by Mel Odom
Iakhovas replied easily. “They incurred even greater losses than your pirates, Portmaster.”
“And there’s a balance to be struck here?” Maliceprow demanded.
“They went there to go to war with their enemies,” Iakhovas said. “You went there out of greed to sack Baldur’s Gate. Even with the losses you took, you made a profit.”
Maliceprow said nothing.
“I’d call your attack a success.”
“Except that every city and country along the Sword Coast is going to be more interested than ever in the Nelanther Isles,” Falkane said.
Iakhovas smiled at the pirate captain. “I thought you took pride in the amount of the bounty offered for your head, Captain Falkane. Surely that amount will go up once the Sword Coast learns you were involved in the attack.”
A smile spread across Falkane’s thin lips. The yellow light from the lanterns mounted on the walls painted shadows on the wall behind him. He gave Iakhovas a small salute, fingers briefly touching his forehead. “A pirate’s reputation is worth its weight in gold.”
“Exactly,” Iakhovas said. “After the attack on Baldur’s Gate, all of your reputations have been enhanced, and you’ve made a profit.”
“Not enough of one,” Maliceprow growled. “I don’t give a damn that you’re supposed to be some kind of unkillable legend, Alaric. There will be an accounting here—or mayhap we’ll see the evidence of those myths.”
“I’m not a man to be pushed,” Iakhovas said quietly, maintaining his steady gaze on Maliceprow.
For a moment Laaqueel’s breath caught. She felt certain that violence was about to erupt in the galley.
After a long breath, Maliceprow leaned back in his chair and said, “Your alliance with the sea devils is of benefit to us.”
“Of course it is,” Iakhovas replied. “So far none of the pirate ships from the Nelanther Isles have been attacked by the sahuagin, or any other creature from the sea.”
Laaqueel watched as the threat rolled over the gathered captains. She saw that they understood Iakhovas wielded more power over them than they’d before believed.
“Our arrangement guarantees your continued safe passage on the seas,” Iakhovas went on. “You’re free to continue to plunder the Sword Coast, secure in the knowledge that whoever decides to pursue any of you will become targets for the sahuagin. You yourselves have no cause to worry about them.”
Maliceprow nodded slightly, but Laaqueel knew he didn’t like his position and perhaps suddenly realized how untenable it was.
“Surely that’s worth something,” Iakhovas pointed out.
“Maybe it is,” Falkane stated, “but you have to ask yourself, what’s it worth to you to walk out of this galley alive?”
Laaqueel’s heart sped up at the bald-faced threat.
Turning his head, Iakhovas stared at the pirate captain. “Your absence wouldn’t go unnoticed. You’d be a hard man to replace.”
Silence stretched in the galley, filling it. Laaqueel watched Falkane, knowing the pirate captain was fully confident enough to act.
“We want more,” Falkane said. “Your precious sea devils took things from Baldur’s Gate as well. We want a share. They don’t need all that they took.”
Maliceprow glanced at the younger man in irritation, obviously unhappy at having his authority or decisions questioned.
“Perhaps,” Iakhovas said smoothly, “it would be interesting to humble you.”
“You speak as though it could be done,” Falkane interrupted.
“But not today,” Iakhovas went on. “There’s still need of you.” He reached under his cloak and took out a green velvet bag. “All of you will have your share.” He loosened the drawstrings on the bag and poured.
Gold and silver coins spilled to the galley floor, bouncing and rolling when they hit. Gems and jewelry followed them. The bag was obviously magical because it continued to pour even though it had already emptied more than twenty times its own ability to hold.
The pirates scrambled forward, each searching through the treasures that cascaded across the floor. Only Maliceprow and Falkane didn’t move.
Iakhovas tossed the bag to one of the nearest pirates. “Hire more pirates to take the places of those you’ve lost. Build, buy, or steal more ships to replace those sitting at the bottom of Baldur’s Gate’s harbor.”
Disappointment marked the man’s face when the bag appeared to have emptied at last. When he upended it again and more valuables tumbled out, he shouted out in glee, joined by others.
“I pay my debts,” Iakhovas said, “but I also call in the favors that are owed me. Beware some of the items you find there. They’re magical in nature.” He smiled cruelly. “You wouldn’t want to destroy your ship before you return home.”
Laaqueel relaxed somewhat, surprised yet again by how easily Iakhovas manipulated those around him. Sekolah was surely watching over him, even though the Shark God had never watched over anyone.
Maliceprow watched the wealth spilling across his ship’s floor and said, “I shall look forward to continued business with you, Alaric.”
Iakhovas pushed himself up from the table and turned toward the door. “Of course you do, Portmaster. I knew there’d be no other answer.”
As Iakhovas left the room, Laaqueel lingered. She told herself it was to guard Iakhovas’s back, but she couldn’t resist a final glance into Falkane’s dark eyes. They haunted her, and she’d come to enjoy the slight shiver that look gave her.
Then she turned and went out the door as well. Despite Iakhovas’s generosity, the malenti priestess knew no love was lost between Iakhovas and Bloody Falkane.
* * * * *
Jherek dreamed, trapped by fatigue and by the fever that gripped him off and on still. Part of him knew he lay in Breezerunner’s hold and that Tynnel and most of the crew sat around him. They constantly moved and grumbled among themselves, ill at ease at being trapped in the ship’s belly where no seafaring man would want to be. He felt sunlight across his legs where it streamed down from the bars overhead.
In the dream, he was five again, running across Bunyip’s decks with a bucket of wet sand. The pirates had surprised a cargo ship that carried a surprise of its own in the form of a passenger who was a mage of some renown. It was the first time Jherek had ever seen fireballs shoot through the air. Fear filled him again, but it was more than just the fear he’d known as a five-year-old. Even though everything seemed the same, he knew it was subtly different.
The voices and sounds blurred as they sometimes did in dreams, but the images were clear, full of color. His father stood on the stern castle, calling out orders to the men working to cut the flaming rigging free to save the sails and to the men he’d assembled for the boarding party.
Jherek ran as fast as he could. Despite all the activity taking place on both decks, his father would know how he performed. Flames hugged the deck near the port railing in front of him, already blistering the finish. He threw his bucket of brine-soaked sand over it, then raced back to the large crate amidships where more was kept.
His bare feet slapped against the deck, hard and callused from not wearing shoes and working the ship. At five, he already knew how to mend sails and nets. He also worked on the cleaning crews and in the galley. Days went by in those times when he’d never spoken a word. Even then it was mostly a quickly bellowed, “Aye sir!” followed by the smart salute his father had taught him.
He dipped the bucket into the crate of wet sand, scraping it up, then hurried back to the fire. The first bucketful had smothered some of the fire, but it was still in danger of spreading.
Bunyip caught a wave crossways, wallowing in the trough of rough water for a moment. Jherek stumbled at the railing, nearly spilling the bucket of sand overboard. He fought to keep hold of it, knowing his father would punish him if he didn’t.
The pirate ship bore down on the merchantman. Bunyip closed rapidly when she got behind the other vessel and stripped the wind from her.
Jherek’s stomach twisted when he realized the killing would start soon. They had more buckets of sand for any blood that was spilled on Bunyip’s deck, and a stiff-bristled brush to scrub it away before it dried in.
Jherek tossed the sand over the fire. As he turned, Bunyip slammed into her prey with an explosive, hollow boom that splintered wood. Bunyip heeled over from the impact, then caught another crossways wave that tossed her high for a moment.
Without any chance to save himself, Jherek went over. He plummeted, splashing into the ocean. As he went under, he saw the shadowy shapes of the two ships come together again above him. Another boom, this one altered by its passage through water, crashed around him.
He kept his hand locked around the bucket. If he lost it, Bloody Falkane would whip him. Out of reflex, he tried to swim, but he was caught in an undercurrent, one of the vast movements that constantly shaped the undersea. Unable to use his other hand, he couldn’t make any headway in the water.
In Breezerunner’s brig, Jherek felt the fever cover him in a sheen of perspiration. He struggled to wake from the dream, but was trapped by it. Waiting in the back of his mind, he knew what would happen next. At five, he’d given up, unwilling to release the bucket.
Bubbles streamed from his mouth as his vision darkened. Still, he kept himself from breathing. Then, in the distance, he saw a gliding gray shape streaking toward him. All those years ago, that shape had belonged to the dolphin that had turned up out of nowhere and saved him. He’d heard the mysterious voice for the first time in his life then.
Live, that you may serve.
Now, it wasn’t a dolphin. Even though part of Jherek knew it was only a dream, part of him also knew what he was experiencing was something else as well.
The shape came closer, dolphinlike in its first appearance. It knifed through the water, and Jherek saw the hard lines of it. He remembered seeing it before, when he’d been held prisoner in Butterfly’s brig after the Amnians had discovered the tattoo he wore.
The shark was at least forty feet long, hard-muscled and gray as three-day-old death. Black lines etched its body, looking like scars at first, then becoming runes carved deep into the flesh. One eye glared at him coldly, but the other eye was gone, ripped away by claws or teeth. Still, the hollow raked him savagely with its gaze. The shark stopped, hanging motionless in the sea, the silhouettes of the two ships farther away as they continued sailing.
Don’t think to fool yourself, boy, the shark told Jherek in a cold and malevolent voice that echoed inside his head. I know about you. I’ve always known about you. Turn back while you still can.
Jherek wanted to ask the shark what it was he was supposed to turn back from, but he couldn’t. The dream had him in its thrall and fear closed his voice. He still held the bucket, unable to let it go even now. His father’s rules still controlled him.
The shark opened its mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth eight or nine inches long. It flicked its tail, speeding around him in a circle. Without warning, the shark dived for him, letting him know it was going to take him in one gulp.
Then die, boy, the shark said, that you might be eaten!
Blackness blotted out Jherek’s consciousness.
* * * * *
Coming to in the brig, Jherek wheezed and fought for his breath, drawing in great rattling draughts. He sat up, drenched in sweat from the fever. He blinked at the sunlight, finding everything too bright.
Across the brig, Tynnel looked at him but didn’t say anything.
“Are you well, lad?” Hullyn asked gruffly, leaning forward to drop a big hand across the young sailor’s shoulders.
“Aye,” Jherek croaked. “Fever took me. I’ll be fine.” The chills settled in then, racking his body. He wrapped his arms around himself.
“Here you go, lad. Have a sup of water.” Hullyn handed Jherek a metal dipper filled to the brim.
“Thank you,” Jherek said, taking it gratefully. With them traveling along the River Chionthar, freshwater wasn’t a problem. Over the days of their travel, they’d kept a barrel of water in the corner. Vurgrom’s pirates topped it off every day. Everyone knew they wouldn’t have done it on their own so the general consensus was that Sabyna had something to do with the arrangement.
“Damn blackhearts,” Hullyn grumbled. “What you need is a decent meal and some rest abed. Your melon’s coming along right fine, but being down here in this pestilence hole isn’t doing you any good.”
Jherek silently agreed. He drank the water slowly, enjoying the clean taste of it, but afraid his stomach would rebel if he gulped it down.
Food was another problem. The pirates weren’t as generous with it. Breezerunner’s crew complained about the lack of meals, but Jherek knew Vurgrom was intentionally halfstarving them to keep them weak. All they got was a thin gruel twice a day. It was lowered in a big pot from topside, and the men used cups they’d been given to drink it. Even at that, there was never enough. Tynnel rationed it out himself, seeing each man got his share.
After slaking the fever-induced thirst, Jherek thanked Hullyn again and passed the dipper back. He tried not to think about the dream, but there was nothing else to think about. He’d dreamed about sharks before—every sailor did—but this was twice he’d dreamed about this monster shark.
Silently, he rested his head and forearms on his folded knees while he prayed to Ilmater, seeking solace in the Crying God’s words. Only there was no solace. He sat trapped, and that was unbearable.
The despair in the brig soaked into him, ground into him with the filth that had accumulated after days of captivity. A large kettle from the galley served as the communal chamber pot and the smell from it pervaded everything. None of them had been allowed baths.
For some, Jherek knew, that was no real hardship because they didn’t bathe often anyway, but he did. After having escaped his father’s ship when he was a boy and making his way to Velen, he took pride in his cleanliness and manners. Those had been acquired things, things the wolfish boy who had run Bunyip’s decks with sand buckets had never possessed.
The shark’s voice echoed in his mind again. Why had it warned him? And turn back from what? There wasn’t anything he could do about his present course.
He pushed the thought out of his mind but found himself occupied with the missing pearl disk. He’d been wrongfully given it and hadn’t made sure the old priest had taken it back.
Then he’d lost it.
“Hey,” someone said, “look.”
Attracted by the prospect of a diversion, Jherek glanced up. Above them, a rat clung to one of the iron bars covering the hold. Short black fur covered it except for the pale pinkish-gray tail, resembling any of the rats that were the bane of cargo ships. It wasn’t unusual to see them aboard ship after spending any time in a city. Most of the time they crawled along the hawser ropes and onto the vessels.
“Foul creature,” Aysel snarled as he stood.
The rat only eyed him curiously instead of running. The behavior gained it even more of Jherek’s attention.
Aysel limped over to the center of the hold and took off one of his dagger earrings. Gripping it in his hand, he leaped up the short distance and caught hold of the bar with the other hand. Jherek already knew first hand how strong the man was, so he wasn’t surprised when Aysel was able to hang onto the bar and prepare to strike the rat with the tiny dagger.
“Leave it alone,” one of the men said.
“To hell with you,” Aysel spat. “That there’s meat on the hoof, way I look at it.”
The thought almost turned Jherek’s already feverish stomach.
Aysel swung the dagger, but the rat hopped to another bar and avoided the blow. Instead of running, it stuck its nose down to the bar and walked along its length in agitation.
A chill touched Jherek as he realized what must be going on. Fighting the weakness and the fever that clung to him, he pushed himself to his feet and slammed into Aysel as the man prepared to strike again.
Aysel fell off-balance and started cursing. He pushed against the wall and came back at Jherek with the small knife clenched in his fist.
Jherek blocked the blow. “Don’t! You don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty!” Roaring in rage, Aysel tried another blow, this one coming from underneath.
Jherek stepped outside the blow and slapped Aysel’s hand away. From the corner of his eye, he spotted one of the pirates approaching the hold. The man had a cutlass in his hand. When he spotted the rat, the pirate swung the blade.
“Jump!” Jherek said.
The rat flung itself from the iron bar, dropping into the brig. The pirate’s sword knocked sparks from the iron. Reaching out, Jherek caught the rat in his arms.
The pirate leered down into the hold. “See you bastards are keeping proper company, ain’t you?” He cackled at his own joke and walked away.
Aysel came at Jherek again, but Captain Tynnel caught the man roughly by the neck and yanked him off his feet. Aysel fell against the wall, squalling in anger.
“Don’t move,” Tynnel ordered Aysel.
“Bastard took my rat,” Aysel said.
“That’s no rat,” Tynnel said calmly.
In the next instant, Jherek had both arms full of lithe feminine flesh.
XIII
7 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet
“Leaving, are ye? And just like that? With no fare-the-well?”
Pacys looked up from securing his backpack and saw Khlinat standing in the doorway. The dwarf had been generous enough to loan him the couch while they searched for the boy. The old bard had put the bedding away and packed his things. “Yes. I was going to leave a note.”
Khlinat’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh, and ye are in a hurry too.”
“Yes.”
“Do ye know where the swabbie is?”
“No, but I’ve found out where I’m supposed to be,” Pacys replied. He pulled the backpack up and settled the straps over his shoulders. “I have to trust that our paths will intersect again as they’re supposed to.”
“I’ve continued poking me nose into places around the city, but I’ve yet to find a solid lead.”
