Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [19]
The drow caught his meaning well enough. Most Ruathen distrusted wizardly magic. The daring escape from Skullport had left the crew shaken and in awe of the elven wizard, and most of them gave her a wide berth.
"You're out and about late this evening," observed a tentative voice behind her.
Liriel turned to face Bjorn, the youngest member of Hrolf's crew. The lad had a mere tuft of yellow beard and gangly limbs too thin for strength and too long for grace. But Bjorn could read the winds and sense the coming weather with an almost magical precision. This gift earned him a solid place aboard any ship. Nor was it his only gift. When not about his work, the lad whittled wood into clever little statues and painted them in the bright colors loved by the Northmen. At the moment Bjorn was seated on the deck, packing up the pots and flasks that held his paints. The drow stooped to examine his latest work. It was a wall plaque depicting a single ship upon a storm-tossed seascape. A beautiful, wild-eyed goddess emerged from the crest of a crashing wave, her hand outstretched-perhaps to steady the faltering vessel, perhaps to crush it. "Umberlee?" Liriel asked.
"Yes. The Lady of the Waves," Bjorn said reverently, but he made a sign of warding as he spoke of the goddess. Liriel understood his reaction completely. She'd heard enough about the capricious Umberlee to recognize that particular brand of devotion. Fear and worship-Lloth inspired and demanded both, as well. The drow nodded and copied Bjorn's gesture, which seemed to puzzle the young artist.
"is Umberlee your goddess?" he asked.
Liriel shrugged. "No, but dry her off and paint her black, and you'd hardly notice the difference."
The lad's eyes bulged, and he repeated the warding sign as if to stave off the result of such blasphemy. Eager to change the subject, he reached for a steaming bowl and handed it to the drow. "You were late this evening. I saved you some soup, knowing there'd be none later."
Surprised and grateful, Liriel took the bowl and settled down on deck beside the boy. He picked up his own supper, and they ate in silence. Still, it was the most companionable moment she'd spent with anyone other than Fyodor or Hrolf since coming aboard. Most of the twenty-odd crewmembers dealt with Liriel's presence by ignoring it. Most, but not all. From the corner of her eye, the drow noted that ibn was watching her again. There was something about the burly, red-bearded sailor that seemed disturbingly familiar to Liriel. Where most of the Ruathen approached life with a bluff, straightforward manner, ibn seemed to think far more than he spoke. His few words gave away little, his eyes still less. More complicated than his mates, ibn occasionally reminded Liriel of a drow. Which was to say, he was trouble.
Liriel pondered the matter as she finished off the saltladen chowder. The first mate was plotting something; in Liriel's mind, that was a given. She could wait for him to play out his hand, or she could confront him in an open and forthright manner. She'd learned the latter approach often befuddled dark elves, who fully expected their plots to be met with equally convoluted counterstrategies. The response this tactic invariably elicited-a moment of veiled surprise, followed by a frantic effort to ferret out the layers of conspiracy that surely must be hidden under the seemingly simple approach-amused her. How, she wondered, would ibn respond to a direct challenge?
At length, Liriel decided to take the man's measure. She bid Bjorn a good night and made her way over to the redbearded sailor.
"Speak your mind and have done," she demanded.
The mate seemed not at all disconcerted by her blunt words. He took the pipe from his