Despite the priest's words, the young sailor knew there was no escaping the past. His unmasking in Velen had proven that. He had been marked by fate as surely as Bloody Falkane had marked him with the sorcerous tattoo.
Jherek had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed when the slim-hipped figure had walked by him, but he was aware when the person turned around. Jherek took a step to the side and his hand drifted down to the sword hung in his sash. Cold air chilled him through his wet clothing. He waited.
'Malorrie?' a feminine voice called out. Hands reached up and took away her cloak's hood, revealing the short copper tresses and wide-set eyes that he recognized at once.
In spite of the darkness that gripped him, Jherek's spirits lifted. A smile filled his face. 'Sabyna?'
For a moment, Laaqueel was paralyzed by Falkane's sudden kiss. Nothing like that had ever happened to her. She felt the heat of him against her and her senses swirled, giving over to the otherness that had crept in with her deformity. Then she recovered, opening her mouth and intending to bite his lips, perhaps even chew them off before he could back away.
She felt the whisper of cold steel at her throat and knew he'd drawn one of his throwing knives. 'No,' he told her quietly. 'Don't even try it.'
She froze, knowing he could take her life between heartbeats. She closed her mouth, horrified to find only now that some instinct had compelled her to return his kiss. She breathed out, locking eyes with him. 'From this day forward, watch your back, Bloody Falkane.' Her voice sounded hoarse and uncertain.
He kissed her again, allowing her to flinch away but giving her no chance to escape. 'From this day forward, lady, you'll think of me. I promise you that, and I keep my promises.' He called over his shoulder, 'Targ.'
'Sir.' Targ' s brutish features, gray-green skin tone, sour odor, and nearly eight feet in height marked him as a half-ogre. The malenti priestess had noticed him around Falkane earlier, always hovering like a bodyguard. He wore a chain mail shirt over a leather rough-out vest and leather pants tucked into fishskin boots. Shells hung knotted in his stringy black hair. The hafts of the crossed short swords he wore on his back rose over his shoulders.
'Watch her,' Falkane ordered.
'Aye sir.'Targ's face split suddenly, revealing a mouth full of crooked yellow fangs. 'Want her dead if she tries anything?' He raised a crossbow and aimed it at Laaqueel.
'No, but pain is just fine. She can always get a godspeaker and get it fixed.' Falkane brought the tip of his knife to his forehead and saluted the malenti priestess. 'Another time, beautiful.'
Praying quickly, Laaqueel readied her power. When she loosed it, the air around Falkane would thicken and grow heavy, crushing him in seconds. She felt certain she could be over the railing before the half-ogre would know what was going on or could hit her with a quarrel.
No.
The quiet affirmation of power knifed through Laaqueel's mind, breaking the concentration necessary to launch the attack. It was echoed by movement of the black quill lying so near her heart. She looked to the cargo hold and saw Iakhovas come up the stairs onto the deck. You-you saw what he did! She wanted to spit the taste of Falkane from her mouth but she knew the pirate captain would only laugh at her.
Yes, but Falkane is necessary to me.
I will not be handled so by such filth! she told him.
My dear malenti, I know that part of you found that encounter quite stimulating. Iakhovas's dry chuckle rattled in her mind. I find it quite fascinating, actually, because I've never thought of you that way myself. It opens up whole new concepts.
Falkane walked by Iakhovas without even looking at the man, as if nothing had happened at all. The pirate captain moved confidently, as though he thought he was invulnerable. He called out orders to his crew in a loud, stern voice.
Targ gave a snuffling and disdainful laugh, then lifted his crossbow from her, turned, and walked away.
Laaqueel felt her gills flare in indignation.
You, Iakhovas told her, will do exactly as I tell you to do. Would you deny the wishes of Sekolah as he seeks to lead his chosen children into greater power over the seas of Toril?
Laaqueel had no answer. She had to believe that Iakhovas's way lay with the Shark God. It had been through Sekolah's direction after years of prayer that she'd been guided to the books that had given flesh to the legend of One Who Swims With Sekolah. If she stopped believing in Iakhovas, where would the disbelief end? What would be left?
With great effort, she turned and faced back in the direction where Baldur's Gate lay smoldering. Her belief was all she had. If that was lost, she was lost.
Good, little malenti, Iakhovas told her. I need no further hindrances your lack of control might cause. I'll have enough problems justifying the loss of men and ships to these pirates. The Flaming Fist mercenaries got organized and held much more quickly than I'd thought they could.
Laaqueel remained silent in her shame. Her way had to be hard. She knew the Shark God would demand no less. Even now she'd risen much higher in her station than she'd ever believed possible, thanks to throwing in her lot with Iakhovas.
She bent her head and prayed, knowing by her belief that the prayers she gave voice to fell ultimately on deaf ears. Sahuagin priestesses she'd known had consorted with other dark gods as well as Sekolah to get their powers, always holding the Shark God in a position of prominence. She had never done that, never entertained the possibility of worshiping another. Sekolah was the only god she'd ever followed. She'd been more true than anyone she'd known. Since her earliest days she'd been taught that only the inadequate failed.
Don't be so hard on yourself, little malenti, Iakhovas said. You found me when no one else could, and I had been there thousands of years. Look at all we have wrought. The sahuagin are more feared than they ever have been.
More hated.
Ah, little malenti, you forget that hate is merely an investment of power. Even the surface dwellers have to respect power. Measure their hate and you measure their respect- and in turn you measure our power. They wouldn't fear the inadequate-only the successful.
She lifted her head, knowing he was right. They had been successful. It remained to be seen how respected, and how feared, the sahuagin were going to be.
'Captain Tynnel only told me that you'd decided to stay in Athkatla,' Sabyna Truesail said.
Jherek walked at her side, accompanying her down Dock Street to the harbor. He still couldn't believe Breezerunner's ship's mage had ended up in the city at the same time he had. In a way, he supposed it was more a part of the cruel injustice the gods were determined to swing his way this night. There was no way Captain Tynnel would allow him back aboard the ship after the fight he'd had with some of the crewmen in Athkatla.
Though he had expected Tynnel to carry through on his offer to tell the ship's mage and let her see him briefly if she wished, a tightness centered in his chest when he thought he might never see her again after tonight.
The night's darkness wreathed the city and drew dense shadows through the street. She'd told him she'd been out searching for goods she needed to make repairs to Breeze-runner. The cargo ship had been at anchor when the sahuagin and pirates had attacked. They hadn't been able to get their sails up in time to do much because most of the crew had been ashore on leave. Luckily the damage the ship had suffered had been minimal.
'I suppose it's true that I decided to stay,' Jherek said cautiously. He found he couldn't tell her that the fight in Athkatla had been over the coarse words Aysel had said about her. He would have been ashamed, and he'd given up much that she not ever hear about the incident or the caustic things Aysel had said. It would be self-defeating and braggartly to tell her now.
'Why?'
'Why what?' The rapidity with which she changed tacks in a conversation confused him. Partly, though, he had to admit it was her beauty that he found so distracting. During every night the caravan had trekked for Baldur's Gate, his thoughts had been drawn to her. It would have shamed him to admit that too, and probably shame her as well.
