Queen of the Depths

by Richard Lee Byers

  The declaration resolved Shandri’s doubts. If Anton’s closest ally, who was likewise the voice of a goddess and the harbinger of Shandri’s destiny, said he was in the wrong, then wrong he must surely be.

  “Yes,” Shandri said. “The spellbooks and wand go to Chadrezzan and Kassur, as their entire shares. Anton, you’ll have to content yourself with the cape. Or put it back and take something else.”

  Anton looked back and forth between her and Tu’ala’keth as if astonished they hadn’t supported him. “I planned the raid. We wouldn’t have any of this swag, not one particle of gold, if it wasn’t for me.”

  It sounded as if he were claiming to be the leader, and Shandri’s belly tightened in anger. “Everyone contributed to our success—under my direction. If you want to keep your position, remember that.”

  “Otherwise,” said Tu’ala’keth, “the Queen of the Depths will discard you and find a weapon more to her liking.”

  “To Baator with the both of you.” Anton turned toward Vurgrom, who lounged smirking as if the argument were a play staged for his amusement. “Sir, we all know you’re the one who’s really in charge. You tell us: Who’s in the right?”

  Vurgrom stroked his chin. “Well, after my famous raid on Yhaunn—”

  Velvet skirt flapping around her legs, Shandri dashed the few paces separating her from Anton. The greatsword shot up over her head. She didn’t feel she was lifting it, but rather that it flew and pulled her hands along. Yet it was nonetheless expressing her ire, and the sensation was exhilarating.

  It was only when the dark blade flashed down at her lieutenant’s head that a measure of clarity returned, and she realized she didn’t truly want to slay him. She strained to cut wide of the mark, and Anton, though startled, managed a scrambling step backward. The sword missed.

  “All right!” Anton cried, raising his hands. “If you’re willing to chop me to pieces over it, Chadrezzan can have what he wants!”

  “I—” Shandri faltered. She’d started to say she hadn’t intended to strike at him, but realized blaming it on the influence of the sword would make her seem weak. “Good. Then we can put this squabble behind us.”

  “As you say. I have my share of the loot, and I’m tired. I believe I’ll find a place to lay my head.” He turned and stalked toward the door.

  Shandri disliked seeing him depart in such a bitter mood, but knew she couldn’t call or scurry after him. That too would create the wrong impression.

  “Some of the crew,” said Anton, “wanted to burn the compound to the ground.” He emptied his mug of grog, and one of his admiring listeners refilled it, slopping a bit of the clear, pungent liquor onto his hand. “Shandri Clayhill was willing to go along with it. But I convinced everyone it would be wiser to sail out before anybody else showed up to hinder us. Besides, leave the Thayans a cozy nest to come home to, and we’d know right where to find them when we want to rob them again next year.”

  His audience laughed then fell silent as they noticed the newcomer at the fringe of the circle. Anton, too, felt a pang of surprise. Upon entering the tavern, a stuffy, murky, candlelit shack of a place stinking of spilled beer, he had, with a spy’s reflexive caution, taken inventory of the folk inside, and afterward tried to keep track of departures and new arrivals. Still, up until this moment, he hadn’t spotted the tall, lean, grizzled man fastidiously clad in blacks and grays. Either the old fellow had an exceptional talent for creeping about unobtrusively, or he employed magic to accomplish it.

  Or in all likelihood, both, for the newcomer with his wry, shred, weather-beaten face was Teldar, chieftain of the largest faction on Dragon Isle. On previous missions, Anton had seen the legendary freebooter from a distance but never up close.

  Like everyone else lucky enough to have a seat, he rose in respect. With a murmur of vague apology to the hairy, amber-eyed hobgoblin he was dispossessing, Teldar appropriated a chair and motioned for everyone else to take his ease. Peg leg thumping the floor, the tavernmaster came rushing with a straw-wrapped bottle of wine and a silver goblet. Apparently he knew from past visits what the great man liked to drink.

  The tavernmaster was no sommelier. The shaking he’d given the bottle while conveying it to the table demonstrated that. Still he evidently thought that for Teldar, with his gentlemanly airs, he ought to make an effort. He ceremoniously poured a small measure of red wine into the cup and waited for the old pirate to sip and give approval. Teldar played along with some blather about the bouquet, the aftertaste, and grapes growing on the sunny side of the hill, meanwhile giving Anton a wink. The tavernmaster limped away, beaming.

  “Aelthias sailed with me,” Teldar said, “before his injury. A mage aboard a Cormyrean Freesail pretty much burned his leg out from under him, and the healer had to cut off what was left. I helped set him up here.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Captain,” Anton said.

  Teldar waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You’re the hero of the hour, conducting a successful raid on a Thayan outpost. Or I suppose I should say, one of the heroes. I’m surprised to find you drinking with this lot, fine fellows though they are, instead of celebrating with your shipmates up in Vurgrom’s house.”

  Anton frowned as if reluctant to explain. “I had a … disagreement with Captain Clayhill.”

  Teldar nodded. “Ah. Well, of course, she’s only just assumed command of Shark’s Bliss. I suspect you’re a more experienced freebooter than she is. Though I don’t believe you and I have met before.”

  “Until recently, I sailed out of Mirg Isle. It’s just where I happened to wash up when I decided to try my hand as a gentleman of fortune.”

  “That explains it. Is Mirg Isle where you met the shalarin priestess?”

  Anton grinned. “Just how long did you lurk about listening to my tale before deciding to reveal yourself?”

  Teldar smiled in return. “You must think me a sorcerer like yourself. Not long at all, actually. But all Immurk’s Hold has at least heard rumors of the raid on the Red Wizards. It’s a shame you and your captain fell out after achieving such a coup.”

  “I didn’t want to quarrel with the bitch. I simply wanted my due.” He told the tale of his supposed grudge. “We were just talking, and she tried to cleave me in two! When what I’d asked was only the hundredth part of what I deserve!”

  Teldar sipped his wine. “What is it you think you deserve?”

  “The red caravel. Or, at any rate, some ship of my own. Naturally, Shandri Clayhill and Vurgrom would thereafter receive a share of the prizes I took.”

  “You came to Dragon Isle only a few tendays ago. Do you think anyone rises to a captaincy so quickly?”

  “I don’t see why not, if he can plan a successful foray against folk as dangerous as the Red Wizards. I’ll wager these lads would sail under my flag.”

  Tipsy with the rounds he’d bought them, a number of the pirates cried out in agreement.

  Teldar rubbed his shoulders as if trying to work out an ache. Perhaps, spry as he still seemed, arthritis had begun to trouble him. “I suppose that’s my cue to declare that if you’ll join my faction, I’ll give you a ship.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I doubt we met here by chance. I believe you have some reason for talking to me.”

  “You’re right. But it was to take your measure, nothing more.”

  “Well, then: Do I pass muster?”

  “You have courage and intelligence, qualities I hold in esteem, and ambition, one I regard with a degree of ambivalence.”

  “You must have been ambitious yourself to become the most powerful man in the Pirate Isles.”

  “But I’ve never tried to eliminate the other factions here in the Hold. Well, except for when some fool attempted to murder me. I’ve never proclaimed myself ‘pirate lord.’ I’ve never endeavored to bring the corsairs on the other islands under my sway and forge us all into one great brotherhood, a fleet to rival that of Impiltur, Sembia, or any kingdom on the Sea of Fall
en Stars.

  “I could do it even now, and some days I still feel the temptation. But I remember what happened to Urdogen the Red and his ilk. Provoke the lands we plunder, or other proud, ambitious reavers, beyond a certain point, and they’ll go to any lengths to butcher you and all who follow you. Whereas I’ve lived a lengthy, prosperous life.”

  Anton spread his hands. “I just want to be a captain like any other.”

  “The average captain avoids annoying Red Wizards. It was a splendid accomplishment, and I admire you for it, but we of Dragon Isle may yet pay a toll in blood and misery because of it.”

  “I don’t see how. We came under cover of night, aboard one of the Thayans’ own vessels, wearing their own clothes, and killed nearly everyone we found. It would be a good trick to trace us back here.” He paused a beat. “May I speak frankly?”

  Teldar chuckled. “I thought you were already.”

  “Maybe I am ambitious. I see opportunities. Of late, the gods have blessed the Pirate Isles. Dragon flights have attacked the coastal realms but left us alone. They’ve weakened our prey while we remain strong. Of course I want a ship, now, not months or years hence, to make my fortune while the pickings are easy. More than that, I want to follow a leader with the boldness and vision to commit all his strength to raid whole cities or any target a lone ship couldn’t overwhelm.”

  Now Teldar laughed outright. “Are you saying you wouldn’t condescend to accept a ship from me even if I offered?”

  “No, sir. I know you’re a great man, the most respected in these isles. Anyone would be proud to join your faction. I’m just saying I mean to look out for myself. To catch the freshest wind that blows my way and snatch every coin that rolls within reach.”

  “My house is your house,” said Teldar, “whenever you feel inclined to visit. We’ll talk further. But for now … well, I’m afraid I’ve grown too old and dyspeptic to drink the night away as a pirate should. But you young cutthroats enjoy yourselves.” He rose and dropped a handful of clattering silver on the table.

  A cool breeze blew, bearing the damp, salty tang of the sea. Lathander, god of the dawn, had just begun silvering the eastern horizon. Soon Tu’ala’keth would need her goggles. At the moment, though, they dangled from her neck beneath the hooded cloak she’d found in Vurgrom’s house. She hoped that with her face shadowed by her cowl and her crest of fin squashed down, she looked unremarkable in the the itchy, confining mantle.

  She prowled from one tavern, brothel, and gambling den to the next, most still roaring despite the hour. Anton was supposed to be in one of them, but she couldn’t go inside to find out which. Her rudimentary disguise was unlikely to deceive even the most inebriated observer at close range.

  Finally, up ahead, a big, black-haired man stumbled from a torch-lit doorway. His cape was red with strands of gleaming gray in the weave, and an octopus tattoo writhed its tentacles down his arm. He wandered into the nearest alley and relieved himself against a wall.

  Tu’ala’keth strode toward him. “Anton!” she whispered.

  His head jerked around. “Oh, it’s you. I truly must be drunk. I didn’t spot you muffled up in all that black.” He fastened up his breeches, turned, and blinked at her. “What in the name of the Lanceboard are you doing here? You and I are supposed to be quarreling, remember?”

  Anton had needed a dispute with his shipmates to create the impression he was dissatisfied. Now the other factions would seek to recruit him. In the process, they’d boast of their enterprises, and give him the opportunity to pry into their secrets. Meanwhile, Tu’ala’keth, still a prized and trusted member of Vurgrom’s organization, would find chances to investigate his activities. At some point during the course of it all, she or the Turmian would uncover information that pointed to the Cult of the Dragon’s secret lair.

  That was the plan, anyway. But it wasn’t what mattered at the moment.

  “Listen to me,” said Tu’ala’keth. “After you left, I made a point of keeping an eye on Kassur and Chadrezzan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re our enemies, and because, unlike everyone else—unlike you, obviously—they only drank a cup or two of liquor.”

  “I had to buy drinks and keep pace with everyone else. That’s how you give the impression of good fellowship. I know a charm to sober up, and I cast it from time to time. But I used up the power then still couldn’t get away.” He belched then eyed her quizzically. “You said something about Cha … Chadrezzdandan?”

  She gripped her skeletal amulet, recited a prayer, and planted her other hand in the center of his chest with its repulsive bristling hairs. The spell would purge poison from a shalarin’s system, and she hoped it would wash alcohol out of a human’s veins as well.

  Her fingers tingled and glowed blue-green, and he jerked back from her touch as if she’d struck him, banging up against the wall. “Ouch!” he said. “Thanks. That helped. Now what about the Talassans?”

  “They stayed sober and eventually slipped away from the celebration. I believe they mean to kill you.”

  “You could be right. I never spotted them peeking in at me or stalking me, but that means little. Curse it, anyway. I knew they’d try to murder one or both of us eventually, but why did it have to be so soon?”

  “Because you offended them anew, and like me, they worship a deity of Fury. Whenever possible, we act on our anger without delay.”

  “But they’ll have to delay if we can make it back to Vurgrom’s house. They can’t strike us down in front of our shipmates. The question is how to sneak there? I think, skirt the edge of town, the way we did our first day here, then come downhill.”

  “I can fill the streets with an early-morning fog.”

  He frowned, pondering, then shook his head. “No. It worked in Saerloon, but in this situation, I’m not willing to blind Kassur and Chadrezzan if it means blinding us as well. We’ll keep to the shadows and hope for the best.”

  “As you wish.”

  They skulked forward. Her pulse ticking in her neck, Tu’ala’keth peered back and forth and up and down, checking doorways, windows, the mouths of alleys, and rooftops. She told herself it was no different than playing hide-and-seek with an enemy amid the maze-like twists and cavities of a coral reef. She was not at a disadvantage in this alien environment, nor was she frightened.

  “Thanks for coming to warn me,” Anton murmured.

  “You are my partner in Umberlee’s sacred work.”

  “Right. But thank you, anyway.”

  A shadow shifted at the edge of her vision, where the stifling wool hood cut it off. She jerked around, and Anton pivoted with her. Reacting to the sudden motion, a small four-legged animal bounded away.

  “Just a cat,” Anton said.

  “I see that now,” she said stiffly.

  They crept onward. Somewhere in the ramshackle settlement, a chicken—no, the proper term, she had learned, was rooster—crowed. Up ahead, where the narrow lane intersected another, a man in rags lay motionless on the ground. Perhaps he was a reveler stupefied by drink. Or maybe someone had murdered him. In theory, Immurk’s Hold was a haven where all pirates, even the bitterest rivals, observed a truce, but as Tu’ala’keth’s own situation demonstrated, the reality was otherwise. If a reaver wished to slay an enemy, the town simply asked that he pursue the vendetta with a modicum of discretion.

  In any event, the important thing was that the human sprawled in the intersection wasn’t Kassur or Chadrezzan. He was too short and pudgy and dressed in grubby, nondescript clothing, not vestments decorated with jagged stripes and spangles or a cloak adorned with serpents. She was just about to turn her attention elsewhere when he heaved himself up into a sitting position.

  She saw then that the thing wasn’t plump but rather bloated with the progress of decay. Sores, the marks of the sickness that had ended its life, mottled the puffy, discolored face. The mouth hung open, and dark fluid had oozed forth to stain the chin. The glazed eyes were empty. />
  It was a corpse, surely reanimated by Kassur’s magic. He probably hadn’t even needed to kill it or dig it up. The inhabitants of Immurk’s Hold could be lackadaisical when it came to disposing of their dead.

  The cadaver gripped a dented tin pot in one swollen hand and a black iron skillet in the other. It fumbled them over its lolling head and banged them together. The clanking seemed preternaturally loud in the empty predawn streets.

  Anton snatched his cutlass from its scabbard. No doubt he meant to silence Kassur’s sentinel by cutting it to pieces, but Tu’ala’keth had a faster way. She gripped her amulet and willed forth a blaze of spiritual power. The corpse finished rotting in a heartbeat, corrupt flesh eroding away in strips, bones crumbling to powder.

  Still the dead thing’s sudden action had taken her by surprise, and she knew she hadn’t acted quickly enough. She turned to Anton and said, “Kassur and Chadrezzan surely heard that.”

  “I know. We need to get under cover.” He cast about.

  By making for the edge of town, they’d distanced themselves from coquina mansions, solidly constructed warehouses, barracoons, chandleries, and the like. The structures on the perimeter were a motley collection of shacks pieced together from driftwood, logs harvested from the interior of the island, and whatever other materials came to hand. Tu’ala’keth saw little reason to prefer one to another.

  “There,” Anton said and led her to the flimsiest of all. It looked as if the builder, though initially intending to erect a proper cottage, had grown slothful partway through the process. The façade and one other wall were made of wood, but the remaining two and the roof were simply flapping canvas stretched over a frame, thus creating a structure half house and half tent.

  Anton tried the door and found it fastened. He whispered his spell of opening—Tu’ala’keth found it marginally encouraging that he hadn’t squandered all his magic resisting the effects of dissipation—and on the other side of the panel, a bar squeaked as it slid in its brackets. That noise sounded jarringly loud as well, but she knew it was just because of her nerves.