Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (24 page)

He had no second thoughts to the man’s character. If
nothing else, Andur practically worshiped him and obeyed him unquestioningly.
The problem was what to do with him aboard ship. He was too gullible for a
bodyguard, too easily confused to be a combatant. Best he could think of was
cabin boy, a position usually held by a boy of ten or twelve years. Perhaps he
could be taught knots?

Denrik turned his from his musing and surveyed them from
where he sat, perched on a rock with the farthest trickles of the waves lapping
around it. They were all a bit nervous about being away from the cliffs, where
they were better hidden, but Denrik liked being by the water. He knew when the
ships would be passing; another trade ship would be hauling anchor in an hour
or so, then at dusk, the fishing vessels would make port with their day’s
catch.

The rest amused themselves as they were able, safe in
the shadows of the cliff face. Andur and Tawmund played at checkers, a painful
sight to watch as the two men agonized over each move for minutes on end before
making a completely pointless move. Grosh napped in the sand, with a sack for a
pillow. Jimony whittled at a piece of driftwood with a knife Stalyart had left
them along with a number of other basic supplies. Denrik narrowed his eyes.
Particularly after his recent musings, the sight of Jimony with a knife in his
hand sat ill with him.

Turning back to look out to sea, Denrik listened to
the waves and sighed again. Men he might have, and few as they were, but he was
even shorter on brains. Stalyart was as good a man as he had sailed with, and
he had some hopes for the man’s half-brother; ties of blood and a history of
naval service were good signs. The handpicked men from Stalyart’s merchant crew
worried him only slightly. Normally he would be concerned that their loyalties
to their former captain might be the ideal catalyst for a mutiny, but Stalyart
would have none of that. A man who had gone to such lengths would not throw all
his work away just to kill him and take his ship. Would he? Denrik shook his
head. He was too far gone now to do this without Stalyart. If he played some
deeper game and intended treachery, Denrik would deal with it when the time
came—and in both worlds.

Denrik sat there until the time came to withdraw from
sight of the shipping lanes, then got up and waded through the incoming tide to
where the rest of them were sheltered. He said nothing to them and got nothing
but a couple glances of mild interest from them in return. They were growing
weary of each other’s company in the cramped beach hideaway. They were all so
close to freedom, but for the time being, they felt more trapped and cornered
than they had on Rellis Island. At least there they had the certainty of a long
prison sentence and no thoughts of a new life right around the bend to tease
them with its closeness.

Denrik went to his things and took up a pack that
Stalyart had brought earlier in the day. Unbuckling the flap, he began removing
the contents. There was a well-worn set of tunic and breeches in a drab
greyish-brown, a pair of soft-soled boots, a long, heavy black coat with a high
collar, and a knit woolen cap dyed dark grey. There was also a small purse.
Denrik took a quick look inside and estimated it contained about two hundred
eckles, enough for a quick bribe or a couple good meals; it was contingency
money for unplanned expenses. The last item in the pack was a small empty
sheath, with a strap for buckling it around a wrist or ankle.

Denrik strode across the campsite to where Jimony sat
whittling.

“Give me that,” Denrik ordered as he snatched the
knife from Jimony’s hand.

Jimony did not resist, just shrugged and gave a
sheepish grin. Denrik shoved the knife in its sheath and secured it around his
left wrist.

In front of everyone, for they had long gotten over
embarrassment of such things in each other’s company, he changed into the
clothing Stalyart had provided, save for the coat and hat.

“What’s all that for?” Grosh asked, obviously not as
sound asleep as he appeared to be, and he sat up. One side of him was covered
in sand that had stuck to him as he lay on the beach.

“I do not fancy sailing with men I have never met, let
alone stealing a ship with them and risking our lives with them. I am heading
in to Scar Harbor to meet with Stalyart’s men and his brother. I will take my
measure of them and make sure they can be trusted.”

Denrik had no reason to keep this information from
them. They were not going to meet anyone whom they could betray the plan to,
even accidentally.

“Don’t that seem a bit dangerous?” Andur asked. “I
mean, we’s hiding here, so them don’t find us. Won’t they find you if’n ya go
right to ’em?”

“I will be disguised, and I am going after nightfall.
Besides, people know me by name and reputation; few have seen me face-to-face.
While I am gone, I am leaving Grosh in charge. Grosh, just … do not do
anything, alright? Keep everyone tucked away here until I return.”

*
* * * * * * *

Denrik left the camp shortly after dusk. The tide was
low and he took the opportunity to skirt the shoreline rather than scrambling
up the cliff wall. There were handholds aplenty, but Denrik was not as young as
he once was and preferred the easier route. If the meeting lasted long enough,
he might miss his chance to take the same route back before the tide came in,
but he would sail that strait when he came to it.

He was dressed in the outfit left by Stalyart. Even in
the late spring, nightfall by the water’s edge brought a chill, especially so
far north. He would not look out of place dressed as warmly as he was, and the
hat and coat did much to obscure him when the coat’s collar was turned up. The
idea was for him to look like an old dock hand. He supposed from his long years
of labor and sunburn, he probably looked the part better than if he had tried
dressing up as a pirate captain. His cheekbones stood out against a more gaunt
face than they had when he was living like a king out on the seas, and his
stubble was half gone to grey, making him at once look both older and unkempt.
He still had a hard, alert look about him, a slight forward lean, and a gaze
that swept frequently out to the sides, which gave the impression of a
predator. Old man or not, he was unlikely to be trifled with as he approached
the roughest part of one of the tamest cities in the kingdom.

The shoreline was alternately rocky and sandy, with
plenty of room to maneuver at low tide. Keeping his hands tucked into the
pockets of his jacket, Denrik made good time along the water’s edge as he
approached Scar Harbor’s docks from the south end. Scar Harbor was not
naturally a deep-draft port, but a ways out, the shelf dropped off drastically.
The piers, therefore, had been built unusually long, and much of the dockside was
actually built up on stilts, below the high-tide mark, so as to be closer to
where the boats docked.

As Denrik grew nearer to the city itself, he could see
plenty of activity. The fishing vessels had come in and were busily unloading
their catch—plain fish that would be rendered into oil, made into stews, and
sold in poor to fair restaurants. The finer establishments got their fish from
some smaller ships that hauled earlier in the day, bringing fresh catches just
in time to be prepared for midday and evening meals. The boats that were
unloading now were the workhorses of the Katamic, filling the fishmongers’
stalls for the common folk to buy from.

Denrik approached the building nearest to the sand, a
warehouse right on the edge of town. There was a short ladder up to dock level
from the beach. It was good and solid, built from a pair of thick timbers
running vertically, with thinner rungs poked through both and lashed into place
with rope. The rungs looked newer than the rest of the ladder and the rest of the
docks in general, which sported a weathered, grey look. It seemed that the
rungs saw much use and spent high tide below the waterline, and so were made to
be replaced as needed, and had been changed rather recently. The smell of fresh
pitch wafted from the rungs as Denrik scampered up them and to the warehouse.

Men were all about, hefting large baskets of fish from
the boats at anchor and hauling them to the front of the warehouse, where they
would be picked up in the morning to be taken to market. They were a mix of
locals and foreigners, with various accents heard as they shouted to one
another while the foreman directed the flow of men and baskets within the
warehouse and just outside it. There was a stink like a fishery about, but like
many smells the past few days, Denrik found it nostalgic and welcome. He picked
his way through the bustle, keeping out of the way as best he could as he made
his way through, and then out onto the docks.

“Eh, watchyer!” one exclaimed as Denrik jostled him.

A quick glare was all he received in return, but the
man—a pale, haggard, and stout man of middle years, a lower-class Hurlan by his
accent—made eye contact with Denrik, and the one look was enough to shut the
man up. One did not make a living on the outskirts of respectability by failing
to identify truly dangerous men. There was a manner and look about them that
weak men heeded instinctively as a warning sign, and that Denrik had from keel
to crow’s nest.

Denrik made his way down the docks and glanced at the
ships as he passed. Most were unremarkable—merchants, traders, fishermen, a
pleasure yacht or two belonging to a nobleman—but there was one he had to see.
He knew where it was berthed and could see its masts from farther down the
dock, but he had to get a good look. There it was,
Harbinger
, the ship
he would make his own. It had docked just that morning, and there were men all
about it even at the late hour. Some made repairs to the rigging and to the
sails that had been taken down and lay upon the deck. Crew came and went,
mostly departing for shore leave to take advantage of the brothels and taverns
in the vicinity of the waterfront. He walked down the pier to have a better
look, trying to look like he belonged among the workers.

It was a fine ship. The navy had taste and style, he
would grant them that much. It was a long, sleek vessel with high masts sure to
catch any wind it could find. The double gun decks particularly drew Denrik’s
eye, since its firepower was one of the chief reasons he was so eager to have it.
The new long guns would almost certainly not have been delivered yet; he would
have to be certain of that delivery before he made his move. It would be a pity
to capture the vessel before its latest armaments became available.

“You there, move along,” a voice called down from the
deck. “This is an Acardian Navy vessel, not a statue.”

Denrik glanced up to see a figure in lieutenant’s
regalia staring down at him from over the rail.

“Shur fine ship, sir.” Denrik faked a generic
“foreign” accent. “Din’t mean nuttin’ by it.”

With that, he lifted his hand to his cap as if to tip
it—though knitted caps were notoriously difficult to tip—and turned to walk
away. Under his breath, he added, “Be back to collect her soon enough. You just
finish patching her up.”

Denrik made his way to The Drunken Squid, a rough,
rowdy watering hole favored among seafaring visitors to Acardia. Some locals
favored it as well, but mostly due to the motley assortment of characters they
met there. It was a place where friends were made over pints of ale barely a
step above piss, and business was conducted by men who wanted lots of people
around as witnesses, lest they catch a knife in the gut when negotiations went
sour. The Squid had a fanciful carved sign hung out front, depicting a whimsically
rendered squid hoisting several foaming tankards and sporting a look that could
best be described as “lecherous.” There was no mistaking it for a high-class
establishment, and neither the owner nor the patrons would have wanted it
otherwise.

Denrik entered through the wide-open door, which
despite the chill outside, was left ajar to vent the heat and smell of many men
crowded into tight quarters inside. The din inside was typical of any place
where many congregated to socialize, though perhaps a bit louder. The decor was
nautical, with unfinished wood weathered to a grey-brown and cargo netting hung
up in the rafters, and fish mounted along the walls on plaques. The tables and
chairs were of an extremely simple and sturdy design, meant to survive the
occasional brawl or at least be easily replaced afterward.

Among the tables of men waded a handful of
battle-hardened barmaids. No fairy-tale princesses among them, the women who
served drinks in the Squid were sturdy, no-nonsense sorts. Though they dressed
with skirts and low-cut bodices, they were as ready to deliver a tankard upside
the head as they were to serve it, should the need arise. Men starved for
feminine attention tipped well, even when they were not wealthy, but those
seeking such tips earned them many times over with the mischief they had to put
up with to get them.

Denrik picked his way among the tables to a back
corner where he saw Stalyart seated with a number of men he had never met.
There was an empty chair—no small feat itself on a busy night—and it was the
one directly in the corner of the taproom where its occupant could not be
approached from behind. Denrik squeezed his way around the wall and to the seat
that had been saved for him.

“Mr. Stalyart,” Denrik said with a simple nod of acknowledgment.