Corsair

over his head. “Well, it seems we have much to do tonight. I must give orders for a riot, and you’ve a king to overthrow.”

“Of course.” Rhovann walked Valdarsel to the door and watched as the Cyricist hurried off into the street outside the tradeyard. Several ruffians lounging outside the gate fell in behind him-his bodyguards, or so it seemed. He did not trust Valdarsel-after all, what sort of man served a deity such as the Black Sun? — but he did trust Valdarsel to act in his own self-interest. The priest was about to become the second-most powerful man in Hulburg, free to garner riches and to reward those he deemed deserving. No doubt Valdarsel was already looking past that arrangement and planning for the hour when he’d subjugate the Merchant Council to the power of the Cinderfists instead of the other way around … but first he’d have to help the council to remove the Hulmasters from power.

“A hungry bulette on a chain,” Rhovann murmured. As long as the one holding the chain had something to feed the monster, he was safe enough.

He strode across the yard to the largest of the Marstel storehouses, this one guarded by several men in Marstel’s colors. The sellswords stood straight and touched their brows as Rhovann approached. He passed between them and let himself into the building they protected. It was half-filled with common trade goods, casks and crates of all sorts stacked in untidy rows. Rhovann moved to a spot in the middle of the floor and drew his wand from its place inside his robe. He made a simple pass in the air, and the thin outline of a hidden door appeared before him. It swung open under the touch of his magic, revealing a stairway leading down. The murmur of men’s voices fell quiet as the door opened. He descended into the room below.

In the hidden cellars beneath the Marstel storehouse, a company of hundreds of armsmen dressed for battle stood or sat, waiting. For two tendays now Rhovann had arranged for Marstel ships to quietly ferry in sellswords hired from Mulmaster and other cities, bringing the fighters in by fives and sixes and concealing them under the Marstel storehouses. Rhovann spied their captain-a big, beefy man with a mouthful of gold teeth and an iron brace fitted to one knee-and motioned the man over. “Are your men ready, Captain Bann?” he asked.

The big human nodded. “We’re armed and dressed for war, m’lord. What are your orders?”

“In an hour, a tremendous riot will strike in the heart of the harbor district. It should lure all but a handful of Shieldsworn down to deal with the fires and the looting. You are to lead the House Veruna and House Marstel soldiers to Griffonwatch and storm the castle while its garrison is absent. The House Jannarsk soldiers will seize Daggergard at the same time.”

Bann nodded. He was not a brilliant man, but he possessed a certain low cunning and a strong streak of mercilessness that made him effective as a commander of sellswords. “What of the Double Moon Coster or the Sokols?”

“I do not consider them reliable. The Iron Ring men will keep them in their own compounds until events are decided. Afterward I imagine they’ll prove pragmatic enough to come to terms with the new order of things.” And if they didn’t, well, it would not be very hard to evict them from Hulburg after the merchant Houses dealt with the harmach and his men.

“Griffonwatch may prove difficult, m’lord,” Bann said slowly. “It only takes a few men to hold a castle, and we’ve no scaling ladders or battering rams ready.”

“A small detail that I will attend to for you, Captain Bann.” Rhovann smiled coldly. Against a castle stripped of all but a handful of guards, he had no doubt that his magic could deliver the gate into the hands of Bann and his company. “Make sure you get your men to the top of the causeway swiftly once the riot begins. Leave the gate to me.”

“The harmach and his family?”

“I would prefer them taken alive. After all, there will be a new harmach in Hulburg tomorrow. It would be a shame if Grigor Hulmaster were not alive to see it.” Rhovann swept the hidden barracks room with his gaze, making sure that all the sellswords within earshot understood his wishes. He trusted servitors he created with his own hands, or minions magically compelled to do as he commanded. Common hired swords might prove corruptible or might misunderstand the orders he gave them; it was for that very reason that he grew his most capable servants in alchemical vats. Still, he knew well enough what motivated men such as Captain Bann. “Above all, do not allow any of the harmach’s family to escape. A hundred gold crowns to each man who captures a Hulmaster!”

Bann sketched a shallow bow. “M’lord is most generous,” the captain rasped.

“To a point. Do not fail me, Captain.” Rhovann held the man’s eyes for a moment and then left the sellswords to their preparations.

TWENTY-TWO

15 Marpenoth, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

Geran opened his eyes to darkness and cold water. His head ached, his left wrist and right knee throbbed, and when he tried to roll over, a sharp jolt in the middle of his back made him hiss in pain. Slowly he pushed himself upright, careful not to wrench his back again. All he could make out was a pale shadow over his head-most likely the hall in the ruined palace above. Rubble shifted under him as he moved, and he slipped deeper into the cold water that apparently half flooded the cellar. It wasn’t deep, no more than a foot or so, but he was lucky he hadn’t wound up with his face in the water after striking his head. He might have drowned.

“I’ve had better days,” he muttered to himself. He snorted at his own dark humor and paid the price when pain seared his back again. He winced and looked around the ruined chamber. Where in the world was he again? What was he doing here?

“Sulasspryn,” he murmured aloud. “I’m in Sulasspryn.” Seadrake was anchored out in the bay. Hamil, Sarth, and a score of armsmen were somewhere down by the pirate Moonshark on the beach-or at least that was where he’d last seen them. If the light in the room above was any indication, night had fallen in the streets above. That meant he’d been unconscious at least five or six hours, and possibly much more. Gingerly he reached up to feel his skull and discovered a big knot and some crusted blood high on the left side of his forehead. All things considered, this was in fact shaping up as one of the worst days he’d had in a very long time.

He sat up carefully, picking himself up out of the cold water and seating himself on the mound of rubble. He still couldn’t see much of his surroundings, but he decided against showing any light just yet. If there was anything in here he needed to worry about, it would’ve had hours to do with him as it liked while he was unconscious. Instead he tried to piece together his situation. Surely Hamil and Sarth knew he was missing-if in fact they, or anyone else, had survived the fight on the beach. Obviously, they hadn’t found him yet. Either no one had been able to come looking for him, or they had no idea where he was. Both possibilities suggested that it was up to him to find his way back to the rest of the landing party, or to Seadrake if the landing party was no longer ashore. “Or to Hulburg if Seadrake has to put to sea,” he added to himself. He didn’t relish the idea of a thirty-mile walk home.

He looked around for the satchel with the starry compass. It was nowhere nearby. He scowled in the darkness and kneeled to feel around in the cold, foul water of the cellar, ignoring the aches and pains of his injuries. The compass was the whole reason they’d come to this accursed ruin-he couldn’t leave without it, not if he had any hope of rescuing Mirya and her daughter from Kamoth and Sergen! He splashed around for several minutes in the shadows before he remembered that he’d lost the satchel during his midair struggle with the gargoyle that had tried to carry him off. The compass was somewhere outside, lying wherever he’d dropped it unless something or someone had picked it up.

“Damn the luck!” he swore. Geran stood and kicked at the water, earning himself another jolt of pain from his knee. He had to find the compass before he did anything else, gargoyles or no gargoyles.

The first order of business was escaping from this cellar. Now he needed a little light. He reached down and found a small stone in the mound of rubble below the collapsed floor, and murmured the Elvish words of a light spell over the stone. A bright blue-white radiance sprang up from its surface; Geran tucked it deep into his palm and closed his hand over it, so that only a small, blue glimmer showed from between his fingers. After all, he didn’t want to give away his location to everyone nearby. By the stone’s occulted light, he studied the subterranean