第 42 页

Suddenly Liriel knew how to get into the city.

The drow watched and waited until a man and woman, giggling over some wine-induced bit of wit and clinging to each other for support, made their unsteady way toward the privacy of the bushes clustered at the base of the hill. The woman was small and slim, dressed in a gown of clinging white silk. On her head was an elaborate headpiece, now slightly askew, that mimicked the ears, mane, and horn of a unicorn.

"Wait here," Liriel hissed at Fyodor.

Before the Rashemi could respond, she slid from her horse and made her silent way down the hillside. Fyodor heard a couple of faint, dull thuds. After a few moments' silence, the drow emerged triumphant, her arms full of shining silk.

Fyodor eyed her warily. "You didn't—"

"Kill them?" she finished cheerfully. "Effort wasted! Those two were barely standing; all they required was a little push. They'll waken with not much more of a headache than they've already earned through overindulgence. And I left a handful of coins to cover their losses," she added dryly. "Something tells me you wouldn't take kindly to a little harmless thievery."

The drow promptly stripped off her travel-worn clothes and pulled the gown over her head. She combed out her hair and let it fall in a wild cascade around her bared shoulders, then fastened her amber-encased spider pendant about her neck. Hushing Fyodor's protests, she handed him the "borrowed" robe—somewhat grass-stained but still exquisite—to put on over his travel clothes. Then she took a length of red silk and .wound it around his head, turban fashion, and fastened it with a jeweled pin.

"There," she said in a satisfied tone. "That's just how it looked on the other man. I've no idea what you're supposed to be, but I suppose the humans will."

"You wish to join the festival, and slip into the city among the others," he realized. "But what about your disguise?"

Liriel smiled slyly. "I'm a drow, of course. It's quite an exotic costume. And authentic, too!" she added with a touch of irony.

Understanding lit his eyes, then wry admiration. They exchanged a conspiratorial grin and crept down the hill to join the merrymakers.

For the next hour, Liriel danced, sipped wine, accepted inane compliments on her "costume," and watched Fyodor with amazement. He fit into the gay company as easily as a sword in its sheath: laughing and drinking and telling tales. Before long, he'd gathered about him a group of young noblemen, each striving to outdo the others with boastful accounts of his own adventures. Fyodor passed around his flask of firewine and listened with rapt attention to their lies. The drow heard the word "Skullport" whispered, and her eyes glinted with amused understanding. Her plan would get them into Waterdeep, but Fyodor was looking to the task beyond.

Someone brushed aside her hair and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. Instinctively, she spun around with a snarl.

A tall man with gray eyes and wheat-colored hair fell back a step, as if startled by her vehement reaction. Liriel recognized him as one of the nobles who had shared tales with Fyodor. Though his wavering stance and the nearly empty goblet in his hand suggested he'd had more than his share to drink, there was a shrewd expression in his eyes that Uriel noted and mistrusted. Then the sharp look vanished, and the young man smiled engagingly at her.

"Oh, I see. You're in character." He raised his hands in mock defense and pretended to cringe. "I must say, Galinda, you've outdone yourself this time. That's a marvelous costume! But shouldn't you carry some sort of fearful weapon to add realism—a whip or some such?"

For the first time in her life, Liriel actually envied high priestesses their snake-headed whips. She bared her teeth in an approximation of a smile. "The trouble with whips is that you never seem to have one handy when you really need it," she cooed.

The man threw back his head and laughed. "How true! I've often thought that very thing, myself."

His leer was comic and good-natured, his laughter infectious. Liriel suddenly misplaced her anger. A genuine smile curved her lips, and she regarded the handsome male with a touch of speculation.

Fyodor chose that moment to appear at her side. Once again, the drow glimpsed a flicker of penetrating intelligence in the stranger's gray eyes as he took the Rashemi's measure. Before anyone could speak, an exceedingly tipsy woman with bright red hair and an abundant display of cleavage lurched over to claim the young man's arm.

There you are, Dan," she cooed. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Was this our dance?" he murmured absently.

The redheaded woman smiled like a hungry troll. "Unless you had something a bit more… interesting in mind?"

The invitation was crude and unmistakable, and it got his full attention. He claimed the woman's hand and bowed low over it. "Myrna, my dear, phlar Lloth ssinssrickla," he said fervently, and then raised her fingers to his lips for a gallant kiss.

A bubble of startled, delighted laughter burst from Liriel. When Lloth giggles, he'd said in response to the woman's amorous advances—hardly the tribute the simpering, overheated wench apparently believed it to be. Oh, he was clever, this one!

Liriel's laughter died abruptly. This one was too clever.

With three words, spoken in oddly accented drow, the fair-haired man had said much and revealed even more. He knew what she was, and was putting her on notice of this. He had also tested her, beyond the obvious trial that recognition of the drow phrase offered. The blasphemous little jest would have surprised a scowl from a truly devout follower of Lloth. Although Liriel supposed her mirth had spoken well for her, she was annoyed with herself for falling into the human's multilayered trap. She simply hadn't expected such subtlety among these vapid folk. And how the Nine Hells had a human learned a few words of the drow language?

Fyodor, sensing her agitation, slipped a steadying arm around her waist. "My lady?" he inquired, leveling a challenging stare at the taller man. "Is all well?"

The stranger turned an engaging smile on the wary drow and her apparent champion. "It is indeed, my friend. Wonderful story Regnet told earlier, wasn't it? Oddest thing is, most of it was actually true! And at the risk of repeating myself, Galinda, that costume is simply the best you've ever come up with. A bit disconcerting at first, to be sure, but the Dark Maiden look suits you. Well, enjoy the party, both of you."

With those cryptic words, the man slipped away into the crowd, firmly steering the red-haired woman toward the circle of dancers and away from the private, silken pavilions she so obviously preferred. But Liriel had heard the message in his parting words, in all its layers of meaning. The tension drained from her, and she leaned back into the reassuring circle of Fyodor's strong arm.

A servant dressed in flowing robes and a medusa headdress wandered by with a tray of seafood tidbits. Suddenly Liriel felt ravenous. She helped herself to several bits of spiced squid, and as she munched she eyed the blond man's retreating form.

"You know," she mused, "I think I could live in this city."

Rats, a swarm of them, scrabbled at Liriel with tiny, grasping hands. The drow hurled several of the little creatures off her and leaped from her narrow stone perch into waist-deep water. She caught her breath at the incredible stench and resisted an urge to hurl a handful of throwing knives at the squeaking vermin that had forced her into the sludge. But there was no sense losing her weapons in the water and muck of Waterdeep's sewers.

"This was not one of your better ideas," she grumbled at Fyodor.

The Rashemi did not turn around. He slogged along steadily, surrounded by a circle of torchlight. "It is the route Regnet's story suggested. It may not be the best way into Skullport, but at least a drow can take it without attracting notice."

Uriel cast a venomous look at Fyodor's back. "Oh, sure! I look right at home in any of your basic cesspools. No one we meet would give me a second glance!"

"Come now, little raven," he said teasingly. "Where is your sense of adventure?"

She responded with a drow idiom that defied translation. The Rashemi, however, got the gist of it and wisely put several more paces between him and his disgruntled companion.

Without warning, something grabbed Liriel's leg and yanked her beneath the water. An unseen creature dragged her, kicking and thrashing, to a hole in the tunnel floor, then sank into deeper water with its prey.

Liriel pulled a knife from her boot and sawed frantically at the clinging appendage. Other, similar arms encircled her. The drow understood the nature of her captor and went limp. Her lungs burned with a need for air, but she forced herself to remain still, to let the thing pull her close. Through the murky water she saw the bulbous eyes and beaky mouth of a giant squid. When she was within arm's reach, she slashed it viciously across the eyes. At once the squid released its deadly "meal." Thick black ink jetted through the water as the wounded creature scuttled away.

Liriel fought her way to the surface and gasped in long, grateful breaths of the foul air. She crawled out of the water and found a ledge on the uneven blocks that formed the sewer wall. A length of slender tentacle, severed but still twitching, was wrapped around her calf.

"I think I ate some of your relatives at the costume promenade," the drow muttered viciously. She grabbed the tip of the tentacle and peeled it back. The underside was covered with suction cups, and blood welled up from several tiny, circular cuts on her leg. Liriel gritted her teeth and ripped the thing off in one quick motion. The pain was much greater than she expected, and she let out a howl.

At last Fyodor looked back over his shoulder. "You shouldn't make so much noise," he cautioned her. "No telling what we might run into down here."

Liriel set her jaw and leaped back into the water. As she sloshed along in Fyodor's wake, she entertained herself with thoughts of wrapping the severed tentacle around his neck.

Moonlight, as beautiful as it was improbable, appeared suddenly before them, spilling in a sheet of silver over the murky waters of the sewer. Fyodor pulled up short at the unexpected sight, but the drow, who was more learned in magical matters, shoved him unceremoniously through the shimmering portal.

They emerged from the gate to find themselves on the banks of a vast subterranean river. The faint light of luminescent fungi lit the cavern beyond, in which was a city carved from stone. The city was unmistakably drow, smaller than Menzoberranzan and lacking the wondrous light of faerie fire, but to Liriel's eyes it was no less beautiful.

"What is this place?" Fyodor murmured.

"This is Eilistraee's Promenade," said a low, musical voice behind them, "and we have been expecting you."

The companions spun. There stood a beautiful drow female, taller even than the Rashemi, with silver eyes and hair of spun moonlight. She was flanked by dark-elven guards wearing fine chain mail and armed with swords and longbows.

Fyodor's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. To his surprise, Liriel gave a cry of delight and threw herself into the female's arms. Heedless of her own finery, the elfwoman enfolded the bedraggled girl in a sisterly embrace.

"Qilu6! How did you hear of us so soon?"

"Word of your arrival was passed to us by the Harpers."

Liriel drew back, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She'd suspected the fair-haired man with the laughing gray eyes and the devious mind would somehow send word of her arrival to Eilistraee's followers. He'd more or less hinted at this, with his oblique reference to the Dark Maiden, but Qilue's reference to musicians made little sense.

"Harpers?" Liriel echoed. "Why should harp players bother themselves with such matters?"

"There are many who share that sentiment," the older female said dryly. "But it was a tale strange enough to pass along. It is not every day a drow female enters Waterdeep looking for a path to Skullport, accompanied by a human male who carries a flask ofjhuild firewine and speaks with the accents of Rashemen. You, then, must be Fyodor. Liriel has spoken of you. I am Qilue Veladorn, priestess of Eilistraee. We serve the Dark Maiden, goddess of song and moonlight, and in her name give aid to all who need it."

The young man dropped to one knee before the regal drow. "The Dark Maiden is not unknown in Rashemen. And I think I have seen you before, Lady," he said slowly; then, remembering the unnatural height of the shadowy elf, he added, "or someone who bears your close likeness. Several days past, I watched unseen as Liriel danced in the moonlight. Another danced with her. I was far away, but I would not soon forget that face."

The elfwoman lifted one snowy brow. "Is it so? What you saw could only have been the Dark Maiden's shadow. The task ahead of you must be of great importance to earn so plain a sign of Eilistraee's favor."

"Will someone please tell me what all this is about?" demanded Liriel.

"Later, child," Qilue admonished. 'Tell me how can we aid you."

Liriel hesitated. The Chosen of Eilistraee could travel as they wished and take with them the magical blessings of their goddess—the Windwalker was of little use to them. Perhaps she could trust Qilu￡ and her people. She glanced at Fyodor. He gave her a barely perceptible nod of encouragement.

"Fyodor and I both need the Windwalker amulet: he, to tame battle rages gone out of control; I to carry dark-elven magic with me wherever I go. I believe I've discovered a way to make these powers permanent. For us both," she added, meeting Fyodor's puzzled stare directly.

"To what end?" the priestess asked.

Liriel returned her gaze to Qilue. "What do you mean, to what end? Fyodor is a berserker warrior, a protector of Rashemen. I am a wizard whose magic comes from the Under-dark, and from the heritage of the drow. We merely wish to be what we are."

"Your friend desires to serve his land," Qilu￡ pointed out. "How will you use the power granted by the Windwalker?"