Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [59]
Ibn nodded in satisfaction at the Northman's name and took the man's hand. Neither of them spoke another word until the next round of ale went down, and the one after that.
In truth, Brindlor knew a great deal about Ibn. He was a native of Ruathym, a good seaman who possessed great pride in his heritage and an equally profound hatred for elves. He was a notoriously taciturn man who would never speak three words when one would do the job. There was one exception to this habit: Whenever Ibn came ashore, he indulged in a mug or two. And the more he drank, the more he talked.
"Met one of your boys," Brindlor offered. "Leigaar. Tells a good tale, that one."
A suspicious glare furrowed Ibn's ale-flushed face. "What story's he telling now?"
The disguised drow shrugged. "Nothing I'd credit as money-on-the-barrel truth, but a fine and fancy tale for all that. Something about a tapestry of souls and a sea elf guardian."
Ibn made a sour face. "Sad to say, that's plain truth."
"Is that so." Brindlor took a long, considering pull on his ale. "You know this sea elf?"
"Know him? Only too damn well. Name's Xzorsh. Since the day I signed on with Hrolf the Unruly, the elf's stuck to us like wet knickers. Got some notion about protecting the ship, him and the elves he commands. Hrolf's gone below the waves and his ship with him, but the damn elf's got himself another reason to follow me. A drow wench, if that don't beat all."
"Really." Brindlor signaled for a fresh pitcher and poured them both another drink. "What would a sea elf be wanting with a drow wench?"
"Magic," the sailor said shortly. "He fancies himself to be a web-fisted wizard, if that don't beat all. The drow promised to find him a teacher."
Brindlor leaned back in his chair and stroked his yellow-bearded chin. After a moment of silent contemplation, he sent a sidelong glance at Ibn. "This Xzorsh is nearby?"
"Stone's throw, if'n you got a good arm. Swimming the harbor with the merfolk, last I heard."
"Hmmm. He commands many elves?"
"How many, I couldn't rightly say, but enough to turn a sea battle our way more'n once," Ibn said grudgingly.
"Well, I surely do see your problem."
Ibn earnestly tried to focus his blurry eyes. "You do?"
"A risky thing, handing any kind of weapon to a drow wench," Brindlor observed. "I've had some dealings with the dark elves. They'll all bad, mind you, but the females are the worst of the lot. They don't do anything unless it serves a purpose. Chances are she has a use in mind for this Xzorsh and his sea elf friends."
Ibn continued to stare at him with uncomprehending eyes. The drow suppressed a sigh. Perhaps he'd been over-generous with the ale.
"If it's plunder they want, no pirate between here and Lantan could compete with magic-wielding sea elves," he explained, "and no honest sailor could win a sea battle against them, if it came to that."
Ibn considered this for a long moment.
"Of course, I understand how you'd be wanting to protect the sea elf, seeing how he's a friend of yours."
Ibn was suddenly grimly sober. "No friend of mine. My duty's to the ship, and the men on her."
"And Xzorsh knows your ship," Brindlor concluded meaningfully.
The captain studied him with eyes that were suddenly clear and shrewd. "You seem mighty helpful, even for a man's got a half keg of ale in him. You got a stake in this?"
"I'd like to." He leaned forward confidingly. "I'm looking for a ship to take a cargo to the north Moonshaes. Good money in it for both of us, long as the ship makes port with no questions asked. Might be smart to cut down on the risks where we can, if'n you follow my meaning."
Ibn tossed back the rest of his ale and crossed his arms. "As long as you're buying, I'm listening."
The bells of the Temple of Ilmater sounded the second hour past midnight, releasing the penitents from their painful devotions. They staggered out into the night, indistinguishable from those who made their unsteady way home from one of the many dockside taverns. The soft clanging drifted across the