one up into the Night Above, Nisstyre assured himself complacently. A push, a nudge, and she would be his.

And, by extension, Vhaeraun's. In some matters, even the God of Thieves had to take second place.

Chapter Twelve

TROLLBRIDGE

Fyodor followed the steep tunnel path for many hours, with little sense of how much time actually passed. When he could no longer run, he walked, and he rested what little he dared. After a time—how long or short he could not say—the path leveled off and ended in a small cave.

The darkness here was less intense, and when Fyodor put out the last of his torches, he found he could see well enough. After a quick exploration he found the exit, a small opening just slightly higher than his head and not much larger than a badger hole. Fyodor used his sword to chip away at the rock and soil. When he thought the opening might suffice, he grabbed the edge and hauled himself up. Slowly, laboriously, he eased his shoulders through the opening. Finally he rolled out, exhausted but exultant. For a long moment he merely lay there, breathing hard and taking stock of his surroundings.

The ground beneath him was hard and rocky, and the walls of a ravine rose steeply on either side of him. By the smooth, round stones around him he knew this to be a dry riverbed. Something or someone must have diverted the river, for at this time of year the water should have been rushing along, swollen by the melting ice and snow. The air was crisp, but much warmer than when he had last seen daylight. Either he had been wandering in the darkness much longer than he would have thought possible, or he had emerged many miles from the Ashenwood and the magical gate that had taken him into the Underdark.

Fyodor lifted his eyes upward. A deep tangle of trees met overhead, and through the thick green curtain he glimpsed the faint pink and silver glow of sunrise. Dawn was breaking. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and one he had not expected to see again. Thanks to the drow girl, he had found his way back to the sun. He therefore owed her his life, not once, but twice over.

He rose and scrambled up the steep bank, searching for anything that might tell him where he was. The forest around him was thick and dark, but ahead to the west the foliage around the dry riverbank dwindled to a low growth of brambles and newly leafed bushes. It was springtime here, and the season was much further along than in his native Rashemen.

Fyodor made his way quickly along the riverbank toward the forest's edge. A hill sloped down before him into a low, fertile valley. There were meadows, already thick and lush, and a vast tangle of berry bushes dusted with white flowers. Even more encouraging were the fields of rye growing beyond, for the carefully tended crops spoke of a nearby settlement.

The young warrior nodded in satisfaction. Despite his joy in finding a way to the surface, he was determined to return to the Underdark as soon as possible so he might pick up the trail of the drow thieves. Even if the settlement were no more than a few farmhouses, he could purchase what supplies he needed for his journey. The silver coins he had earned during his apprenticeship still hung heavy in his purse. With long, eager strides, he took off in search of the village.

He had not gone far before he heard the busy sounds of hammers and saws. Beyond the fields huddled a cluster of buildings within a sturdy wooden palisade. Fyodor hurried to the gate and knocked loudly.

A small portal opened, and a stern, gray-whiskered face glared out at him. "Who are you, and what do you want?" the man demanded coldly.

"I am a traveler seeking to purchase supplies," Pyodor replied.

"Hmmph! Too early for that," the guard grumbled, but he eyed the young man with a slightly less glacial expression.

Fyodor glanced back toward the east. The sun had broken over the forested hills and was shining over the grain-fields in long, slanted rays. "The morning is young," he agreed, "but I can hear that your village is already hard at work."

"Getting ready for the spring fair, we are," the guard offered, "The river's gone down a mite, and merchants will be coming through any day now. Where did you say you hailed from?*

"My homeland is Rashemen."

"I heard tell of it," the guard said, and las eyes narrowed in speculation. "You be one of them crazy berserker fighters?"

For a moment Fyodor was uncertain how best to answer. Many people feared the warriors of Rashemen, and they might well deny him admittance to their village. He desperately needed supplies and could not afford to lose this opportunity. On the other hand, it was his custom to speak the truth.

"I am, sir, but I fight only when I must."

"Hmm. Well then, it might be that the townsfolk can sell you what you need."

The wooden gate swung open, and Fyodor gazed in puzzlement at the strange village beyond. Cattle and goats were penned in small enclosures, munching dried winter fodder despite the lush grazing in the meadows beyond the village walls. Buildings lined the street: strong, sturdy wood-and-stone structures that lacked any of the homey comfort of Rashemi cottages. There were no painted shutters, no carefully tended beds of herbs and flowers to brighten these dwellings. No storks nested on the roofs, which were fashioned not of neatly woven thatch but of hard, dark slate. There was not a touch of color, not a bit of beauty. All stark wood and stone, the town reminded Fyodor of a forest in midwinter.

Its inhabitants were no less grim. No small clusters of villagers stood about in courtyards, sharing mugs of steaming kvas along with the morning's gossip. Men and women rushed about, tending to business and speaking to each other only in terse, sharp words, when they bothered to speak at all. Dozens of villagers were busily shoring up the walls of the palisade, nailing crossbars into place and caulking every narrow crack with thick, reddish clay. Others were building rows of wooden booths on both sides of the main street, and the din of their pounding hammers filled the morning air. Still others were laying out goods of their own for sale: woolen blankets and skeins of undyed yarn, simple pottery, dried fish and game, wheels of cheese, pots of honey and barrels of mead. These activities were clearly those of a village preparing for a spring market, but there was none of the joyful anticipation that would have marked such preparations in Rashemen. The atmosphere here would have been more appropriate to a people besieged.