Corsair (12 page)

“I think you’ve found what you’re looking for,” Hamil said. “What a charming place.”

Geran gave the knife thrower a hard look and made his way over to the bar. Hamil and Sarth followed, while the game resumed behind them. The barkeep was a balding dwarf with a striking scar across his mouth that notched his beard. He looked up at Geran with a yellow-toothed grin. “Dun’t think I’ve seen ye before,” he said. “Are ye lads from the Impilturian merchant lying on t’other side o’ the river?”

Geran was momentarily tempted to say yes just to satisfy the fellow’s curiosity, but of course he had no idea whether any of the other crewmen

were in the room. He decided that it would be best to say as little as possible. “No, we’re new in town. What do you have to drink?”

“I’ve got a keg of Hillsfar’s own Moonsea Stout tapped, and I’ll draw ye a mug for half a silver talent. Or I could find ye a bottle of southern wine, though that’ll cost ye dear. It’s hard to come by.”

“The stout, then,” Geran told him. He fished two silver coins out of the purse at his belt and handed mugs to Sarth and Hamil. His companions found stools fashioned from old barrels sawn in half around a battered old capstan salvaged from some wreck or another, and settled in to nurse their ale and observe the crowd. Geran lingered to speak with the barkeep, and motioned for him to stay a moment.

“What more are ye wantin’?” the dwarf asked.

“The warship out in the river. Who is she?”

“That would be Moonshark.”

“Is she a Black Moon ship?”

“Why, are ye lookin’ for a billet?”

“We might be.” Geran shrugged and glanced at the patrons of the taphouse. “Are any of these fellows Moonshark crewmen?”

“Dun’t think so,’ the dwarf answered. He took up a rag and started wiping down the bar; Geran decided to leave him to his work instead of pressing the question. He joined Hamil and Sarth at their table.

They drank a round, listening to the people around them. Geran and Hamil made a point of keeping up an animated discussion about various taverns in the cities of the Vast, providing Sarth with the opportunity to study their neighbors surreptitiously. The tavern-goers included seamen from the ships hidden in Zhentil Keep’s ruined harbor, sellswords on hard times, and brigands and outlaws who preferred the company of others of their kind.

After half an hour, Geran leaned in to speak to Sarth and Hamil. “I think we’ve heard everything we’re going to,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find some ofMoonshark’s crewmen on the street. We might find one that’s talkative when drunk.”

“A good idea,” Sarth agreed. The three of them drained their mugs then filed out into the dark street outside. The hour was growing late, but there was little sign of it in the pirate den. The faint strains of music still echoed across the water, broken by the occasional sound of breaking glass or a shouted oath. They headed upriver, toward the next island of lanternlight they could make out.

A door on their right burst open, and a party of boisterous men flooded out into the street. Geran halted to let them pass, but one of the men—actually a bandy-legged half-ore with one tusk at the corner of his mouth—turned and met his eyes. A dark scowl came over the half-ore’s features. “Now what d’you think you’re lookin’ at, you goat-buggering bastard?” he demanded.

Geran bit back a retort and nodded down the street with more friendliness than he felt. “Just on my way to the next taproom. Don’t mind me.”

“I’ll mind whatever I decide to mind,” the half-ore growled. The fellow’s companions—five of them—moved to surround Geran and his comrades. They were a dirty, ill-favored lot, dressed in ill-fitting leather and armed with cutlasses or cudgels at their belts. At least a couple of them seemed unsteady on their feet, more than a little in their cups, but the sallow half-ore was unfortunately not one of them. “I don’t think I’ve seen you lot ‘round here before. You ain’t in any crew I know. That means you’re mine.”

It seems we’ve seen this more than once, Hamil remarked. The halfling shifted a half step behind Geran, hiding his hands from view.

Geran glanced over his shoulder at Sarth and gave the tiefling a subtle shake of the head. “No magic,” he mumbled under his breath. Sarth scowled, but he nodded. It would be hard to masquerade as common sellswords if thunderclaps and blasts of fire erupted in the street. Then he looked back at the half-ore glaring at him. He doubted it would work, but he had to try. “We’ve got no cause to quarrel,” he said. “We’ll go our way, and you can go yours.”

The half-ore spat something in Orcish and swept out his cutlass. Geran had no idea what he’d said, but as far as he could tell negotiations were at an end, and he drew his own cutlass an instant later—nearly sticking the blade in the scabbard because the shape and weight were different from the fine elven steel he was accustomed to. The other brigands followed suit; the sound of steel rasping on leather filled the air, followed an instant later by the ring of steel on steel. Geran blocked the half-ore’s first vicious cut by passing it over his head then stepped close to smash the heavy hand-guard into the side of the half-ore’s head. The half-ore staggered back, and Geran immediately turned and leaped at the man to his right. They hacked at each other for three quick passes of steel, then Geran slashed the cutlass out of his hand with a nasty cut to the forearm. The cutlass dropped to the cobblestones with a shrill ring, and when the brigand doubled over

holding his arm, Geran surged forward and planted a boot in the center of the man’s belt. With a strong shove of his leg, he sent the wounded brigand stumbling over the side of the quay and into the water.

Sarth blocked the cudgel of the man attacking him with a two-foot iron baton—actually his magical rod, disguised by his illusion magic. Then the tiefling bludgeoned his foe to the ground with a rain of blows to the head and shoulders. Meanwhile Hamil efficiently hamstrung the swordsman moving in to attack Sarth from the side, and kicked the man unconscious when he fell to the cobblestones. “Behind you!” he called to Geran.

Geran turned and found the half-ore rushing in again despite the vicious clout he’d taken. But the fellow was unsteady on his legs, and the swordmage easily twisted aside from a clumsy thrust. This time Geran hammered the pommel of the cutlass to the nape of the half-ore’s neck as he stumbled past, and stretched him out senseless or dead on the street. He leaped over the half-ore to smash the flat of the cutlass against the skull of a brigand stabbing furiously at Sarth. The man crumpled to the ground; Sarth dealt him a heavy clout as he fell for good measure. The tiefling looked up at Geran and scowled. “My way is easier,” he muttered.

“And louder,” Geran reminded him. He straightened up and looked around, just in time to see Hamil test the balance of the dagger in his hand and let fly at the last brigand, who had turned to flee. The blade turned over three times before the pommel cracked the fellow on the back of the head and knocked him to the cobblestones. Silence fell over the scene, and Geran realized all of the brigands were on the ground or in the river. Several bystanders stood nearby, including one tall, strongly built woman with a shaven head, who had her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her own sword.

Hamil looked at the bald woman. “You want a part of this too?” he demanded.

The woman let go of her sword and held up her hand. She was no beauty; her shoulders were almost as broad as Geran’s own, and her face was square with blunt features. Geran could easily have mistaken her for a man, if not for the heroic expanse of her bosom and the fine point to her chin. “Not I, friend. I’m just an interested spectator,” she said. She looked down at the thugs on the ground and twisted her mouth into a hard smile. “Consider me impressed. You handled those wretches easily enough, although I can’t imagine why you saw fit to leave them alive.”

“We’re new in town,” Geran answered warily. “I have no idea who these fellows belong to. It didn’t seem wise to kill them without knowing who might take offense.”

“You’re a man of uncommon wisdom, then.” The woman nodded toward a ramshackle establishment on the other side of the river. “Those fellows work for Robidar. He’s the half-ore that runs the bar, festhall, and gaming hall over yonder. They’re in the habit of rolling drunks and stragglers. You’ll want to watch your backs if you stay here long. Sooner or later Robidar’s boys’ll want to even up the score.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Hamil answered. “I’m in the habit of watching my back anyway.”

“Indeed.” The woman hesitated, studying the three companions for a moment, then she spoke again. “By any chance, are you three looking for billets? I could use a few more sharp fellows who can fight like you can and have a good share of common sense too.”

“What sort of billets?” Geran asked.

“Deckhands on Moonshark. She’s the half galley tied up by the bridge, a good ship and swift. My name is Sorsil. I’m her first mate.”

Geran glanced toward the shadowed outline of Sorsil’s ship to hide his quick grin. It seemed that fortune had smiled on him. To conceal his interest, he rubbed at his jaw as if in thought. “As I said, we’re new in town. We intended to weigh a few opportunities before making any decisions.”

Sorsil gave a short laugh. “You won’t find many better opportunities, no matter how long you stay moored here. We sail under the Black Moon’s flag, my friends. Things are going well for us these days. A deckhand’s share’ll make a wealthy man of you after three prizes—maybe just one or two if they’re rich. And for men of ability, there’s even more to be had.”

Geran made a show of thinking over Sorsil’s offer, while he considered his next step. He’d hoped to catch a rumor of the Black Moon by visiting Zhentil Keep, but it seemed he’d caught a pirate ship. Now that he’d confirmed that the Black Moon Brotherhood had more than one ship at their command, he found himself wondering how many more vessels belonged to the pirate flotilla and where they might be found. He had the woman he wanted to talk to right here in front of him. The question was how to engage her without making Sorsil suspicious.

Tell her we’re interested in signing on, Hamil said silently. It can’t hurt to see what more she’ll tell us.

“That’s an interesting offer,” Geran said slowly. “But, truth be told, we’d sort of hoped to sign on with Kraken Queen.”

The bald mate looked at him oddly. “Really? Why?”

Hamil glanced up at him. You put your foot in it now. Why indeed, Geran?

Geran affected a small shrug, thinking furiously. “I haven’t heard of Moonshark before. But I know Kraken Queen took a Sokol cog just a couple of tendays ago, and it wasn’t her first.”

Sorsil shrugged. “Well, you’ll have a long wait if you hope to catch Kraken Queen in port. But she’s a Black Moon ship also, and we see her from time to time. If you can convince the captain to let you cross-deck, you might get your wish. Moonshark’s your best bet for now.”

“All right, then. I guess we’re in,” Geran said. “When do we sail, and where are we bound?”

“Good!” the mate said. “We’re sailing tomorrow morning. As far as where we’re going, that’s the captain’s business for now and none of yours until we’re at sea. Come on with me, and I’ll introduce you to him.”

Sorsil indicated the shadowed quay with a wave of her well-muscled arm, and they set off toward the slender warship lying by the ruined bridge. Geran studied the ship as they approached. Moonshark was a half galley, built for sailing instead of rowing. She was smaller than Kraken Queen, a two-master instead of a three-master, but she looked like she’d be swift and handy under oars or sail. Geran decided that Seadrake would have a hard time catching her on the open sea unless she gained the weather gauge on the pirate. Sorsil led them up the narrow gangplank and gruffly acknowledged the greeting of the deckwatch—a pair of dispirited-looking men who evidently wished they were free to spend the night in the ruined port’s taverns. The mate went aft to a companionway beneath the quarterdeck and knocked. “Captain?” she called in a low voice. “New hands.”

“What have you got there, Sorsil?” The voice was not quite human, wetter and more throaty, with a hint of a growl deep in the chest. A tall but curiously hunched figure appeared in the small companionway, ducking beneath the doorway as it stepped onto the main deck. The creature stood almost seven feet tall despite its posture, and as it moved into the lanternlight by the head of the gangplank, Geran saw that it was a gnoll—a savage beast-man with a hyena-like muzzle and a short coat of

mangy yellow-gray fur. It wore a shirt of black mail and carried a curving scimitar at its belt.

“Three hands as say they want to sign on, Captain Narsk,” the bald woman answered. “They handled a gang of Robidar’s lads well enough, and I thought you might want to meet them.”

“Rrrobidar’s men aren’t worth a cup of warm piss. Still, we need the crew, don’t we, Sorsil?” the gnoll—Narsk, Geran reminded himself—said. The mate remained silent, and Narsk paced closer, looking over the three companions. The swordmage did his best to look surly, violent, and desperate without challenging the gnoll by holding his gaze too long. Narsk twisted his lips away from his fangs and then looked down at Hamil. “The other two might do, but I don’t need a little rrrat like this one on my ship. I need fighters.”

Hamil planted his feet and looked up at the gnoll. “I’ll try any man on this ship—you included, Caprain.”

The gnoll scowled at that, but Sorsil spoke up. “He can fight, Captain. I watched him hamstring one man and kick him unconscious just as neat as you please and then knock out a second man with the pommel of a thrown dagger. He’s worth a share.”

“Rrreally?” Narsk looked down at Hamil and smiled unpleasantly. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough. If he’s not as good as you think, the rrrest of the crew’ll kill him within three days, or my name’s not Narsk. Are you still willing to sign on with Moonshark, little one?”

“I can look after myself.”

“It’s your neck.” Narsk pointed one clawed finger at Hamil. “I won’t spare a word to save your worthless life if you are wrrrong.” “What are your terms, Captain?” Geran asked.