“I think you’ve found what you’re looking for,” Hamil said. “What a charming place.”
Geran gave the knife thrower a hard look and made his way over to the bar. Hamil and Sarth followed, while the game resumed behind them. The barkeep was a balding dwarf with a striking scar across his mouth that notched his beard. He looked up at Geran with a yellow-toothed grin. “Dun’t think I’ve seen ye before,” he said. “Are ye lads from the Impilturian merchant lying on t’other side o’ the river?”
Geran was momentarily tempted to say yes just to satisfy the fellow’s curiosity, but of course he had no idea whether any of the other crewmen were in the room. He decided that it would be best to say as little as possible. “No, we’re new in town. What do you have to drink?”
“I’ve got a keg of Hillsfar’s own Moonsea Stout tapped, and I’ll draw ye a mug for half a silver talent. Or I could find ye a bottle of southern wine, though that’ll cost ye dear. It’s hard to come by.”
“The stout, then,” Geran told him. He fished two silver coins out of the purse at his belt and handed mugs to Sarth and Hamil. His companions found stools fashioned from old barrels sawn in half around a battered old capstan salvaged from some wreck or another, and settled in to nurse their ale and observe the crowd. Geran lingered to speak with the barkeep, and motioned for him to stay a moment.
“What more are ye wantin’?” the dwarf asked.
“The warship out in the river. Who is she?”
“That would be
“Is she a Black Moon ship?”
“Why, are ye lookin’ for a billet?”
“We might be.” Geran shrugged and glanced at the patrons of the taphouse. “Are any of these fellows
“Dun’t think so,” the dwarf answered. He took up a rag and started wiping down the bar; Geran decided to leave him to his work instead of pressing the question. He joined Hamil and Sarth at their table.
They drank a round, listening to the people around them. Geran and Hamil made a point of keeping up an animated discussion about various taverns in the cities of the Vast, providing Sarth with the opportunity to study their neighbors surreptitiously. The tavern-goers included seamen from the ships hidden in Zhentil Keep’s ruined harbor, sellswords on hard times, and brigands and outlaws who preferred the company of others of their kind.
After half an hour, Geran leaned in to speak to Sarth and Hamil. “I think we’ve heard everything we’re going to,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find some of
“A good idea,” Sarth agreed. The three of them drained their mugs then filed out into the dark street outside. The hour was growing late, but there was little sign of it in the pirate den. The faint strains of music still echoed across the water, broken by the occasional sound of breaking glass or a shouted oath. They headed upriver, toward the next island of lanternlight they could make out.
A door on their right burst open, and a party of boisterous men flooded out into the street. Geran halted to let them pass, but one of the men-actually a bandy-legged half-orc with one tusk at the corner of his mouth-turned and met his eyes. A dark scowl came over the half-orc’s features. “Now what d’you think you’re lookin’ at, you goat- buggering bastard?” he demanded.
Geran bit back a retort and nodded down the street with more friendliness than he felt. “Just on my way to the next taproom. Don’t mind me.”
“I’ll mind whatever I decide to mind,” the half-orc growled. The fellow’s companions-five of them-moved to surround Geran and his comrades. They were a dirty, ill-favored lot, dressed in ill-fitting leather and armed with cutlasses or cudgels at their belts. At least a couple of them seemed unsteady on their feet, more than a little in their cups, but the sallow half-orc was unfortunately not one of them. “I don’t think I’ve seen you lot ’round here before. You ain’t in any crew I know. That means you’re mine.”
Geran glanced over his shoulder at Sarth and gave the tiefling a subtle shake of the head. “No magic,” he mumbled under his breath. Sarth scowled, but he nodded. It would be hard to masquerade as common sellswords if thunderclaps and blasts of fire erupted in the street. Then he looked back at the half-orc glaring at him. He doubted it would work, but he had to try. “We’ve got no cause to quarrel,” he said. “We’ll go our way, and you can go yours.”
The half-orc spat something in Orcish and swept out his cutlass. Geran had no idea what he’d said, but as far as he could tell negotiations were at an end, and he drew his own cutlass an instant later-nearly sticking the blade in the scabbard because the shape and weight were different from the fine elven steel he was accustomed to. The other brigands followed suit; the sound of steel rasping on leather filled the air, followed an instant later by the ring of steel on steel. Geran blocked the half-orc’s first vicious cut by passing it over his head then stepped close to smash the heavy handguard into the side of the half-orc’s head. The half-orc staggered back, and Geran immediately turned and leaped at the man to his right. They hacked at each other for three quick passes of steel, then Geran slashed the cutlass out of his hand with a nasty cut to the forearm. The cutlass dropped to the cobblestones with a shrill ring, and when the brigand doubled over holding his arm, Geran surged forward and planted a boot in the center of the man’s belt. With a strong shove of his leg, he sent the wounded brigand stumbling over the side of the quay and into the water.
Sarth blocked the cudgel of the man attacking him with a two-foot iron baton-actually his magical rod, disguised by his illusion magic. Then the tiefling bludgeoned his foe to the ground with a rain of blows to the head and shoulders. Meanwhile Hamil efficiently hamstrung the swordsman moving in to attack Sarth from the side, and kicked the man unconscious when he fell to the cobblestones. “Behind you!” he called to Geran.
Geran turned and found the half-orc rushing in again despite the vicious clout he’d taken. But the fellow was unsteady on his legs, and the swordmage easily twisted aside from a clumsy thrust. This time Geran hammered the pommel of the cutlass to the nape of the half-orc’s neck as he stumbled past, and stretched him out senseless or dead on the street. He leaped over the half-orc to smash the flat of the cutlass against the skull of a brigand stabbing furiously at Sarth. The man crumpled to the ground; Sarth dealt him a heavy clout as he fell for good measure. The tiefling looked up at Geran and scowled. “My way is easier,” he muttered.
“And louder,” Geran reminded him. He straightened up and looked around, just in time to see Hamil test the balance of the dagger in his hand and let fly at the last brigand, who had turned to flee. The blade turned over three times before the pommel cracked the fellow on the back of the head and knocked him to the cobblestones. Silence fell over the scene, and Geran realized all of the brigands were on the ground or in the river. Several bystanders stood nearby, including one tall, strongly built woman with a shaven head, who had her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her own sword.
Hamil looked at the bald woman. “You want a part of this too?” he demanded.
The woman let go ofher sword and held up her hand. She was no beauty; her shoulders were almost as broad as Geran’s own, and her face was square with blunt features. Geran could easily have mistaken her for a man, if not for the heroic expanse of her bosom and the fine point to her chin. “Not I, friend. I’m just an interested spectator,” she said. She looked down at the thugs on the ground and twisted her mouth into a hard smile. “Consider me impressed. You handled those wretches easily enough, although I can’t imagine why you saw fit to leave them alive.”
“We’re new in town,” Geran answered warily. “I have no idea who these fellows belong to. It didn’t seem wise to kill them without knowing who might take offense.”
“You’re a man of uncommon wisdom, then.” The woman nodded toward a ramshackle establishment on the other side of the river. “Those fellows work for Robidar. He’s the half-orc that runs the bar, festhall, and gaming hall over yonder. They’re in the habit of rolling drunks and stragglers. You’ll want to watch your backs if you stay here long. Sooner or later Robidar’s boys’ll want to even up the score.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Hamil answered. “I’m in the habit of watching my back anyway.”
“Indeed.” The woman hesitated, studying the three companions for a moment, then she spoke again. “By any chance, are you three looking for billets? I could use a few more sharp fellows who can fight like you can and have a good share of common sense too.”
“What sort of billets?” Geran asked.
“Deckhands on
