Geran noticed his fellow deckhands exchanging puzzled looks. No doubt they were wondering what in the world Narsk was looking for, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. He looked over to Hamil and Sarth and found them looking back at him. That had been too close.
“Sorsil, make rrready to sail,” Narsk snarled at his first mate. “We are leaving now.”
A mutter ran through the crew, and Sorsil looked as if she intended to protest before thinking better of it. Few ships left harbor after dark; in the first place it was usually better to have daylight for the careful piloting necessary to navigate close to shore, but more importantly crews expected opportunities to go ashore and spend their hard-earned coin on whores and drink. Moonshark’s crew was chafing for the chance to escape the ship for a time, and Narsk was denying them their sport. Of course, they didn’t know what Geran knew-the gnoll captain had an appointment to keep in the waters near Hulburg in just two days’ time.
In a quarter hour, Sorsil gave the order to cast off, and the crew manned the rowing benches again. The waning moon peeked through a high overcast as they rowed quietly out of Mulmaster’s harbor; for once the first mate didn’t snarl and shout at the deckhands at their oars. They rowed until they were a good two miles clear of the harbor mouth, then Sorsil ordered the crew to ship and stow oars. “Stay at your benches, and shut your mouths!” she told the deckhands. “The captain wants to speak.”
Narsk stood on the short ladder leading to the quarterdeck. The gnoll bared his fangs in what passed for a smile on his canine visage. “It’s time to tell you where we sail!” he said. “At sunset the day after tomorrow, we’ll be three miles off the rrruins of Seawave. There we’ll meet Kraken Queen, Wyvern, Daring, and Seawolf. All five Black Moon ships assembled together in a single fleet! Together we’ll set our course eastward and attack the town of Hulburg in the dark watches of the night!”
The deckhands around Geran raised a hearty cheer at that. Somewhat belatedly, Geran remembered to join in, thrusting his fist into the air. Narsk continued: “We’re to burn the city’s Council Hall, and then we’re free to do as we please. I mean to fill the hold with loot and captives! Every dog among you will be rrrich-if you’re rrready to take what you want from those fat, stupid townsfolk!” That brought another cheer.
Narsk grinned again. “The Hulburgans won’t want to be parted from their trrreasures,” he said. “Once they rrrealize what’s happening, they’ll try to fight us off. So stay away from the drink, go in groups of five or more, and kill anyone you come across. We can loot and drink all we want after the fighting’s done, but we’ve a battle to win first. Umberlee help the dog who comes back to my ship without blood on his sword!”
The pirate crew roared their approval again. The gnoll laughed savagely. “The night after next! Hulburg won’t forget the name of Moonshark for many a year, that I promise you!” He waved his hairy paw in salute then dropped down the last few steps of the ladder and left Sorsil to dismiss the crew.
Hamil twisted in his bench to look back at Geran. Well, there it is, the halfling said silently. How are we going to stop this, Geran?
The swordmage looked at the pirates swarming over the deck, already boasting to each other about what they were going to do in Hulburg. He frowned and met Hamil’s eyes, the only way that the halfling could hear his thoughts in return. I don’t see any way around it, he answered. Tomorrow night we’ll have to get to Hulburg, if we have to seize the ship and sail her there ourselves.
TWELVE
5 Marpenoth, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
The night air was cool and damp around Rhovann Disarnnyl as he flew above the roofs of Hulburg’s wretched Tailings. He remained in the guise of Lastannor, the Turmishan mage who advised Lord Maroth Marstel, and as he arrowed through the dark sky a long, hooded brown cassock fluttered behind him. Ironically he’d invested enough time and effort into cultivating Lastannor’s place in this miserable human town that he couldn’t allow Lastannor to be seen going from the Marstel villa to the place he was going. Therefore he’d made use of a spell of flying to leave his quarters in Maroth Marstel’s house unseen by any on the ground, and intended to return the same way later.
Few folk were out and about at this hour, and he was fairly certain that no one would notice a silent, dark shape overhead, not when the guttering yellow streetlamps scattered here and there through the streets below obscured sight of what moved overhead. Rhovann crisscrossed the Tailings for a moment just to be sure of his bearings then he descended toward the building he sought. Without a sound he dropped down out of the night sky into the lightless alleyway behind the ramshackle inn and taphouse he was looking for. He looked around carefully, aware that robbers and thieves sometimes lurked in this very alleyway to prey upon the drunken patrons of the taphouse.
For now, it seemed that he had the alley to himself. The reek of garbage and emptied chamberpots was thick in his nostrils, and he scowled. Humans-the poor ones, anyway-were a filthy race, at least by the standards he was accustomed to. Elves would never have permitted such a thing in one of their cities. Not for the first time, Rhovann cursed the misfortunes that had joined his fate to crude, boorish, stinking humans rather than the cultured Tel’Quessir among whom he belonged. It would have been better to raise a lonely tower in some remote wilderness and live as a recluse than to accept permanent exile among the towns and cities of humankind. Once he brought about Geran Hulmaster’s downfall, he might choose that very course of action.
With a sigh, he picked his way out of the alleyway, turned to his left, and made his way into the inn’s front door. Above the door a battered old wooden signboard showed a faded painting of three golden crowns above crossed swords. Rhovann glanced up and down the street then went inside. The taproom adjoined the foyer, and through the heavy wooden beams of the open doorway, he could see dozens of humans engaged in drinking themselves into a stupor with the worst sort of swill he could imagine. Some looked up as he entered, but he was well hidden in his voluminous cloak. Only a shadowed wedge of coarse brown skin showed beneath the cowl, along with a wiry gray beard cut in the distinctively squared-off style favored in Turmish.
Rhovann found one of the serving maids hurrying past and stopped her with a touch of his hand. “A friend expects me,” he said in a low voice. “It would be a private room. Where does he wait?”
The serving-maid looked up at him, and a shadow of fear flickered over her face. She quickly brought her knuckle to her forehead and averted her eyes. “If you please, this way, m’lord,” she said. She led him back through the taphouse to a small dining room behind the common room, knocked, then let Rhovann into the room. Inside, a pale human with a patch of yellow-gray beard under his mouth waited by one end of the table, dressed in the tunic of a workman. “Your guest is here, m’lord,” the serving maid said.
“Excellent,” the pale man replied. “Bring us a flagon of your very best wine, my dear. None of that swill you normally serve, mind you; we are gentlemen of discriminating tastes.”
“As you wish, m’lord.” The servant bobbed her head and withdrew.
Rhovann stepped into the room, pulling the sliding door closed behind him. “Could you have found a more squalid tavern for our meeting, Valdarsel?”
“I know it’s not much, but they know me here,” the pale man replied. He offered a humorless smile. “The proprietor impresses me with the zeal of his service to the Black Sun. Inspired by his example-or, perhaps, simply fearful of losing their employment-his people do Cyric’s work readily enough. They understand my requirements, and they are careful to meet them. And, speaking of my requirements …”