Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [12]
A ship slowly emerged from the mist, floating toward them like a vast and silent ghost. Her sails hung in tatters, but the port flag-the bright silk banner that claimed Waterdeep as her home-snapped and fluttered in the chill wind.
Caladorn shouted an alert and climbed nimbly down the rope webbing to the deck. Most of the crew had gathered near the port side, weapons at hand. Caladorn shouldered his way over to Captain Farlow, a stout, black-bearded former mercenary. Rumor had it that in battle Farlow slaughtered his enemies as coldly and efficiently as he dispatched seal pups. At the moment, Caladorn was glad of the captain's fierce reputation.
"What do you make of it?" he asked, nodding at the apparently deserted ship. "Stripped by pirates?"
Farlow shook his head. "Not any that sail these waters. No Northman would leave a good ship adrift-they hanker after ships like most men crave cold ale and warm women. And look to the deck," he added, pointing. "Rows of barrels, neat as you please. Pirates would've torn the place apart and stolen anything worth taking."
"What took the crew, then?" demanded one of the hunters. "Plague?"
"Not likely, at this time of year," Caladorn said. It was not unusual for far-traveling ships to pick up some deadly illness along with their intended cargo, but that was a hazard peculiar to summer. "The ship can't have been adrift that long. Unmanned, it couldn't have survived the winter amid these ice floes. And see the port flag? it would be torn to ribbons by this wind in a matter of days. Hours, perhaps."
The captain shot a quick look at the young nobleman. "A trap, then?"
"it is possible," he admitted, understanding the path
Farlow's thoughts had taken. A Waterdhavian ship, appearing in the known route of a merchant vessel laden with expensive pelts? And the ghost ship was a caravel, one of the fast and sturdy vessels for which Waterdeep's shipyards were justly famed. Several similar ships had been lost at sea over the last few seasons. Not odd, considering the dangers of a seagoing life and the whims of Umberlee, the unpredictable goddess of the sea. Not odd at all, until one considered the fact that two of these ships had recently reappeared in southern ports, flying Ruathen colors.
Caladorn did not doubt that this vessel had also fallen to the Northmen raiders. But that, he suspected, was not the entire story. He had fought beside-and against-men of Ruathym, and he knew them to be proud and fierce warriors. They would fling the stolen ship into battle, not use it for ambush. Yet it certainly appeared that the caravel had been left there for them to find. Not a trap, he reasoned, but a message.
"i'm going aboard," Caladorn said abruptly. "Keep the Cutter back a safe distance, if you will. All i ask is the use of one of the rowboats, and that you stand by to await my findings. Be this piracy or plague, word of the ship's fate needs to reach the city."
The captain gave a curt nod. Like all men of the sea, he knew that every lost ship was sought by dozens of longing eyes. Those who had the misfortune to love a missing sailor would never stop searching the watery horizon with mingled hope and dread. When the waiting stretched out into years and love became an undead thing, even bad news was preferable to none at all.
"You-Narth and Darlson. Lower the skiff. The rest of you, stand steady to fight or sail, on my order," Farlow commanded.
Maneuvering the tiny craft through the choppy seas took longer than Caladorn expected, but at length he stood on the deck of the abandoned caravel. He quickly searched it from hold to aft castle but found no crew, either alive or dead. Nor was there any sign of a recent battle. Finally, desperate for clues, he decided to examine what was left of the cargo.
With the flat ofhis dagger, he pried the wooden lid off the first of the barrels. A ripe, salty smell emerged-the familiar scent of pickling broth used to preserve the spring herring catch. Yet floating in the brine were long, lank strands, the green