Marcus said, “For so many lights, it’s very quiet.”
Ghuda said, “I think they’re waiting to see if we’re under false colors.”
When the ship was anchored, Amos called for a longboat to be lowered, and the crew hustled to obey. He barked insults and threats, and Nicholas was surprised at the harshness of his remarks until he realized that Amos was putting on a performance for the benefit of anyone onshore who was listening.
Ghuda said, “A word to you both.” Marcus and Nicholas both turned and the mercenary said, “I’ve traveled a fair bit and seen many places like this; we’re strangers and will not be trusted. There will be no benefit of the doubt. You’d better agree on names for yourselves, for there is no dispute you’re related.”
Nicholas and Marcus exchanged looks, and finally Nicholas said, “I hold title to the estates near the village of Esterbrook. I’ve visited several times.”
Ghuda nodded. “Marc and Nick of Esterbrook it is. Who was your father?” he demanded suddenly.
With a wry smile, Marcus said, “Mother didn’t know.”
Ghuda laughed and slapped him playfully on the back. “You’ll do, Marc.”
“Who was your mother?” he asked Nicholas.
“Meg of Esterbrook,” said Nicholas. “She’s a serving woman at the only inn there, run by a man named Will, and she’s still a handsome woman who can’t say no to a man.”
Ghuda laughed again. “Well said.”
Making their way to the main deck, they joined Amos, who was putting on a first-rate display of his knowledge of invectives and insults. A couple of soldiers were playing along, swearing colorfully for the benefit of any onlookers on the docks.
As they sat in the longboat, Amos said, “You boys have your stories set?”
Nicholas said, “Marc is my elder brother. We come from Esterbrook. We don’t know our fathers.”
Marcus said, “Nick is a little slow, but we put up with him for Mother’s sake.”
Nicholas gave his ersatz brother a frown and said, “This is only our second voyage. We signed on with you in…” He hesitated, then added, “Margrave’s Port.”
Pointing at Ghuda and Nakor, Amos said, “You two are who you are.” Then he rubbed his chin. Looking at Anthony, who appeared very uncomfortable in trousers and tunic, with a large floppy hat on his head, Amos mused, “What are we to claim you are?”
“Your healer?” suggested Anthony.
Amos nodded. “Are there things you need?”
Anthony was grim as he said, “There are any number of herbs, roots, and other goods that I can use to heal wounds. I can do a convincing job of shopping in the town.”
“Good,” said Amos. To Calis he said, “Playing a hunter from Yabon should offer little difficulty.”
The elfling nodded. “I speak the Yabon tongue should there be a need.”
Amos grinned. “Now, should anyone ask, all you know is that I’m Trenchard, and I’ve recently returned to the Bitter Sea. I may have sailed for Kesh or the Kingdom before that, but no one is certain. You know better than to ask.”
They all nodded and fell silent as two sailors rowed them toward the dock. After a few minutes they reached a low landing, where a half-dozen boats were secured. No one was in sight as they tied up and came ashore, walking up the stone steps to the top of the wharf.
Suddenly a voice called out, “Halt! Identify yourself!”
Peering into the gloom, Amos bellowed, “Who wants to know?”
A single figure emerged from between two buildings. He was a bald-headed man with a sharp beak of a nose, slender but broad-shouldered. His face was set in an expression of amusement, and he spoke in a deep and pleasant voice. “I wish to know.” He waved vaguely around him. “And a few friends, as well.” A dozen armed men moved to surround the party.
Amos whispered, “Stand easy,” as crossbows were leveled.
The bald man walked purposefully to stand before Amos and said, “You fly a well-known banner, friend, though it’s one not seen in these waters for over thirty years.”
Suddenly Amos exploded in laughter. “Patrick of Duncastle! They haven’t hung you yet?” Then he slammed his fist into the man’s face and the fellow flew backward through the air to land on the hard stones of the wharf. Amos stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger. “And where are those twenty golden royals you owe me!”
Grinning as he rubbed his jaw, the man said, “Why, hello, Amos. I thought you were dead.”
Amos pushed past two of Patrick’s men, who had their weapons trained on him, and extended his hand. Pulling the man to his feet, Amos threw his arms around him and bellowed loudly as he squeezed him hard.
Putting the man down, he said, “What are you doing in Freeport? I heard you were running weapons to renegades in the Trollhome Mountains?”
Throwing his arm around Amos’s shoulders, Patrick said, “Gods, that was a long time ago, nearly ten years now. I’m Sheriff of Freeport, these days.”
“Sheriff? I thought that evil little Rodezian bastard—what was his name?—Francisco Galatos was Sheriff.”
“That was thirty years ago. He’s dead, and two since him. I’ve been Sheriff for five years now.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Where have you been these years? Last I heard, you were running weapons from Queg to the Far Coast.”
Amos shook his head. “Speaking of years past, it’s a long story, better told over a mug of ale or wine.”
Patrick stopped. “Amos, things have changed since you were last here.”
“How?” asked Amos.
“Come with me.” He motioned for his men to escort Amos’s companions and they all walked from the dock area to a small street that paralleled the waterfront. As they moved along the street, local citizens peered curiously from windows and doorways. A few colorfully painted women called out invitations, contingent on their not being hung first. These remarks were universally met with appreciative laughter.
Amos said, “These hovels don’t seem to have changed much, Patrick. They’re still the same flytraps they always were.”
Patrick said, “Just wait.”
They reached the top of a broad boulevard and turned the corner. Patrick of Duncastle pointed down the street. “Here we are,” he said.
Amos halted and took in the sight. For as far as the eye could see, the street was lined with two- and three-story buildings, painted and clearly well tended. From the throng that hurried to and fro along the way, it was obvious Freeport was a busy community. In the distance, they could see the roadway wind up the mountainside.
Amos said, “I don’t believe it, Patrick.”
Duncastle rubbed his chin absently, on the spot Amos had struck it. “Believe it, Amos. We’ve grown since you were last here. We’re not a small village with a tavern and a whorehouse but a city.” Turning to walk down the street, he motioned for the others to follow. “We’re not quite as law-abiding as those in the Kingdom, but we’re no more corrupt than most of the cities in Kesh, and probably less than Durbin. I’ve got fifty men-at-arms working for me, and we’re well paid to keep order in Freeport.” Gesturing to buildings on either side, he said, “Many of the merchants here do business in the Kingdom, Queg, and Kesh.”
“Without benefit of customs, I expect,” said Amos with a barking laugh.
Patrick smiled. “Usually. Others, however, are on the square with the custom houses in Kesh and Isles—they stand to lose too much by having their cargoes confiscated when they get to their destinations. And it doesn’t require much to claim that a cargo originated somewhere else—we like to keep Freeport’s part in these transactions quiet. As a result, we do tremendous business in transshipping.” Pointing to one of the many buildings still doing business, he said, “You’re looking at the largest independent spice trader north of the city of Kesh itself.”
Amos laughed. “Independent. I like that. As the spice trade in Kesh is an Imperial monopoly, he can’t very well operate legally inside the Empire.”
Patrick smiled and nodded. “But he has his sources inside the Empire, and I suspect he has contacts even inside the Imperial Court. He deals with traders from lands we’ve never heard of, Amos. From the Tsurani world. From Brijana on the far side of Kesh. From places I can’t even pronounce, across seas I didn’t know existed until recently.” He resumed walking and the others followed.
They passed building after building, still busy despite the hour. “Some of these men you know, Amos,” said Patrick. “Like us, pirates in their younger days, now they find that shrewd commerce turns a better profit at less risk.”
Nicholas saw a city little different than others he had visited, save that the citizenry seemed more raucous and fractious. A pair of men were arguing loudly, but a pair of the Sheriff’s men silenced their dispute with a curt instruction to move along. The son of the Prince of Krondor could see that by any standard, Freeport was a prosperous town.
Amos said, “So this is why you’ve turned into such a suspicious bastard in your old age, Patrick.”
He nodded. “I have to be. The days when we could run into the hills and wait for a raiding fleet from Krondor or Elarial to grow bored and leave are long over. We have too much to lose now.”
Amos fixed his old friend with a baleful eye. “So that’s why we were met with a dozen bashers?”
Patrick nodded. “And if you can’t convince the Council of Captains you’re what you say you are, it’s also why we’ll have to take your ship.”
In a menacing, low tone, Amos said, “Over my dead body.”
Suddenly a dozen crossbows were again leveled at Amos and his companions. With a regretful expression, Patrick of Duncastle said, “If need be, Amos. If need be.”
—
THE CAPTAINS OF the Sunset Islands met in a house at the far end of the boulevard. Along the way, Nicholas and the others were treated to a scene of changing exotica. A babble of tongues filled the night air, and a profusion of colorful costumes and fashions tantalized the eye at every turn. Gambling halls and brothels stood side by side with traders and brokers. And in every doorway, signs in a dozen tongues proclaimed the services offered.
Vendors pushed wagons or carried trays, heaped with every imaginable ware from silks and jewelry to baked sweets and candy. Nicholas glanced around so often he felt overwhelmed by the sights; Freeport looked larger and certainly far busier than Crydee.
Amos said, “How has this come to be, and we’ve never heard of it in the Kingdom Sea?”
“That counts against you, Amos,” answered Patrick. “The customs of every nation move along two paths, the square and the dodgy. And everyone who practices trading on the sly soon hears of where the best fence is, where the cargoes that are ill gotten can be unloaded. You can’t have been sailing under that infamous flag of yours recently and not heard that Freeport was now the world’s clearinghouse for booty. And even honest traders are hearing of us, because of our lack of customs and tariff.”
Amos fell silent as they continued down the street. “As I said, Patrick: it’s a long story.” At the far end stood a building with a large sign that proclaimed itself “Governor’s House.” It was a modest building, with a wide porch and two windows, one on either side. Shutters were thrown wide and Nicholas could hear loud voices issuing from within.
Amos and his company were marched up the stairs into the building. Whatever walls once existed inside had been removed, so that one large room occupied the entire lower floor. A stairway along the back wall led to the second story. From above, a chandelier of wood with a dozen candles provided light.
A long table had been placed before the stairs, and seven men sat there. Amos removed his large hat, out of respect, and the others with him followed his example. But that appeared the full measure of his deference as he strode up to stand before the centermost captain and bellowed, “Just what in the Seven Lower Hells gives you the right to greet a brother captain with armed men, William Swallow?”
The grey-haired captain at the center of the table said, “As meek as ever, I see.”
A younger man, with his hair in dark ringlets that hung to his shoulders, and a finely trimmed mustache, said, “Who is this buffoon, Swallow?”
“Buffoon!” shouted Amos, turning to face the young man. “As I live and breathe, Morgan! Heard your father had drunk himself to death and you’d taken command of his ship.” Fixing the man with a baleful eye, he said, “Boy, before you’d left your mother’s teat, I was burning Keshian cutters and sinking Quegan galleys. I sacked Port Natal and drove Lord Barry’s fleet back to Krondor like a pack of whipped dogs! I’m Trenchard, the Dagger of the Sea, and I’ll kill the first man who says I’m not!”
Morgan said mildly, “I thought you were dead, Amos.”
Amos pulled a dagger from out of his coat and, before anyone could react, flipped it and pinned the sleeve of the young captain’s coat to the table. “I’m better now,” he snarled.
Nicholas nudged Marcus, and the older cousin looked where Nicholas indicated. At the far end of the table sat a fair-skinned man covered in blue tattoos. He wore a golden ring in his nose, and his blue eyes were dramatic in his pale face.
Patrick of Duncastle said formally, “Captains, this is Amos, Captain Trenchard, and I know him.”
Captain Swallow said, “We heard you were sailing for the Kingdom, Amos.”
Amos shrugged. “For a while. Before that I was involved in a caper in the north. I’ve done a lot of things. Sailed for Kesh and against them, sailed for the Kingdom and against them, too. As has every man in this room.”
“I say you be Kingdom spies,” said one of the captains at the far end of the table.
Amos turned and, mocking the man’s speech, said, “And I say you still be an idiot, Peter Dread. How you ever made captain is a mystery; did Captain Mercy die, or did you and Render over there ‘retire’ him?”
The man began to stand and Patrick said, “No brawling!”
The man with the tattoos said, “My men tell me you sailed in under the black banner, but your ship’s a Kingdom warship.”
Facing him, Amos said, “It was a Kingdom warship, Render, until I stole it.” Fixing him with a harsh look, he glanced back at Dread, then returned his gaze to Render. “The quality of leadership around here has gone to hell, it seems. Dread and Render captains?” He shook his head. “What became of your captain John Avery, Render? Did you eat him?”
Render gripped the edge of the table and looked as if he would spit, but he kept silent. Almost hissing at Amos, he said, “The Bantamina sank off Taroom ten years past, Trenchard. That’s when I became a captain!”
Patrick said, “We can stand around and insult each other all night, Amos, but it will not aid your, cause.”
Amos looked around the room. “I was a captain in the Brotherhood before any of you, save William Swallow. Who denies me my right of free passage? Freeport has always been an open harbor for any captain with the sand to sail here. Or do you now have tax collectors? Are you turning civilized, damn you?”
Patrick replied, “Things are not the same as they once were, Amos. We have much to lose here should anyone come snooping.”
Amos said, “I’ll give you my oath.”
“What’s your business in Freeport?” asked a young captain who had been silent so far.
Amos regarded the man, a short, barrel-chested fellow with a red beard and shoulder-length curly red hair. Letting his smile broaden, he said, “You must be James Scarlet.”
The man nodded. “I was chased from Questor’s View to the lee side of Queg by a ship that looked like yours, Trenchard.”
Amos grinned. “Two years ago, last spring. I would have caught you, too, if you hadn’t run in close to shore and those Quegan galleys hadn’t come out to see what we were playing at.”
Slapping the table, Scarlet roared, “You were sailing for the King!”
Amos roared back, “I just said I was! Are you deaf or merely stupid? I was being paid bounty for eve
ry one of you motherless rogues I could catch, and a pardon for my past crimes, and in my place, no man here would have thought twice about doing exactly the same!” Leaning on the table so he was eye to eye with Scarlet, Amos spoke softly. “Especially when the alternative is the gibbet.”
“We have a problem,” said Patrick. “You’re known to many of us, Amos, but you’ve not been seen in these parts for more years than I can recall, save when you were sailing for the King. You say you’ve turned pirate again, but what surety can we have that you’re not going to sell us out to the highest bidder?”
“The same you have from any of these motherless cutthroats,” shouted Amos, indicating the other captains.
“We have stakes here,” said Scarlet. “This is the sweetest enterprise in the history of the islands, and the take is steady. We’d be fools to poison this well.”
Amos snorted. “What do you require?” he asked Patrick.
“You have to stay here awhile, Amos.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to make sure a raiding fleet isn’t lying in wait somewhere over the horizon,” said Scarlet.
“Or some proof you’ll not sail back to Krondor and bring back a fleet,” added Swallow.
Patrick of Duncastle said, “In any event, Amos, it’ll be no more than a few months, a year at the most.” He smiled as if it were only a minor inconvenience.
“You’re daft,” said Amos. “I came here for a reason and I have pressing matters to pursue.”
“He’s a spy,” repeated Dread.
“What is this pressing matter?” asked Patrick.
Amos pointed an accusing finger at Render. “I’m here to kill that man.”
—
RENDER LEAPED TO his feet, a sword in his hand. Patrick shouted, “Enough!” Turning to Amos, he said, “What is your grievance with Render?”
“A month ago he led an army of murderers, including Durbin slavers, into Crydee. He burned the whole damn town to the ground and killed nearly everyone there.”
The King's Buccaneer Page 23