offerings to the bottom of the sea. 'I'll replace the gift, Thom, but I can't give you back all your work.'
The bard shook his head. 'Our work, Your Highness. The annals told of everything you've done up until now to organize the crusade.' He glanced at the points of light falling beneath the water. 'Perhaps that's why Umberlee accepted the pages and all as a suitable sacrifice. They tell why we're here.'
Farl Bloodaxe clapped Thom on the back as he reached the bard's side. 'You may have saved us all,' he said, exhaustion apparent in his voice.
The king cast a glance at the mainmast, then looked at Farl. 'Will we need to make for shore? From the orders you were giving, I thought the mast was splintering.'
The infantry commander shook his head. 'We lost some rigging, and the masts were sorely tested by the storm. I've given command over to the first mate for now. He's inspecting the masts and the sheets to make sure we're still seaworthy, but I think the ship will be able to go on.'
The rain continued to fall, so Azoun moved the discussion back to the great cabin. Thom Reaverson stayed on deck for a short time, watching the cog burn itself out, then slowly sink. The Welleran picked up some of the survivors, as did the dark-hulled Sembian ship that had passed the king's carrack earlier.
Before he left the railing, the bard took one last look into the sea. The blue-white lights that marked his sacrifice were gone. As he gazed into the inky water, Thom Reaverson wondered if Azoun or anyone else could truly understand what he'd given up. The pages that Umberlee had taken could never be exactly reproduced. They might have been his best work, now lost to the world.
Then again, Thom realized suddenly, perhaps the new annals he would write would be better. He returned to the great cabin to begin his notes anew, hoping that the goddess's hand had granted him an unintended favor.
7
The storm caused by Umberlee's wrath was the last bad weather the fleet saw on its way across the Inner Sea. Most of the days were bright and breezy, and the cogs, coasters, and carracks made good time toward the free city of Telflamm. Still, each day presented new problems for the ragtag navy and the soldiers unaccustomed to life at sea.
This particular morning, on a Sembian ship in the crusaders' fleet, Razor John rubbed his shoulder in a futile attempt to work out a knotted muscle. The fletcher's back had begun to ache continuously after his first night aboard the dark-hulled, square-sailed cog, and he'd been unable to shake the pain since. The constant damp and perpetual hard labor he faced each day only aggravated the problem.
Sighing, John pushed his rough, spray-soaked blanket aside and sat up. Like most of the other passengers onboard the Sarnath, he slept on the open deck. In fact, the shortage of storage space on the cog meant that many of the sailors and soldiers on her slept, ate, and passed their free time on deck. Still, Razor John was a hearty soul, and he quickly acclimated to the everpresent dampness and the aches it caused.
He couldn't get used to the lack of privacy. Only high in the rigging could anyone escape the bustle of the deck, and that was certainly not the safest place to be. Four sailors had already plummeted to their deaths from the masts, the victims of a single misplaced step. Picking up half the survivors of the ship struck by lightning during the storm hadn't helped the overcrowding either. The refugees from the burned ship had swelled the ranks aboard the Sarnath almost to capacity.
Clasping his hands high over his head and stretching again, John said, 'Time to get up, Mal.' When the snoring lump next to the bowsprit didn't move, the fletcher kicked it softly with a toe.
'Leave me be, son of a Sembian pig,' Mal grunted. He pulled his blanket up over his head, muttering incoherent curses.
Razor John frowned. Mal-or Malmondes of Suzail, as John had discovered his full name to be-had proved himself quite adept at starting brawls with comments like that one. Though Mal was seemingly a good-hearted man, the fletcher found it hard to see beyond his many prejudices. The fact that John, Mal, and their other companion, Kiri, were traveling on a Sembian cog only made the problem worse.
John nudged the ham-fisted soldier again. 'Don't give the first mate an excuse to start in on you again, Mal.' As the lump beneath the spray-soaked blanket grumbled, the fletcher pulled on boots and placed a shapeless felt hat on his mop of sandy hair.
'Won't get up again, eh?'
Razor John started, then turned to face the person who'd just posed the question. 'No, Kiri,' he said. 'Just like every morning.'
The thin, brown-haired woman handed John two hard biscuits and a piece of fruit. The fletcher let his gaze wander over the woman's lithe form to her slightly round face. As usual, her brown eyes were bright and made John glad to see her. In fact, he had recently found himself using images of Kiri and her smile as shields against the boredom and fatigue that assailed everyone aboard ship.
'Don't fret, John. If Mal sleeps for much longer, we'll split his morningfeast.' Kiri began to juggle the biscuits as she waited for a reaction from the blanket-covered warrior.
She didn't have to wait long, for Mal soon rolled over and scowled at her. The blond soldier quickly held one of his large fists in front of his eyes, shielding them from the bright morning sun. 'Only you would think of something that low, Kiri Trollslayer.'
The soldier spoke the woman's name with as much venom as he could muster so early in the morning. He knew that Kiri hated her family name of Trollslayer. She hadn't revealed it to John or Mal at all; they had learned it from another adventurer onboard the Sarnath. Kiri had denied the name at first, but then reluctantly admitted that her father was indeed the famous Cormyrian freebooter, Borlander the Trollslayer.
'At least I have a family name, Mal. I know who my father is,' Kiri now retorted, trying to show as little annoyance as possible.
Mal laughed a deep braying laugh. 'Ha. Good one, Kiri.' The woman knit her brows in confusion. Her reply had been far from original. But then, she realized, Malmondes of Suzail was far from witty.
Both Razor John and Kiri Trollslayer shook their heads as Mal lumbered to his feet and stumbled to the galley. They both found the warrior trying on their patience, but he seemed completely devoted to them. In fact, John and Kiri found it difficult to get away from him for more than a few minutes at a time. And though they enjoyed what little time they had alone, for now, at least, the couple was resigned to Mal's presence. There was simply nowhere on the ship to hide from him.
'By the Goddess of Pain, I hate that name,' Kiri cursed softly but passionately as soon as Mal was out of earshot. She kicked the soldier's blanket up against the gunwale and sat down on the bowsprit.
John looked at her sympathetically. 'Are you ready to tell me why yet?'
Kiri sighed and glanced around. A Sembian sailor swabbed the deck nearby, while two others just free of watch curled up against a nearby hatch to sleep. 'With that kind of name-,' she began, then stopped abruptly when one of the dozing Sembian sailors looked up at her.
'Mind your own damned business,' Kiri snapped. She leaned toward the sailor as if daring him to reply. He snorted a laugh, then turned and at least pretended not to be listening.
Razor John moved closer to Kiri. 'Go on,' he urged. More than anyone the fletcher had met-including the flower girl in Suzail's marketplace-she ignited his interest. The more he knew about her, the better.
Kiri locked her sparkling eyes on John's face and smiled. 'People expect me to be some kind of professional troll killer. I've never even seen a troll in my life. One might come up and bite me, and I wouldn't be able to tell it apart from a tax collector.'
The Sembian sailor rolled over again. 'Have you heard the joke about the tax collector?' he asked, ignoring Kiri's angry stare. 'No? All right, what's the boldest thing in Faerun?' When no one replied, the sailor said, 'A tax collector's shirt. It hangs around the neck of a thief every day.'
'That isn't the way I heard it,' Mal said, standing above the sailor. A look of confusion crossed his thick- boned, fleshy face. 'I thought the joke was about Sembian millers.'
For an instant Kiri considered telling Mal that the sailor had just finished a joke about King Azoun, for that
