The priest beamed like a teacher who'd gotten through to a particularly dense student. 'Exactly.'
The old bard started to object, then he realized what Duhzpin was getting at. Pacys leaned back in the bench, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. He hadn't considered that. He'd locked in totally on finding the boy.
'If Oghma has put something before you as you believe,' Duhzpin said, 'then he will find a way for you to do it. That isn't within your realm. It's up to you to provide the faith and the strength to see it done, and Oghma will help you with the strength.'
'You're right,' the old bard agreed. 'If now had been the time for me to find the boy-'
'— it would be done.'
'I know he yet lives,' Pacys said. 'If he didn't, I'd know that too.' He lifted his yarting and settled it across his lap. His fingers found the strings without hesitation. 'Thank you for your time, Father.'
'You're welcome,' Duhzpin said. 'Should you need a friendly ear again…'
Pacys shook his head, feeling some enthusiasm for the first time in days. 'I don't think I'll be staying much longer.'
'Probably not.' Duhzpin stood, looking around the room, and said, 'If I could ask something of you, I'd be in your debt.'
'I'd be only too happy to answer any request you might have. I'm in your debt.'
Duhzpin nodded at the room. 'The other priests and I have been helping people for days. I fear we're running short on strength ourselves, and I don't know if our flagging reserves are up to handling today. Perhaps you could play something uplifting.'
Pacys stayed where he was, but he pulled the yarting to him with the skill of an old lover and the passion of youth. The strings rang out, strong and true, and filled the room. He sang, reaching back through the years for a song of praise for Oghma, one that hopefully everyone in the room knew.
In short order, the church filled with the sound of voices lifted in praise. Pacys clung to the sound, letting it fill all the empty places he'd chiseled away inside himself for the last two days, knowing that response was the best a bard who truly loved his work would ever know. As his fingers found the strings, his mind found an answer.
The vision came to him in perfect color and crystal clear.
When he saw the gleaming black double doors equipped with white many-toothed gears that were the symbol of Gond Wonderbringer, he knew they could only belong to one place in Baldur's Gate.
He also knew he had to go there.
XII
7 Kythom, the Year of the Gauntlet
'The attack on Baldur's Gate didn't go the way you'd promised.'
Laaqueel felt the weight of the accusation even though the words were spoken softly. The malenti priestess shifted uncertainly in Iakhovas's shadow. She prayed silently, pulling Sekolah's gifts to her, wondering if her power and his would be enough against the men that stood against them.
Iakhovas spread his hands. The illusion he wove over himself was so strong that Laaqueel couldn't even pierce it. As Black Alaric, he was a legend among the pirates, a man who'd lived for fourteen centuries and fought in every war that touched their shores.
In his present guise, Iakhovas was taller than any man there, dressed in azure and black garments complete with a cloak that carried the colors, black on the outside and azure on the inside. He wore rolled-top black boots that gleamed. A black crepe bandanna covered his lower face and his cloak hood was pulled tight so that only his eyes were revealed. It was the presence of those two eyes that let Laaqueel know the appearance was at least part illusion.
They stood in the spacious galley of Grimshroud, the flagship of the Nelanther Isles pirates. The sahuagin army Iakhovas had led into Baldur's Gate was already far from them, sent on ahead while Iakhovas ventured on to Skaug, the pirate capital of the Nelanther Isles.
'The attack didn't go as well as I'd hoped,' Iakhovas admitted.
Laaqueel felt a chill when she heard that admission, Iakhovas wasn't one to admit mistakes. Not without someone else's bloodshed.
Bloody Falkane hung uncharacteristically back out of the limelight. The malenti priestess tried to keep her eyes from his, but they still touched upon occasion. It was awkward, and she got the sense that the pirate captain enjoyed her discomfort.
Burlor Maliceprow sat in an ornate chair at the head of the long table. He was the only person in the room allowed to sit. His given title was Portmaster of Skaug, but he was the controlling power of the Nelanther Isles. In his youth he'd been a wide man with hard lines that had gone to fat through his successes. His soft brown hair, sheared off at the jawline, carried gray streaks in it now. Hazel eyes glinted with the hardness of a newly minted coin. His clothes, despite his size, fit him well.
'You convinced us of this strike,' Maliceprow said in his soft voice, barely heard above the ship's creaks and groans.
'I merely pointed out the opportunity,' Iakhovas replied. 'You convinced yourselves.'
Maliceprow's eyes narrowed. 'You say you don't accept the blame for this?'
Iakhovas reached out and pulled back a chair, ignoring the four guards around Maliceprow who moved to defend him. Iakhovas sat across from the portmaster, every eye in the galley on him. 'I only accept my share of the blame. You knew there would be risks.'
'I thought there would be less risk involved,' Maliceprow stated, waving at his guards to stand down. He hadn't achieved his position by being afraid. 'You said those damned sea devils and their creatures would chew up more of the city's defenses than they did.'
Laaqueel felt her face grow hot at the disrespect the man obviously held for her people.
Easy, little malenti. You have even less respect for him.
Only the discipline Laaqueel had learned through serving Sekolah helped to keep her mouth closed and harsh words unsaid.
Iakhovas replied easily. 'They incurred even greater losses than your pirates, Portmaster.'
'And there's a balance to be struck here?' Maliceprow demanded.
'They went there to go to war with their enemies,' Iakhovas said. 'You went there out of greed to sack Baldur's Gate. Even with the losses you took, you made a profit.'
Maliceprow said nothing.
'I'd call your attack a success.'
'Except that every city and country along the Sword Coast is going to be more interested than ever in the Nelanther Isles,' Falkane said.
Iakhovas smiled at the pirate captain. 'I thought you took pride in the amount of the bounty offered for your head, Captain Falkane. Surely that amount will go up once the Sword Coast learns you were involved in the attack.'
A smile spread across Falkane's thin lips. The yellow light from the lanterns mounted on the walls painted shadows on the wall behind him. He gave Iakhovas a small salute, fingers briefly touching his forehead. 'A pirate's reputation is worth its weight in gold.'
'Exactly,' Iakhovas said. 'After the attack on Baldur's Gate, all of your reputations have been enhanced, and you've made a profit.'
'Not enough of one,' Maliceprow growled. 'I don't give a damn that you're supposed to be some kind of unkillable legend, Alaric. There will be an accounting here-or mayhap we'll see the evidence of those myths.'
'I'm not a man to be pushed,' Iakhovas said quietly, maintaining his steady gaze on Maliceprow.
For a moment Laaqueel's breath caught. She felt certain that violence was about to erupt in the galley.
After a long breath, Maliceprow leaned back in his chair and said, 'Your alliance with the sea devils is of benefit to us.'
'Of course it is,' Iakhovas replied. 'So far none of the pirate ships from the Nelanther Isles have been
