“None o’ that now,” Cormo said. “We got orders not to kill you, but in Kerrigan’s outfit that means we ain’t supposed to do it for no reason. You give me cause, I’ll slit your fuckin’ throat. And believe me, I will keep sawing till I’m sure you’re dead. Clear?”
Bershad glared up at the man. He had a massive belly, but the rest of him was packed with meaty strength. Bershad couldn’t take him in a fight. Not in this state, anyway.
“Clear.”
“Good! Now let’s have one more drink before we head up to Kerrigan.”
He twisted around on his stool, reached into a bucket filled with cold seawater, and produced another earthenware jug of ale. Held it out. Bershad decided that if he couldn’t murder his way out of here, he might as well make friends. He took the drink.
“You speak Almiran pretty well for an asshole pirate,” he said after taking a pull and passing it back.
“Corsair’s the preferred term around here, but I don’t have a stick up my ass about it as much as the others.” Cormo shrugged. “Anyway, in Terra, a good corsair’s gotta speak most o’ the tongues. Makes it easier to threaten people into good behavior, see? Most o’ the morons who board ships for a living barely speak one language, so they gotta growl and shout and break teeth or crack skulls to get people in line, which is a hassle.” Cormo’s face darkened. “But if you use a man’s native language to whisper into his ear, tell him that if he so much as twitches a finger in an odd manner, you’ll cut his daughter’s head off in front of him and use it as a piss pot, well, that man’ll do pretty much anything you say. Hell, he’ll help you load all his shit onto your shallop and thank you for it in the end.”
Cormo’s face brightened again, as if he’d told a somewhat racy joke rather than revealed a horrific criminal habit.
“Yep, strong communication skills make the entire process a lot easier! That’s why the Naga corsairs get through most reavings without a drop of blood spilled. It’s Simeon and his crew up north that’s always leaving behind a mess and giving Ghost Moth Island the black reputation. Well, them and the demons behind the bone wall.”
“I heard it was nice back there. My original plan was to cross over and build myself a summer home.”
Cormo laughed.
“You’re funny, dragonslayer.” He scratched at his ragged beard. Then considered the jug for a moment. Corked it and put it back in the tide pool. Then he dug up a brown, threadbare shirt and threw it to Bershad. “Put that on. We best get you over to Kerrigan for the interview. You’ll get a look at Naga Rock on the way. Trust me, it leaves an impression.”
* * *
Cormo was right.
Naga Rock was made from a long series of interconnected tunnels that had been bored out of the ground by an industrious dragon. And it definitely left an impression. The tunnels were all at least ten or fifteen strides high and, at times, wide enough to drive three wagons through at the same time. Given the fact that people lived there, the dragon obviously hadn’t been around in years. But Bershad could still smell the distinct, feral remnants of the great lizard’s scent on the walls.
Every few hundred strides, the tunnel that Cormo led Bershad down opened into a larger chamber. Each chamber seemed to have been outfitted for a specific form of commerce or entertainment. The first chamber they reached had a meatmonger on one side hawking sausages and an old woman selling donkey’s milk on the other. Both vendors had blue bars on their cheeks.
“Ale’s free in the Rock,” Cormo explained, motioning to the enormous barrel with a spigot in the middle of the chamber. “Meat and milk ain’t. Prices are murderous, too. Supply and demand, Kerrigan likes to say.”
The next chamber had an uneven stage built on one side, and dozens of cushions laid out on the other for people to watch the show. Only a handful of people were in the audience, but the performers were carrying on with the enthusiasm of actors inside of a crowded Balarian amphitheater. From what Bershad gleaned during their walk though, this one was about a teenage boy who accidentally gave his sister a love potion.
Bershad was just glad the play wasn’t about him.
“Kerrigan booked a theater engagement?”
“Not exactly,” Cormo said. “We captured ’em on their way from Lysteria to Ghalamar. They didn’t have much coin, so we let ’em pay for their freedom in shows. Kerrigan offered to let them pay it off whoring—way faster, even for the men—but they refused. Artists, right?”
“Surprised they got a choice.”
“Kerrigan’s a different breed of outlaw. Everybody has a choice o’ some kind in Naga.”
“They didn’t get a choice in terms of coming here to begin with.”
Cormo shrugged. “Yeah, well. Life’s imperfect.”
The next chamber they passed was a bakery, with fresh rolls hot from an oven. The one after a smithy with more than twenty swords on offer and a hole bored straight through the ceiling that was providing ventilation. Bershad lingered beneath the hole as long as Cormo allowed, trying to get a whiff of the world above—hoping to pick up his connection to the Nomad—but the fumes from the furnace were too strong. All he got was smoke and dust.
Bershad tried to count the people they’d passed, too, but lost track around eighty or ninety. He figured about half of them were exiles.
“It really is a whole city,” he muttered.
“More like a decent port town in my opinion,” Cormo said.
Regardless of size, it was the only settlement Bershad had passed through in fourteen years where every citizen didn’t ogle him as if he was a cave goblin. Down here, with his arm covered, he was just like everyone else.
Cormo motioned down a wide tunnel as they walked past. “The children’s bunkhouses and private quarters are down that way, but you’ve slept enough for a while, I think.”
“How many children live in Naga Rock?”
“Oh, enough to cause mischief and strife amongst the rest of us. The little band of Lysterian kids stole my Balarian watch yesterday. They take pleasure in ransoming the treasures of adults back to them—practice for the corsair life ahead of them, I suppose. I’m waiting to be presented with their terms. Last time I had to show them my entire collection of golden teeth before they’d give me back my week’s portion of bread. Most people think it’s cute, but it’s a fucking pain in my ass.”
They reached a long straightaway. This stretch of tunnel had dozens of shallow chambers carved into its sides. Each chamber’s entrance was protected by a locked gate made from thick iron.
“These are the plunder rooms. Mind that your fingers don’t get sticky in here.”
Judging from the smells emanating from behind the gates, the corsairs had stolen something from every corner of Terra and packed it into a different cubby. Crates of frankincense and cinnamon filled one chamber. The next had dozens of white sacks emitting the floral smell of opium. Bear furs from eastern Ghalamar were stacked to the ceiling in another.
Past that, there was a briny tide pool filled to the brim with Pargossian blue snails. Their iridescent shells glowed in the water.
“Those little things are my favorite,” Cormo said, jerking a thumb toward the pool. “But there’s been problems with mysteriously depleted inventory. Kerrigan moved most of the stash to a deeper level and says the next man that goes for an unsanctioned snack loses an ear. Stiff price to pay for a bite to eat, but still tempting. Ears don’t really do much ’cept hold earrings. And I’m not a man who puts much stock in jewelry.”
Farther down—past a king’s ransom in rare furs, spices, and gems—there was a chamber that was twice as large as the rest. It was protected by a thick slab of steel rather than an iron gate and guarded by two stern-looking exiles in full armor. Bershad could smell the piney scent of dragon oil harvested from a Ghalamarian Green Horn wafting out from behind the steel door.
“Your outfit’s pretty successful,” Bershad said.
“Kerrigan’s got a gift for making plunder multiply. Hell, most o
f the shit we just passed wasn’t specifically stolen. We exchange our stolen loot for clean goods with proper merchant records, then trade those for an even larger profit on our way home. Kerrigan has the whole thing worked out with a bunch of customs agents in the realm. Doubles the take and halves the risk. Hard to argue with that logic, right? Look at all this shit!”
He looked around the room. Sighed happily.
“Yeah. Seems like a completely separate life when a belly full of rat meat was a good day.”
“During your exile, you mean?”
“Aye. Nasty business. Chasing lizards all day. Sleeping outside at night. No roof and no comforts. Always on the lookout for soldiers with an eye for truant lizard killers. Or just run-o’-the-mill assholes who don’t like exiles on principle.”
“You never fought a dragon?”
“Fuck no. Drew a writ for a Stone Scale up in the Razorbacks and decided to head in the complete opposite direction. My forsaken shield stole my boots while I was asleep and abandoned me. It was bad times. I was getting ready to eat my donkey when Kerrigan scooped me up.”
“What happened to your donkey?”
“Oh, he’s here with the rest o’ them.”
“Rest of them?”
Cormo smiled. “I suppose we got time for a detour.” He motioned down another tunnel. “This way.”
It only took a few dozen paces before Bershad picked up the smell of hay. That was followed by the sound of rustling hooves and hee-hawing brays. The familiar sounds put a lump in Bershad’s throat.
The passage opened into a large, well-illuminated room that had been converted into an animal pen. There were at least two scores of donkeys milling around the grounds—munching from ample piles of hay or barrels of apples. Sniffing and nipping and braying at each other.
“Where you hiding, Ghalleyhad?” Cormo called, scanning the animals. “Ghalley? Come say hello, you salty bastard.”
After a few more calls, a black donkey with white ears separated from the group and clopped over to the waiting Cormo. The corsair rubbed the donkey’s muzzle, which was peppered with gray hairs.
“Most o’ the exiles have already lost track of their mounts by the time someone from Naga finds them, but there are exceptions. Everyone’s allowed to take their donkey with them if they want. Ghalley’s food and fresh water comes outta my portion of the reavings, but I don’t mind the cost. This grumpy bastard kept me warm on more than a few bad nights.” He patted Ghalleyhad’s belly. “More than a few.”
Cormo turned to Bershad. “What was yours named?”
“Alfonso,” Bershad whispered.
“A good name.”
Cormo stood. Bershad could tell the pirate had another question coming that he wouldn’t be in a rush to answer, so he got ahead of it.
“How much further to Kerrigan?” Bershad asked.
Cormo studied Bershad a moment. Then gave a little nod of understanding. “We’re almost there. Follow me.”
They left the donkeys and moved through a few more chambers in silence before turning a corner, where the tunnel opened into a massive chamber. It was as tall as Castle Malgrave and wide as a Floodhaven city block.
Wooden scaffolding was erected everywhere, creating a complicated series of stairs and walkways that led up, down, and across the wide chasm. The cavern floor was flooded with seawater—the salty brine filled Bershad’s nose—but he didn’t see a route to the ocean. The cave must be filled by an underwater channel.
But the most noticeable part of the cavern was the structure in the center, which was suspended in the air by hundreds of hemp ropes that were pinned to the limestone walls.
The building was shaped like a massive wasp nest—conical, and wider at the top than the base. It was made entirely from cedar planks that had been molded and warped and bent, then fit together in a seamless pattern that spiraled upward.
“We call it the hive. Nobody knows who built the thing,” Cormo said, scratching his head. “Apparently, it was just floating in the water down there when Kerrigan arrived. She personally kidnapped a Balarian architect to truss the thing up like that. The onion-faced bastard said that whoever made it was a genius in terms of construction. He’d never seen its equal.”
Bershad had. But he didn’t say anything about Kasamir. No point.
“Anyway, Kerrigan likes doing the interviews in there ’cause there ain’t but one way in and out. She sleeps up there for the same reason. But if it were me, I wouldn’t get an ounce o’ rest in that contraption. I’d just be wondering if the whole thing’ll go crashing into the fucking water below at any given moment.”
“How do we get inside?” Bershad asked.
“Oh, it’s a process. Follow me.”
Cormo led him down one of the wooden scaffolds. The boards shifted and swayed from their weight. They descended until they were below the hive, then took a bridge across until they were directly underneath. The slats of the hive were made from polished cedar but had been treated with sap from a rubber tree. Bershad could smell it. There was a single, wooden trapdoor about twenty paces above them.
“Ho!” Cormo called, cupping his hands around his mouth to help his voice carry the distance. “I brought the Flawless Bershad!”
The trapdoor snapped open and a man appeared with a long-ranged crossbow—each bow limb the length of an antelope horn. Looking down the barrel of the bow made Bershad’s wounds tingle.
The sentry considered them for a long moment, then dropped a rope down, which writhed like a tree snake as it unfurled. The bottom settled so it was exactly one pace above the floorboards at Bershad’s feet.
“Kerrigan just wants Bershad,” the guard called down.
“Good,” Cormo muttered. “Hate that climb. The way the fucking rope sways is unsettling.” He clapped Bershad on the shoulder. “Good drinking with you.”
“Yeah,” Bershad said. “Thanks for pulling out some of the crossbow bolts, I guess.”
“Don’t mention it.” Cormo clasped Bershad’s hand at the wrist, then leaned closer. “Free piece of advice, though. Don’t fuck about up there. Kerrigan doesn’t suffer assholes or salty demeanors. And she keeps the best fighters in Naga Rock up there with her for protection. Might be they don’t hold a candle to your lizard-killing record, but they put in some hard, bloody work in their day, and they’ll send you down the river right quick on Kerri’s orders. That’d be a damn shame. If you get yourself killed, then all these blisters I got on my thumbs from sortin’ you out’ll be for nothing.”
Cormo held the rope as Bershad started to climb, but when he was halfway up, the rope started swaying more. He glanced down and saw that the corsair had disappeared.
The sentry guarding the hatch stepped backward as Bershad came through, the crossbow trained on Bershad’s skull.
“Gonna be honest,” Bershad said. “I’m getting real fucking sick of people pointing those things at me.”
The crossbow didn’t have all the machinery and gears like the ones Simeon’s men carried, but it was still loaded and the bolt was still pointed at his face.
“Uh-huh,” the man said. “Behave yourself, and pointing is where it’ll stop.”
He was an exile. Had such bushy eyebrows they were basically connected to his beard. He wore a scaled breastplate with no sleeves, so the five dragon tattoos on his wrist were on full display. Two Red Skulls and a trio of Blackjacks. Not bad.
Bershad figured there was a fifty-fifty chance he could snatch the bow and beat the man to death with it before sustaining a serious injury, but then he’d still be in the literal heart of a pirate hideout he couldn’t properly navigate, surrounded by talented killers.
“Where to, then?”
The man used the crossbow to motion Bershad toward a narrow wooden ladder that led to the next level of the hive. The chamber above was filled with five more armed guards sitting around the perimeter of the room. All of them with blue bars and multiple dragons tattooed to their wrists. All of them with crossbow
s of their own. They’d arranged themselves so they could fire at the ladder without worrying about hitting each other in the crossfire.
There was a small cast-iron oven with a steel kettle for tea on top that smelled of fennel and nettles. A few puffy cakes were cooling on a shelf. There was also a large basin full of fresh river water and three smoked salmon hanging on a line. The food made Bershad’s stomach turn over—he realized that he was starving.
“Keep moving,” the sentry grunted, motioning to another ladder.
The next chamber was wider still and filled with ten corsairs. The floor was covered with a soft Balarian carpet that reminded Bershad of the stuff he’d seen in the Balarian palace. Silk drapes hung on the walls and there were massive pillows laid out in small circles that could work as beds or sofas or both at the same time. A large opium pipe was placed in the middle of each pillow circle, and incense burned everywhere. The place smelled like dragon oil and myrrh.
“One more, then.” The sentry motioned to a final ladder on the far wall. He didn’t move to follow Bershad to the next level.
Bershad ascended, and found himself in a large room that seemed to be part office, part archive, and part bedroom. The chamber was illuminated by a hanging chandelier made of glass. One side was dominated by a massive wood shelf that looked like a wine rack, but each cubby was filled with a thick leather scroll. The opposite side had a simple but comfortable-looking bedroll on the floor. A few books and candles were laid out next to a buckwheat pillow.
A low, rectangular table made from polished cedar was in the middle of the room. The surface was bare except for a candle and a scroll that was weighed down by four perfectly round, black stones at each corner.
And behind the table, a woman was sitting cross-legged and marking the scroll with a quill.
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