Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 (24 page)

He smiled, displaying teeth that still very much resembled those of a shark. He was looking forward to his next lesson.

Later that night in Kolbyr’s palace, Diran, Ghaji, and the others slept in comfortable—if not quite luxurious—rooms provided for them by a grateful Baroness Calida. The captain of the
Turnabout
had been only too happy to accept Calida’s money, and they would be embarking for Trebaz Sinara at dawn’s first light. Everyone had turned in early, agreeing they should all get a good night’s rest before they set out on the morrow. Each companion had his or her individual room, save for Solus who had no need of sleep. The psiforged stood outside in the inner courtyard, watching heated water bubble forth from the enchanted fountain as he used his psychic abilities to cleanse the last traces of Fury from the palace.

Sometime near midnight there was furtive movement in the palace corridors, followed by two knocks—one on Diran’s door, and one on Ghaji’s. Both doors were opened, guests were welcomed, and four people got little sleep that night.

And hundreds of miles to the north in a frozen palace made of ice and bone, a claw-like hand stroked the pate of a glossy black skull, and a pair of bloodless lips stretched into a satisfied smile.

Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.

S
o when am I going to meet Captain Onu?” Diran asked.

“I’m not sure you want to,” Ghaji replied. “He … takes some getting used to.”

Diran gave his friend a quizzical look, but Ghaji just shook his head. “It’s difficult to explain. You’ll have to experience the good captain for yourself. As for his first mate Thokk … well, he’s as night to the captain’s day. Where Onu is honey-tongued and effusive, Thokk is plain-spoken and all business.” In fact, it was the dwarf who’d negotiated the terms of their passage while Onu drank ale and regaled the tavern-goers with sea stories, each more outrageous than the last.

It was an hour after sunrise, and the
Turnabout
sailed eastward into the Gulf of Ingjald, Kolbyr little more than a speck in the distance off their aft bow. The slate-gray surface of the Lhazaar was choppy today, but not so bad that the galleon rode rough across the water. A strong wind blew from the northwest, filling the three-master’s sails with bitterly cold air that seemed to waft straight down from the Fingerbone Mountains. Gray clouds blocked the sun, casting an oppressive pall over the
Turnabout
. The crew worked in silence for the most part, men and women making a point of staying out of each other’s way as they tied lines, worked sails, scraped ice
from deck planking, any of the thousand and one never-ending tasks that defined a life a sea as much as the motion of the waves and the tang of saltwater in the air. The crew were of various races, which was unusual for the Principalities, where ships were manned primarily by humans. There were a scattering of half-elves and gnomes and—despite his people’s dislike for water in general—a lone dwarf who served as first mate. The crew dressed for practicality in heavy wool clothing and fur-lined cloaks.

The
Turnabout
was a typical three-masted galleon with bowsprit, forecastle, main deck, quarterdeck, and poop. And two balconies at the rear, one above the other, with large stern windows. Longboats were stacked upside down on the main deck, tied down and covered with burlap to prevent them from sliding around and hurting anyone if the sea became too turbulent. The sails billowed. Ghaji hoped the wind would last for the eight days or so it would take the vessel to reach Trebaz Sinara. He wished they still had the
Zephyr
. The sloop was smaller than the galleon, but because her sails were perpetually full, thanks to the magic of the elemental bound within the containment ring bolted to the deck, and also because of the soarwood runners, the vessel could skate across the surface of the water with astounding speed. If Yvka still had possession of the
Zephyr
, they could reach Trebaz Sinara in—Ghaji did a quick mental calculation—two, maybe three days at the most. But if wishes were hippogriffs …

Diran and Ghaji stood on the port side of the main deck. The others remained below in their quarters, doing their best to stay warm. So far, they’d seen no sigh of Onu, and Ghaji was wondering if the captain simply had no interest in meeting Diran and
Sir
Leontis, or if the man was still sleeping, exhausted after staying late at the tavern last night after Ghaji and the others had departed. Onu had certainly seemed the type to spend the night carousing.

Ghaji looked at Diran and gave his friend a sly smile. “So, did you sleep well last night?”

Diran returned the smile. “As well as you, I expect.”

“Asenka’s a wonderful woman.”

“That she is.”

Ghaji was happy for his friend. While he doubted Diran would ever truly be over Makala, he was moving on with his life, and that was a positive sign. These last few months the priest had been carrying so much guilt over Makala’s transformation into a vampire—a transformation he blamed himself for—that at times Ghaji thought the burden would prove too much for him. Ghaji knew Diran still felt responsible for Makala’s current state, but perhaps he no longer
blamed
himself for it. It was a small change, perhaps, but Ghaji thought it an important one.

The two companions stood in silence for a while after that, watching as the crew worked around them. Ghaji wasn’t sure what to make of the way the men and women of the
Turnabout
ignored them, almost as if they were invisible. Were they simply absorbed in their tasks, or did they transport cargo of a questionable nature often enough that they’d learned that the less they knew, the better? The latter, Ghaji suspected.

“So our merry little band has increased by one,” Ghaji said. “I’m a bit surprised Leontis joined us. He doesn’t seem the sociable type.”

“Look who’s talking.” Diran’s gentle smile alleviated whatever sting his words might otherwise had held.

“There’s something about the man that I don’t quite trust, Diran. You vouch for him, and that’s good enough for me, but there’s still something about him that sets my teeth on edge.” Ghaji did trust Diran, more than he’d ever trusted anyone or anything in his life. Nevertheless, he hoped that the priest would take the opportunity to tell him why Leontis had decided to travel with them. If Ghaji were going to fight by someone’s side, he wanted to know as much about the person as possible.

Diran seemed to consider for a moment before responding. “Leontis told me his motivations in confidence, and I cannot reveal them—not even to you, my friend. Suffice it to say that he’s searching for something, and I hope to help him find it.”

Diran’s explanation didn’t
suffice
at all, but Ghaji decided not to make an issue of it—at least, not right now. “As you well know, I’m no sailor, but something strikes me as odd about the crew, and I don’t mean the way they’re acting as if we don’t exist.”

“There aren’t enough of them,” Diran said.

Ghaji nodded. “Exactly.”

“A ship this size should have a crew of sixty or so. But it appears that the
Turnabout
is manned by only twenty sailors. And there’s something else …”

“The way the air ripples near each of the masts,” Ghaji said.

It was Diran’s turn to nod. It was subtle, and Ghaji doubted that anyone not on board would notice, but all three masts had some sort of distortion in the air behind them, resembling the effect created by heat rising off desert ground.

“Kolbyr’s harbormaster said the
Turnabout
was rumored to travel more swiftly than a normal galleon should,” Ghaji said. “He suspected the ship is magically enhanced, though he wasn’t sure in what manner.”

“Magic is definitely at work here,” Diran said. “But what kind and for what purpose, I cannot say. Perhaps Tresslar can—”

“Can do what?” the artificer asked.

Diran and Ghaji turned to see their companions—Leontis included—coming toward them, led by the dwarf first mate. Bartalan Thokk was a typical member of his race: squat, broad-shouldered, powerfully muscled, with a dour countenance hidden behind a full reddish-brown beard that held more than a few flecks of gray. He dressed like the other crewmembers in thick tunic and trousers, boots, and fur-lined cloak with the hood pulled up to further conceal his face. Ghaji noted the absence of jewelry—no rings on the dwarf’s fingers, no bracelets or pendants, no ear or nose rings. Dwarves respected hard work and wealth, and they appreciated the finer things life had to offer. They tended to display their wealth by carrying well-made weapons and wearing beautiful jewelry and fine clothes. To dwarves, making a show of one’s wealth proved an individual’s success and power, though they always kept their greatest treasures hidden from anyone outside their family. But Thokk presented no such display, and Ghaji wondered if that were due to practical reasons—such as the risk of ruining fine clothing while doing shipboard chores—or if there were perhaps another, more personal reason for the dwarf’s modest presentation.

Ghaji was about to explain to Tresslar when Diran cut in. “Nothing at the moment, my friend. Something far more important must have prompted you to forsake the warmth of your cabins and join us above deck.”

Ghaji saw Tresslar glance toward the
Turnabout’s
masts—or more specially, the distortion in the air behind them—and narrow his eyes suspiciously. Ghaji should’ve known, as Diran obviously had, that the artificer wouldn’t need them to alert him to the presence of magic.

Tresslar turned back to Diran. “We’re not sure why we’re here, but First Mate Thokk was most insistent we accompany him.” The artificer sounded even more irritated than usual, and considering how cold it was, Ghaji didn’t blame him. The
Turnabout
’s cabins weren’t the most comfortable of accommodations, but they beat standing on deck exposed to the frigid wind.”

Ghaji looked to Solus. The psiforged wore a fur cloak like the others, though Ghaji doubted he even felt the cold, let alone was bothered by it. Solus could easily discover what Thokk intended simply by reading the dwarf’s mind, but as Ghaji had learned after their meeting with Captain Onu last night, the construct had decided not to read anyone’s mind without express permission to do so. Ghaji had tried to explain to Solus what an advantage it would be to divine the thoughts of potential adversaries, but the psiforged refused to be persuaded. He said Tresslar had told him it wasn’t polite to read people’s minds without permission, and that the memories he had inherited from his kalashtar makers concurred. Thus, Solus had decided to stop secretly reading minds, and that was that.

While on one level Ghaji understood and respected Solus’s choice, he couldn’t help also feeling frustrated. Warforged in general tended to think of right and wrong in a simplistic, cut-and-dried fashion, almost the way a small child might. And since Solus had little experience of the world beyond the interior of Mount Luster, the child analogy was more than apt. As he matured, Solus might eventually come to understand that there were times when good manners needed give way to sheer pragmatism, but that wasn’t going to help the rest of the companions now.