Neither one of them noticed the pale form that slid out of the rocks on the island and dived into the water, nor did they see that same form glide through the water behind the boat all the long way to the northern shore of Blood Bay.
If Flotsam bore a resemblance to a heap of debris washed ashore after a storm, Dead Pirate’s Cove looked like a ship’s graveyard. The cove itself was a difficult place to find, for its narrow entrance was protected on the east by a high ridge of barren hills and on the west by a saltmarsh that clogged the mouth of a narrow sluggish river. In more prosperous years, pirates had used the river and its marshy delta as a hide-out and had left remnants of their passing: a few old shacks on the dunes north of the marsh, an abandoned longboat, the burned ruins of a galley, its blackened ribs still poking though the sand. It wasn’t until Captain Grimborne Reever arrived, however, that the cove earned its accepted name.
Legend told of Captain Reever’s magnificent treasure and how he hid it in chests ensorceled with spells and buried it somewhere in the cove. It was no sooner buried than he poisoned his entire crew and left their bodies as guardians for his fabulous prize. Unfortunately for Captain Reever, the dead pirates resented their captain’s greed and bloody-minded selfishness, and their spirits harried him until, in a fit of madness, he drove his ship aground on the mud flats and ran screaming onto his sword. After that people still came to Dead Pirate’s Cove to hide or escape, but more came to hunt for the treasure. A few old pirates, seeing the way the wind was blowing after the arrival of Malystryx, took their ships to the cove, hauled them ashore near Captain Reever’s abandoned craft, and formed their own small settlement. It was rough, it was crude, but it was theirs. Others joined them, and in time the settlement became a village of sorts with its own collection of taverns, gaming houses, shops, and houses built out of pieces of old ships, mud and reed, or whatever was handy. If anyone ever found the captain’s treasure, they never confessed, for their lives would not be worth a bucket of warm spit. The red dragon had spies everywhere and would know of the find before the first piece of steel or the first gem reached the light of day. Of course, that knowledge did not stop people from hoping—or looking on moonlit nights.
A few small boats and an old caravel were anchored in the cove when Ulin and Notwen arrived late that night. They maneuvered the Second Thoughts past the sandbars and the anchored craft and took her to the sole pier that extended out from the marshy shore into the water from a boardwalk worn gray by time and salt spray.
The strange noises emanating from the steam engine drew a small crowd from the boardwalk and the shacks that lined the cove’s so-called waterfront. The spectators held torches and lanterns and made vociferous comments on the noise, the steam, the smoke, the reliability, and the appearance of the little craft.
Notwen blithely ignored them. While Ulin jumped to the dock and tied the boat fast, the gnome shut down the boiler, released the steam, and banked the fire.
“Suffering seahorses!” a gruff old man shouted from the boardwalk. “What do you call that thing?” He limped down to the dock, his lantern swinging beside his wooden leg.
Notwen stepped out of the cabin and drew himself up to his full height of three and a half feet. “It is a fire-powered hot box and boiler with a steam-driven rod and gears that convert vertical motion to horizontal motion through a system of shafts and cogs that turn a paddlewheel, making sails obsolete.”
The old man on the dock stared down at him. “Forget I asked.” He turned to Ulin, hoping for briefer answers. “This is my dock. You have to pay to tie up here.” Ulin gave him the response he wanted by pulling out his coin bag and paying the full amount without a quibble. The old man cheered up enough to recommend an inn when Ulin queried. “The Loathly Dragon,” he grunted. “It’s the only inn in this mud hole.”
Ulin, with Notwen close behind, followed the old man along the dock and up a slight incline to the boardwalk. The crowd, unable to see very much in the darkness, quickly broke up and went off to their previous pursuits. With a gnarled finger, the old man pointed the way to the inn then quickly ducked into his hut and slammed the door. Ulin immediately understood why people did not linger in the open in this place. The proximity to the marsh made the settlement a prime lure for mosquitoes and biters of every kind. Smoking torches burned along the paths and at the edges of the village, but nothing seemed to slow the clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed everywhere.
Ulin squinted and fanned his face as he hurried toward the inn. There were no roads laid out in this haphazard community and no real planning. Paths followed the layout of the buildings and branched off in every direction. Sidewalks had been built over the muddy places and here and there a rope bridge stretched across the open spaces between the old ships or the few two-story buildings. There were few lights to attract insects, and all the doors were closed. Those windows that were open to catch the light wind were screened with layers of cheesecloth or netting.
At the edge of the settlement, Ulin saw the Loathly Dragon perched on a foundation of old pilings. It was a squat, solid building made of thick stucco and mud bricks to withstand storms and heavy winds. Shutters covered the windows, and a wide porch stretched across the front. Someone with a sense of humor had painted the face of a large red dragon on the white stucco around the door to give the impression that guests entering the door were walking into the mouth of a dragon.
He and Notwen entered the inn, closing the door behind them. Customers in the busy common room barely paused to study them before they went back to their drinking and entertainment. The innkeeper came to offer his services. Yes, he had one room left, his best. He asked a ridiculous price, but Ulin was too tired to haggle. He needed sleep, and he wanted to be up early to begin their search for Kethril. He paid for the room, two nights in advance, and asked for a tankard of ale to be sent to their room. Notwen asked for cider. Smiling at such generosity, the innkeeper escorted them to the room personally and delivered not only the drinks but thick, hearty sandwiches as well. The two travelers partook of their meal, crawled under the mosquito netting on the bed, and fell into a deep, well-earned sleep.
You slimy sack of rotten squid squeezings!”
“Squid squeezings? Squid squeezings!”
Lucy heard the words repeated in rising tones of rage. She hurried faster along the sidewalk. This was the second time in one day she had been forced to go to this particular gambling house to quell a disturbance. It was getting tiresome. She pushed open the swinging doors and marched inside, her face a mask of displeasure. To her silent gratification, the shouting in the crowded room suddenly stopped. Only the two quarrelers did not seem to notice her presence. They fought with fists and feet in a scrabbling pile on the floor. Lucy strode forward and wrenched the two fishermen apart. She had learned in her brief tenure as sheriff that common sense, fairness, firmness, and an unbreachable façade of self-confidence were the best measures to deal with the denizens of Flotsam. If she slipped with the slightest hint of self-abasement, they would chew her up and spit her out for fish bait. Once again her attitude paid off, for the two men looked up at her wide-eyed and made no more attempts to smash each other’s heads on the floor.
She stood, her feet apart, hands on her hips, and glared at the owner of the house. She wore what she considered to be her uniform, a dark blue pair of baggy pants, a loose, dark tunic belted at the waist, and her Vizier’s Turban, which took delight in matching its color with her mood. At that moment it was a somber shade of steel blue like a thundercloud. Its diamond eyes flickered with distant lightning.
“Andur,” she spoke sharply to the owner. “I will not tell you again. If you cannot keep the peace in your house, I will close it down.”
Andur, a thin short little man, bowed to her, although his sharp, narrow eyes watched her constantly. “I do apologize, Sheriff. My bouncer quit two days ago, and I have not been able to find another.”
“No more excuses. This is your business. You should be able to handle
your own problems. If you need a bouncer, hire one of these louts.” She pointed to the fishermen on the floor. “They seem to have plenty of free time and muscle.”
“I’ll take it!” one of the men said eagerly. “I need another job.”
“No! I’ll take it!” his belligerent opponent insisted. This man had obviously had too much to drink. He pushed himself to his feet and stood swaying in front of Lucy, his expression bellicose.
Lucy curled her lip. If she had a match, she thought, she could set fire to his breath. “Step back,” she said calmly.
Instead he stepped closer and loomed over her like a large wall. She suddenly realized how big and solid this young man was, and how drunk. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary. Spittle dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, and he could barely stand upright. It seemed only his animosity kept him on his feet. “I don’ like you,” he slurred in a loud voice. “You come ’ere and start ord’rin’ people around. You’re a nuisance, a squeakin’ little female with a fancy hat. I could crush you like a bug.” So saying he drew back his fist.
The other fisherman lunged at him, but he was too far away to reach the man in time.
Lucy had only a second or two to react. She raised her hand and murmured her spell, praying to herself that it would work this time. She had practiced it time and again in the privacy of her room until the words and the manipulation of the power were instantaneous, yet in spite of all her practice, she could only make the spell work in about half the attempts. She would not know if it had worked this time until the man’s fist stopped or struck her. Using all of her self-control, she stood still and watched his huge knuckles coming toward her face.
She felt the Vizier’s Turban suddenly quiver, and the glorious flood of magic flowed through her, enhanced by the creature’s innate ability. Half a moment later the man slammed his fist into an invisible wall, mere inches away from her nose. A slow creamy smile spread across Lucy’s face. One never knew when a mage’s shield would come in handy.
The man’s features screwed up into a grimace of surprise and agony. Dumbfounded, he dropped to his knees in front of her, cradling his hand and blubbering. The crowd looked at her in awe.
Lucy felt the Vizier’s Turban snuggle closer around her head. If it had had vocal chords, it would have been purring. Instead, it thought to her, Nice spell. Good magic. May we do it again?
She reached up to tuck a strand of hair back under the turban and gave it an affectionate pat. Thank you, Vizier. We will try again soon. Although these silent conversations with her hat seemed odd, she was beginning to enjoy it.
The first fisherman reached his companion and hauled him to his feet. “I’m really sorry, Sheriff. He gets this way when he’s drunk.”
“If you want the job, get him out of here,” snapped Andur. “Then come back. We’ll talk.”
Lucy quickly dispelled her shield and gestured to the door. “Take him to the jail. Someone can look at his hand, then he can dry out in one of our cells.”
Laughter lightened the tension in the room. She nodded to the owner and strode outside into the early evening. It wasn’t until she had walked several blocks away that she ducked into a shadowy alley, leaned against a wall, and took a deep, cleansing breath. Oh, gods, what if that spell hadn’t worked?
She heard someone walk into the alley behind her and clear his throat. Startled, she pushed away from the wall and turned to face the interloper, her hand reaching for her dagger.
Lysandros touched his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. His tanned face split in a wide grin, and he said, “Sorry to surprise you. Having a rough day?”
Lucy leaned back against the wall with a little laugh. “You wouldn’t believe. And I thought this job would be easy.”
“There’s nothing easy about this town.” He jerked a thumb toward the street. “Do you have time to take a break? There’s a little place around the corner that sells the best cider and fried pies.”
She nodded, grateful for his invitation. “I’d love some kefre. Surely this place won’t fall down in the next twenty minutes or so.” In the dim light of the alley she thought she saw a strange expression cross his face that looked to her like regret and pain, then it was gone and she wondered if she had seen it at all.
They walked side by side along the sidewalk to the next street over and, as the half-elf had promised, found a small bakery that sold fried pies, kefre, and cups of cooled cider. Taking their treats outside, they sat on a bench beside the shop where they could see the people passing back and forth and enjoying the cooler breeze from the sea.
“So tell me about your day,” Lysandros suggested.
Between bites of her pie, Lucy described her very long and stressful day. “We started this morning making visits to those people I had received complaints about—the widow and her grape-eating goats, the tenants with no rent, the merchants with the overweight scales … the list seemed endless. Then I had to sit on Mayor Efrim’s court and listen to more complaints. Then I had to stop several fist fights, arrest four drunks, and stop a horde of Khurs who thought it would be funny to gallop their horses down a busy street and scare everyone.” She shook her head. “I will never again take the town guards in Solace for granted.”
A faraway look came into his pale eyes. “Solace,” he murmured. “I’ve only been as far as Khuri-Khan. Tell me about Solace, and every place in between.”
So she did. While the night crept over the town and the lights and torches began to glow like stars, she told him about the vallenwoods and the town of Solace that grew up in the branches of the great trees. She described the Academy of Sorcery and its fall—without mentioning her connection to the Majere family—and she talked about Schallsea and Sanction and the long trek across the eastern wastelands. He sat enthralled, asking questions once in a while and gazing at her mobile face.
When she finally wound to a stop and sat quietly beside him, she felt much better. Her body had relaxed, and her mind had had a chance to look elsewhere for a while. She turned to thank him and saw again that strange look of regret.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, as if to himself.
“Talking and eating pies?” she exclaimed, astonished at his reaction. “It was your idea.”
Her words snapped him out of his reverie, and his charming smile came flashing back. “Not this at all, my Lady Sheriff. This has been a treat and a pleasure. Thank you. Nevertheless”—he bounced to his feet—“duty calls. I received word earlier today that another caravan is headed our way. We must leave to keep watch for it. I came to tell you that patrols have been sent out to seek word of your father, and if I hear anything, I will send word.” He bowed over her hand and strode away, his dark robes billowing in the night wind.
She watched him until his form disappeared in the darkness. What was that all about? Why did he seem upset about something? She climbed slowly to her feet and filed her concern away for later when she had the leisure to ponder it. Lysandros was an enigmatic, complicated character, and a busy one at that. Perhaps he would tell her in time what was bothering him.
“Lucy! Lucy!” A high-pitched, kender voice interrupted her thoughts. It was Pease, on duty with her that day. “Lucy, there you are!” he cried, sliding to a stop in front of her. “One of the shopkeepers caught two kender pocketing some of his wares. He wants you to arrest them this instant. I know them. They wouldn’t steal.” He grabbed her hand and tried to drag her along the street.
Lucy sighed, envisioning a long and vociferous argument between the aggrieved shop owner and the kender. There went her hopes for a quiet evening.
Lucy’s third and fourth day as the Sheriff of Flotsam went much like the first two. She was busy from sunrise to late in the night, when she could finally stagger to her bed in the Jetties and sleep for a few hours before starting again. The council and the mayor helped her as much as they could, and the Vigilance Force acted as invisible guards around the town, but there was only so much they co
uld do. Most of the responsibility of keeping the peace fell on Lucy and her deputies. Challie had become her right hand, keeping notes, filing complaints, collecting fines, and running the organization of the Sheriff’s Office. Pease and his friend Cosmo were Lucy’s eyes and ears. They were familiar with almost all of the permanent residents of Flotsam. They recognized the strangers and knew almost everything that went on in the town. They also took care of the prisoners in the cells, brought food from the inn, and ran errands. Lucy didn’t know what she would have done without any of them.
In making her mental list of beings she was indebted to, she felt she should also include the bay horse and the Vizier’s Turban. The big bay from Sanction still favored his hip where the Dark Knight’s dagger wound was slowly healing, yet he carried Lucy without complaint and exhibited a resigned patience whenever she left him at a hitching post. She didn’t bother to tie him. She just flipped the reins over the bar and left him to wait, knowing he would still be there when she returned. He saved her hours of walking and served as a good listener when she needed someone to hear her complaints without interruption.
As for the turban, it served as a constant reminder to the townspeople of Lucy’s authority and power. More than one perpetrator backed down when faced with the turban’s glittering eyes and changing colors. To Lucy, its friendly, enthusiastic presence was a balm to her feelings whenever one too many irate persons yelled at her or called her some ugly name and she was tempted to let her fury explode. Not only could it sense her strong emotions, it seemed to have the ability to soothe them if it desired. Already, after only four days, she was ready to pledge her eternal gratitude to Notwen for his gift of the turban.
She tried not to think of Notwen and Ulin very often. They were always in the back of her mind, of course, but if she let them into the mainstream of her thoughts, they stayed there like large boulders, blocking everything else, and she found herself distracted, irritable, and intensely worried. She should have been used to Ulin’s absences by now, but she missed him this time more than ever before and yearned for his quiet, comforting presence. She could only hope he would return to her soon, with or without her father.
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