by Nick Horth
‘Black Dragon, out of Sayron,’ Oscus shouted back, leaning against the rail and raising a hand to cover his eyes from the sun. ‘We’re carrying hides and oils, for market.’
The dockmaster nodded to the gouged holes in the side of the ship.
‘Looks like you’ve taken a pounding,’ he said.
‘Raiders,’ said Oscus. As he spoke, several of the crew lowered the gangplank, and the dockmaster hobbled along to meet them, his henchmen following lazily behind.
‘Surprised you’re alive,’ he said, spitting a mouthful of black slime onto the pier. ‘They send us a few gifts, every now and then. Ghost ships, the crew flayed and stuck to the masts. Just to remind us they’re out there waiting. More and more of them every season.’
‘Some less now,’ said Oscus. ‘You can arrange our repairs?’
The dockmaster nodded.
‘If you have the coin, I’d say we can.’ He scratched his wispy beard. ‘But repairs like this, it’ll cost you. If you can’t pay the docking fees, we’ll take it out of her hull, and you’ll pay the rest in blood to the High Captains.’
Callis saw Zenthe’s hand twitch to her sword hilt. She had her hood up and was standing amongst the rest of the crew.
‘We’ve got your coin,’ said Oscus, his voice deadly even. He gestured, and several aelves hauled a sheet of skinned ghyreshark hide forward. The quills had been plucked out and the skin cured, leaving a thick, oily-looking leather covered with circular pockmarks. It didn’t look all that appealing, in Callis’ opinion, but Shev had explained that when properly treated and worked, it could stop a crossbow bolt or a sword blow. It was also light and supple, which suited sailors well – you did not want to be fighting at sea in heavy plate or chain. The dockmaster whistled as he hobbled up the gangplank towards them. He knelt by the thick, barbed leather and ran a hand along the hide. He yanked his fingers back with a hiss, and Callis saw a thin line of bright red blood.
‘You were lucky, it seems,’ he said, sucking the blood from his gashed hand. ‘There’s always a market for good shark-hide, and this looks like a fresh kill. We’ll take it all.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Oscus let it hang long enough for Captain Zenthe to sound an objection, but she said nothing. Eventually, the first mate nodded, and gestured for the crew to bring up the rest of the shark hide. The dockmaster gave a black-toothed grin.
‘We’ll arrange a repair crew,’ he said. ‘There’s ale pits and bawdy houses aplenty, should you need to avail yourself.’
‘You bring us the supplies, we’ll make the repairs,’ said Oscus. ‘No one steps on this ship but my own crew. Are we clear about that?’
‘As you like,’ shrugged the small man, wiping sweat from his greasy brow. He hobbled away down the ramp, muttering to his attendants. Oscus turned to Zenthe.
‘That’s our prize gone,’ he said. His eyes were narrowed, fixed upon the retreating dockmaster. ‘We should have opened that wretch’s belly. This is robbery, plain as the rising sun.’
‘Of course it was,’ said Zenthe. ‘This is Bilgeport. It was built by thieves. But we must play this carefully, for now. We’re shorthanded and under-gunned, and we’re resting in a pit of vipers. As much as I’d like to nail that stinking rat to my prow, we need to keep our heads beneath the surface.’
She turned to Toll.
‘You’ll find the duardin at the sky-dock,’ she said. ‘Port side.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Callis.
‘Repairs to the Thrice Lucky will take some time,’ said Oscus. ‘Several days at least, if we can even trust that stunted wretch to deliver us the materials we need.’
‘Then we sail back to Excelsis,’ said Zenthe. ‘I’m done with this fool’s errand.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘That’s the Thrice Lucky?’ Captain Kaskin snorted, dabbing at his great, sweaty mass of a forehead with a silk handkerchief. ‘The Wolf of Excelsis? The ship that broke the Tenth Kerran Blockade? That half-wrecked piece of flotsam is the flagship of the famed Fleetmaster Arika Zenthe?’
He giggled, a childlike, nasal sound.
‘They’ve seen hard fighting,’ said Captain Lorse. Where Kaskin was a painted walrus of a man, dressed in garish greens and golds, Lorse was wiry and weathered, with the scars and burns of a life spent fighting and killing on the open seas. ‘They’ve masked it well enough, but that’s a vicious wound in the lower hull. They’re lucky they made it to port.’
‘Not so lucky,’ said Captain Azrekh. The duardin leaned against the far wall, his muscled arms folded, stubby fingers covered almost entirely with gleaming rings.
Ortam Vermyre moved to the balcony of the High Captains’ Lodge, leaning against the rail and looking out over the harbour. He could see the tiny figures upon the deck of the Thrice Lucky, to-ing and fro-ing as they hauled crates of cargo onto the pier. He had arrived here a half day before Toll and his band. The witch hunter had made better progress than Vermyre had expected, though it seemed they had suffered for their haste.
‘They’ve lost half their crew,’ he said. ‘They’re weak and exhausted. You’ll never have a better chance to end Captain Arika Zenthe. And with her dead, her crew slaughtered, that leaves the Excelsis harbour without an overlord. And you three gentlemen with an intriguing opportunity.’
‘To control the docks of the City of Secrets,’ muttered Lorse. ‘That’s real power. Real coin.’
Vermyre smiled beneath his mask. He had considered passing by Bilgeport and heading straight for the Fatescars. His tzaangor allies had their own, unique methods of transport, and so there was no need to buy passage upon an air-vessel. But Vermyre had known that Toll would travel here eventually, and had sensed a chance to spring a trap upon his pursuer, and retrieve something of value in the process.
Vermyre could feel Azrekh’s eyes boring into him, and turned to meet the duardin’s gaze.
‘What do you get out of this, masked one?’ Azrekh said, narrowing his slate-grey eyes. A vicious, skull-shaped brand covered the left side of the duardin’s face, turning his frown into an ugly leer. A former slave, this one, so the stories said. Of course, that painful history hadn’t stopped the good captain dabbling in the trade himself. In fact, he was an infamously cruel and ruthless master.
Vermyre had dealt with the High Captains many times before, though always through intermediaries. It was amusing to think that these three men were standing next to one of their greatest benefactors, completely oblivious as to his true identity. They had been useful privateers, allowing him to direct Bilgeport’s raider fleets to targets that would most benefit Ortam Vermyre; the trade convoys of his rivals, for instance.
They were the perfect tools for his current needs. A simple play upon their greed and their envy of Arika Zenthe had opened the door, and it had been a simple thing to open their eyes to the many possibilities of a world without the aelven corsair.
‘I desire only one thing in exchange for the information I have just given you,’ Vermyre said. ‘There is an aelf girl aboard that ship. With scars upon her face. I require you to hand her over to me. Unharmed and untouched. That is the only payment I require. A simple reward for alerting you to Captain Zenthe’s presence, no?’
The duardin snorted.
‘Believe that I have a vested interest in eliminating Zenthe and her crew,’ Vermyre continued. ‘She travels with two humans. An old man and a former Freeguild soldier. They die alongside the good captain.’
Kaskin waddled over to a large, cushioned curule and heaved his great bulk into it. The seat groaned like a dying man. Like everything else in this building, the curule was a riot of violent colour, a pink silk cushion propped up by golden limbs fashioned in the shape of a hunting cat’s claws. Gems were studded into the arms and down the length of the beams. Vermyre, who’d long lived amongst the high classes of Excelsis, took in the rest o
f the chamber, with its eclectic styles and shades, its serving staff dressed in long, violet togas, skin painted light blue and mouths hidden behind gauze cloths. It was a poor man’s idea of a rich man’s luxury, and all the oils and expensive perfumes in the world could not erase the stench of fish guts drifting in through the open window. Captain Kaskin snapped his fingers, and a slave girl emerged with a cold towel and began to mop Kaskin’s brow. He stared at Vermyre through piggy eyes.
‘One would be forgiven for thinking that the reason you wish Zenthe slain is because she comes here looking for you,’ he said. ‘One might wonder exactly why the Fleetmaster of Excelsis might be out here on the hunt. I’d wager that stone-hearted creature wouldn’t leave her lair unless she was chasing coin. Or something else… valuable.’
A shrewd man who hides behind the illusion of a fat fool. One does not become a High Captain unless one is both clever and ruthless, thought Vermyre. Yet his greed makes him predictable.
‘Perhaps we should take off that mask,’ said Azrekh. A knife had appeared as if by magic in his hands. He spun it around with quick-fingered grace. ‘Prise it off your face, and see what lies beneath.’
Vermyre’s mouth filled with hot bile. A voice was telling him to do just as the duardin had said, to tear the golden mask free and unveil his true shape. He bit his lip so hard that he tasted the sweet-metal tang of blood.
‘That would be unpleasant,’ he said. His voice was even and calm, betraying nothing of the storm within. ‘For both of us.’
‘You threaten me here?’ snarled Azrekh. ‘In my own chambers? I could have you flayed alive.’
‘That was not a threat, High Captain. This is.’ Vermyre rapped his staff hard upon the floor. There was a sickening thud from outside the room, and then a high-pitched scream that was abruptly cut off. The doors swung open, and two of Vermyre’s tzaangors strode through, their mottled blue feathers splattered with gore. One of them was holding up the bloodied corpse of a guard, his throat slashed open. The creature cocked its head, wiped its silver dagger on the dead man’s nape, and let the corpse fall to the ground with a sickening thud.
‘Do not bother calling for aid, Azrekh,’ Vermyre said, leaning upon his stave and enjoying the duardin’s look of outrage. ‘It would only result in more dead.’
‘You bring these… beasts into our city?’ gasped Lorse, hand hovering above his pistol.
‘To prove a point. If I wished you three dead, I would have my allies here slit your throats while you slept. Be assured, I have no interest in removing you from power.’
There was a long silence. Captain Azrekh stared at him, unflinching. Eventually, Kaskin broke the tension with another high-pitched giggle.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said the large man, waving a hand to dismiss the now terrified serving girl, and taking a deep swig from a goblet of crystal wine. ‘Captain Azrekh, Captain Lorse. I assume that you, like me, recognise that the ship indicated to us by our masked friend here is indeed the Thrice Lucky?’
Azrekh said nothing. Lorse approached cautiously, one hand resting upon the pearl-handled pistol on his hip. Vermyre could hear the sound of rushing blood, and the colour seemed to fade from the garishly decorated chamber. It would be such a simple thing, to reach out and crush the throats of these arrogant fools, to put out their eyes and hurl them from the tower. To hunt down Toll and show him the truth of what he was, to see the fear and horror in his eyes before he…
No. He would not give in to that. Loss of control was loss of power, and he would not allow himself to suffer such indignity. He took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, Azrekh had taken a seat and tucked the knife back in his belt.
‘Suppose it doesn’t matter who you are,’ said the duardin. ‘For now.’
‘Exactly,’ said Kaskin. ‘We capture Zenthe and her crew, and we put them to death. Publicly and messily. We show the captains of this port that we bow down to the aelves no longer. We will take what is ours by right.’
Vermyre frowned.
‘Do not toy with these people,’ he said. ‘Kill them, quickly and definitively. As long as they are alive, they are dangerous.’
‘No,’ said Kaskin, shaking his head. ‘We have to send a message. We have to let the crews know that Zenthe’s power is crushed. Completely and irrevocably.’
‘Then show them her severed head.’
‘Zenthe’s shadow has loomed over Bilgeport for years,’ said Azrekh. ‘Her ships have sunk our fleets, stolen our booty and butchered our people. Her name is spoken with reverence and dread within these walls. Death alone won’t banish that fear.’
Vermyre sighed. So be it. Let these fools play out their little farce. As long as Zenthe and her crew were delayed and thrown off the hunt, it mattered little to him. By the time they recovered, it would be too late.
‘You let us worry about the how of it,’ the duardin continued. ‘They’re in our court now, alone and vulnerable. Let us see how the legendary Captain Zenthe manages without her lackeys around.’
‘Very well,’ said Vermyre. ‘I leave the means of their destruction to you. Your men will deliver the girl to me exactly as you find her – untouched and unharmed. Tell them to take her to the Jade Golem. I have quartered there. Then, our business will be done, and I shall take my leave of your fine city.’
He stood and gave a cursory bow, then marched out of the chamber and down a wide, curving staircase with an ornately carved ivory rail. Statues and busts of the current High Captains were ensconced upon the walls, alongside their predecessors. Trophies of all descriptions were mounted alongside: guns, swords and weapons from a hundred different cultures, stuffed animal heads and the skeletal remains of slain creatures.
He would need to be wary of these men. They may be thugs, but they were no fools. During his time as High Arbiter of Excelsis, Vermyre had become very well acquainted with the brutality of the High Captains. He had even called upon their services, from time to time, through an intermediary. He had carefully ensured that they stayed out of the sights of the Order of Azyr’s hounds, as well as the city’s regiments. Bilgeport had prospered under his stewardship, and it appeared – judging by the number of sails and corsair ships in the reaver city’s harbour – that his successor had not decided to clamp down on their activities, at least for the moment. No doubt the captains were continuing to pour coin into the pockets of the Excelsis establishment. If they garnered enough support, they could even gain the leeway to pursue their foolish war against Zenthe’s privateers. It mattered little. They needed only to do their part this day, and he could put them out of mind.
This is a delightfully colourful place, said Occlesius. How charmingly ramshackle everything all is. And I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such a gathering of ne’er-do-wells and cut-throats.
‘Yes, well, you can’t smell it,’ muttered Shev, wrinkling her nose. ‘So I hardly feel you’re getting the true picture.’
The docks were busy and swelteringly hot. She saw a wide variety of illicit goods being bartered and sold right off the deck of moored vessels. Much of it was rare skins and other items stripped from the area’s diverse wildlife. One wide-decked galley was almost entirely covered by mottled sea-serpent hides of various hues. Others were stuffed with cages from which trapped animals were issuing outraged hisses and squawks. A man brushed past Shev with a cage slung over one shoulder, containing a spider-like creature with garish purple bands upon its segmented limbs. It slammed its many-eyed head against the bars to no avail before its bearer disappeared into the crowd.
So much life, sighed Occlesius. He was clearly in his element. You don’t know how much it means, Miss Arclis, after so long alone. I must thank you for bringing me out into the world.
‘Don’t get too comfortable yet,’ she warned. ‘Vermyre’s out there somewhere, and I’m sure he’d love to get his hands on you again.’
; Yes, well. Our witch hunter accomplice seems a capable man. I am sure he will get his man. And then, perhaps we can look to the future.
‘Excuse me?’
You and I are kindred spirits, Miss Arclis. We are both explorers, intrepid souls who brave the unknown in search of secrets that none have unearthed in thousands of years. Granted, I am somewhat less mobile than I used to be, but think of the partnership we could form! I simply must see more of this new world that has spread out before me. Excelsis, this City of Secrets, for one. I hear that the entire city is powered by prophecy. Remarkable.
‘You mean you want me to take you sightseeing?’
Pray do not be so dismissive, the Realms-Walker said, with a hint of reproachfulness. My knowledge of these lands is extensive. Imagine how useful my expertise could be to you on your next expedition.
‘Let’s try and survive this one first,’ she said, though in truth his offer intrigued her. To have someone at her side who had truly lived through the days of the Age of Myth. A renowned explorer, no less.
Please, at least consider my offer. Think upon it.
The docks gave way to a sprawling shanty-town of tumbledown shacks, built from bone and driftwood and covered with hides and leathers. Callis followed Toll through the heaving mass of bodies, hand placed carefully over his coin purse, although the paltry offering within would hardly set a thief’s heart aflame with greed. He scanned the local populace as he walked, taking in an eclectic blend of cultures and clothing styles. Here and there strode silk-smothered popinjays, faces powdered and heavy cutlasses slung rakishly upon their belts. These were privateers who thought themselves gentlemen, and delighted in aping the trends of Azyrite high society, even as their teeth rotted away from swigging rancid grog and smoking hasca-weed. Their brightly coloured tunics and ruffs stood out amidst the swirling mass of bare-chested, tattooed sailors, hard-weathered men and women who bore all the hallmarks of a hard life spent out on the open ocean. A duardin missing both his legs spat something unpleasant-sounding as Callis strode in front of his path. The amputee was dragging himself along in a wheeled cart fashioned from the shell of a crustacean, which also housed a number of bottles of brownish alcohol and a crude yet vicious-looking blunderbuss. There were fat merchants wrapped in exotic drapes, holding their noses as they were carried through the grime-encrusted streets on creaking palanquins.