by Paul S. Kemp
Azriim said, Bring the bodies to the alley when it’s done.
Dolgan’s unhappiness carried through the mental connection. The alley? Why? Can I at least eat his head? Azriim smiled. We will see.
With that, Azriim drew his blade and his teleportation rod. Dolgan did the same and both of them turned the dials on the rods.
Do try not to get stuck in the floor this time, Azriim said.
Dolgan smiled in answer.
Azriim was jesting only by half. There was always a risk in teleporting to a location they had never visited, or at least seen. Still, he was nothing if not a risk taker. He called upon the magic of the rod to teleport him into the forecastle, to the captain’s quarters. The magic would need to fill in the gaps.
He gave the rod a final twist, felt the familiar tingle in his flesh as his body moved instantaneously from the air above the ship to the captain’s cabin.
He appeared in one corner of a small room. A neatly made bed hugged the far wall, with a sea chest at its foot. A small writing desk stood near the bed with a logbook, quill, and inkwell atop it. A covered clay lamp and some papers sat on a night table near the bed.
Disappointed to find the cabin unoccupied, Azriim sat at the captain’s desk to wait. He leafed through the log, noting the repeated references to “sacks of cured meat,” no doubt a euphemism for slaves. He looked over the papers on the night table: charcoal sketches, and well done—a pod of leaping porpoises, a three-masted schooner on the horizon, an island in the distance. The captain was an artist, a slaver with a sensitive spirit. Azriim liked him immediately. Too bad he had to kill him.
He did not have to wait long. Shortly, the door to the cabin opened and the captain strode in, huffing and mumbling under his breath. Azriim pulled one of his wands, pointed it at the captain, and said, “Stay.”
The moment he said the word, he became visible.
The captain went wide-eyed. His hand went for his blade. He shouted aloud, an inarticulate cry of alarm.
Azriim cursed. The human had resisted the magic. He tried again. “Stay, you stubborn arse!”
That time the captain froze, his mouth open in a shout that would never escape his lips. Azriim grinned, but his smile vanished when a loud rapping sounded on the door.
“Captain?” a voice called. “Captain Kauzin?”
Azriim quickly changed his form to that of the captain—thick limbed, full belly, sallow skin, bad teeth, beard, and short, black hair—and walked to the door. He had the wrong clothes and had kept his natural mismatched eye color, but he figured the seaman would not notice.
He crossed the room and opened the door part way, using his body and the door to block visibility into the room.
“What is it?” he growled, and was pleased to hear the captain’s voice exit his throat.
A thin crewman with a pointed chin and a thin moustache and beard stared at him in surprise.
“Er, sorry, Captain. I thought I heard something amiss.”
Azriim smiled. He knew the real captain could hear the exchange and he could imagine the human’s frustration at not being able to move or say anything.
“You did hear something,” Azriim said. “I tripped on my chest and gave my back another twinge.”
The sailor nodded knowingly. No doubt all the crewmen knew of their captain’s troublesome back.
“Ah. Sorry for the interruption.”
Azriim grunted acknowledgement and shut the door. He waited a moment with his ear to the door to ensure that the crewman was gone.
He circled around to the still-paralyzed captain and stared into his face. The man was sweating profusely, even through the spell. He knew what was coming.
“I will make it painless,” Azriim said, “But only because I do not want to ruin your clothes with blood.” He smiled into the human’s face. “And because you are an artist, which I respect.” He tapped a finger on his chin. “But after you are dead and I’ve taken your corpse from the ship, I may eat your brain. Done?”
The captain only sweated.
“Done, then,” Azriim said. He smiled, took the captain’s head in his hands, stared into his fearful eyes, and snapped his neck.
Afterward, he stripped the captain of his clothes, donned them, and used his rod to teleport himself and the corpse back to the alley. He found Dolgan already there, in the form of the first mate, waiting with the body of the real mate. Dolgan had not been as elegant in disposing of his target. The mate’s throat was torn out and his shirt stained crimson. His hair was slicked too, not with blood, but saliva. Dolgan must have been gumming his skull.
“I have been waiting a quarter hour,” hissed Dolgan, his voice that of the human.
“I ran into a complication,” Azriim said. “But all is well. Is there blood in the mate’s quarters?”
Dolgan grinned and licked his lips. “Not anymore.”
Azriim could only shake his head and wonder how he and Dolgan had been born to the same brood.
“May I feed?” Dolgan asked, holding the slack body of the mate by his head.
Azriim nodded indulgently. “Take him farther into the alley. And be quick.”
Dolgan grinned, retreated into the alley with his meal, and changed to his natural form. A crack announced the opening of the mate’s skull and slobbering sounds bespoke the emptying of the brainpan. Dolgan returned to human form and dragged the corpse along, wiping his mouth. Atypically, Azriim felt no desire to feed when he glanced at the human’s hollowed-out skull. The partial transformation to gray had perhaps changed his tastes.
Clucking his tongue, Azriim piled the corpses together, looked out on the waters, and picked a suitable point off the coast. He touched his teleportation rod to the bodies and sent them out into the waters of the bay, near a pier. They would be found and identified soon enough. No doubt the opened brainpan of the first mate would set tongues wagging.
Exactly as Azriim planned.
If the priest of Mask and his allies were following them, Azriim wanted to ensure they followed along the path he marked.
Back to the ship now, he projected to Dolgan. Our assassin should be arriving soon. And we are setting sail tonight.
CHAPTER 6
FISHING
Cale procured a single room for the three of them in a dockside, two-story inn called The Murky Depths. The inn served wealthy itinerant merchants who did not want to spend their evenings aboard ship while they were in port. Well-dressed men and women filled the common room, chatting and laughing. Several subdued games of draughts, sava, and scales and blades went on at various tables. Business negotiations went on at others. Dice were not in evidence.
The sweet smell of quality pipeleaf filled the room and bluish smoke circled the roof joists. A large kettle of fish stew simmered over the larger of the taproom’s two hearths. The Depths had only a few windows, all tightly shuttered. Dim glowglobes in the corners shed cerulean light of varying intensity, giving the taproom a deep-sea feel. Permanent illusions of small sharks, dolphins, jellyfish, marlins, and other exotic fish “swam” through the air between tables, between the roof rafters. An auditory illusion kept up a soothing chorus of distant whalesong. Permanent visual illusions made the floor appear to be transparent with a sea floor far below. Kelp, giant clams, and anemones dotted the sandy bottom, and schools of fish swam lazily under the feet of the patrons.
Cale could imagine the expense the proprietor must have spent on hired illusionists.
The three comrades sat in a shadowed corner of the taproom at a sturdy round table edged with an inset shell border. Ceramic tankards filled with quality house ale sat before them.
“Hardly our kind of place,” Jak said, eyeing the clientele. He reached out to touch a bright red illusory fish coasting past their table. It darted away from his touch and into the depths below the floorboards.
Cale agreed. Other than dinner knives and a couple of obviously ceremonial cutlasses that hung from the hips of two overweight merchants, the three comr
ades wore the only weapons in the room. The Depths was a place to which Cale might have accompanied Thamalon to close a trade deal.
Cale said, “I wanted us to have—”
The patrons scattered as an illusory shark burst out of the floor chasing a large silver fish. Prey and predator swam a frenetic course over three tables before knifing neatly back into the floorboards’ depths. Eventually the fish found shelter in a cave on the sea floor and the shark went hungry. Laughter and clapping followed.
Cale, Jak, and Magadon shared a look. All three had pushed back their chairs, half stood, and put hands to hilts. Cale had Weaveshear halfway from its scabbard.
Sheepishly, they released their blades and settled back at their table. Some of the nearby patrons eyed them and whispered behind their hands.
Cale ignored them and took a sip of ale. “As I was saying, I wanted us to have a peaceful place from which to operate. One with few distractions.” He thought of the tavern back in Skullport, when he and Riven had fought off some mercenaries. That would have been a pointless distraction too, had it not led to him meeting Varra. He put thoughts of her from his mind. “I also figured it might as well be a nice place. We could use a reprieve, even if temporary.”
Jak tilted his head and raised his glass in a salute. A trio of golden fish swam near their table and Jak snapped out his free hand to grab at one. The little man proved faster than the illusion and all three illusory fish vanished at his touch. They reappeared, swimming peacefully, near the ceiling across the room.
“Got you,” Jak said to them, smiling, and took a long, congratulatory draw on his ale.
Magadon returned them to their task. “Sakkors is underwater. We know that. Hopefully, we can catch the slaadi and Riven aboard ship, but if not….”
“Then we go under,” Jak said, and looked down through the floorboards.
Magadon nodded. “And that adds to our enemies—the ocean is cold, dark, airless, and the weight of the water increases with depth. My mental abilities are of no help. What of your spells?”
“Within limits,” Cale said, and Jak nodded agreement.
“The slaadi can shapechange,” Magadon said. “They will take the form of something native to the depths. We will be at a disadvantage if it comes to that.”
“Then let’s not let it come to that,” Cale said. He looked to Jak and said, “Call in any markers you have, even your old Harper contacts.”
Magadon raised his eyebrows at that; the guide had not known that Jak once was a Harper. Cale went on. “I will do the same. We angle for anything suspicious. A sailor, passenger, or merchant with mismatched eyes. Anyone asking after Sakkors or the Eldritch Temple. A ship unexpectedly departing. Anything at all. Drop as much coin as you need. We start tonight.”
“I will be of little use in this,” Magadon said, his lips pursed.
“You have been of great use in everything else, Mags,” Cale said. “Leave this to Jak and me. This is what we do.”
Jak drained his ale, wiped his mouth, and stood. “I’ll get started tonight.”
Cale nodded.
“I will try scrying,” he said. “If that does not work, I’ll join you on the wharves.”
Dressed in the tailored black doublet, trousers, high boots, and fur-trimmed cloak of a middle-aged, wealthy, potbellied merchant, Riven walked the pier toward Demon Binder. To maintain appearances, he had hired a laborer to bear his chest of traveling goods–in reality, his weapons, armor, clothing, and a few other useless gewgaws he had purchased to add weight.
As he neared the gangplank, two crewmen hurried down to the pier to assist the laborer with his burden. Both sailors wore cutlasses and hard looks. Riven threw a silver to the laborer and sent him on his way.
“The captain said you was comin’,” the first said, a thin, tattooed sailor missing two fingers on his right hand.
“We’ll bear that for you, now,” said the other, a burly crewman with burn-scarred hands. His sour breath stank of distilled spirits.
Riven wiped fictional sweat from his brow, made as though he was catching his breath. He adopted a Chondathan accent and offered his thanks.
“Cap’n’s holdin’ a cabin for you,” said the thin one. “Leavin’ with the moonrise, he said. Where’ll we be headin’?”
Captain Azriim must not have told the crew the destination. Riven could not have told them if he’d wanted.
“I will leave it to the captain to tell,” Riven said, and boarded.
“Must be something special, to divert our course as we are though, eh?” the thin sailor said. He worked with the other crewman to carry the chest.
The bigger took a half-hearted swing with his free hand at the smaller’s head. “Shut yer hole, Nom. We’ll know when the Captain wants us to know. He’s never sailed us wrong, has he?”
Nom grumbled agreement and the two led Riven to his cabin—little more than a closet with a flea-ridden bed and small dressing table—and left him alone with his chest. Riven wandered onto deck later, where he found Azriim and Dolgan walking the ship, supervising the preparations to set sail. Riven grudgingly conceded that the slaadi were at least as good as he at playing their roles. He noticed that Azriim surreptitiously held one wand or another against his forearm as he moved over the deck.
“Welcome aboard, Mendeth,” Azriim said. The slaad looked exactly like the captain except that he had retained his mismatched eyes. Riven was not surprised that none of the crew had noticed, but a professional would. Cale would.
Dolgan, in his guise as the first mate, grunted a greeting.
Riven pretended to make insignificant conversation, but caught Azriim’s gaze and indicated the wands the slaad rotated in and out of his hands.
Warding the ship, Azriim explained.
Above them, the crew was at work in the rigging, unfurling sails.
“We sail at moonrise,” Azriim said, confirming what the crewman had said to Riven. He continued to walk the deck, with Dolgan at his side.
Riven tired of the slaadi’s company in short order. With nothing to do but wait for the ship to set sail, Riven returned to his quarters and brooded. The thump of activity went on for several hours, then shouts were heard, and the ship began to move away from the pier.
As Demon Binder sailed out of the harbor and out into the open sea, Riven emerged onto the deck, up the sterncastle to the aft railing. He felt the eyes of the crew on him, saw the questions in their expressions, but ignored them and offered no information. He leaned on the rail and watched Selgaunt and its torches and lamps vanish into the distance. For a moment, he wondered what his girls were doing, if they would miss him. He wondered, too, if Cale was in the city, looking for him.
He suspected so.
For the hundredth time, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
From their room in the Murky Depths, Cale tried to scry Riven or the slaadi but met with no success. He was not surprised. No doubt the Sojourner had bolstered the ability of the slaadi to avoid detection. He tried, too, to scry Sakkors, focusing the spell’s magic using only the city’s name. That failed as well. He and Jak would need to use more mundane methods.
For a night and two days Jak and Cale frequented the taverns and eateries of the Dock District, carousing among the watermen. It felt good to Cale. The atmosphere reminded him of his early professional life in Westgate, when things had seemed less complicated and earning coin had been his only concern.
He and Jak sprinkled fivestars and drink among sailors, courtesans, merchants, ferrymen, serving girls, bartenders, dockworkers, and anyone else who might have had an ear to recent events. Cale used his ability to stand invisibly in the shadows to move unseen among the crowds.
As always, the dockside establishments were awash in rumors and schemes—dragon attacks in the north seemed a popular bit of nonsense—but none of them fit what Cale knew of Riven and the slaadi. Cale watched dozens of ships come and go from the harbor, wondering with each if he was watching the slaadi escape.
After a time he began to suspect that Riven and the slaadi had not returned to Selgaunt after all, or that they had secured passage on a smuggler’s ship outside the harbor.
The second night, after another fruitless day, he and Jak walked back toward the Murky Depths.
“You ever think about doing something like that?” Jak said, and nodded at a group of glory-seekers walking along the docks: two warriors in mail hauberks, both armed with swords and bows, what looked like a paunchy wizard, to judge from his robes and the esoterica hanging from his belt, and an armored priest of Lathander, with a yellow sun enameled on his breastplate and a mace at his waist. The four adventurers joked among themselves as they walked the waterfront, laughing about some jest made at the wizard’s expense.
“An itchie?” Cale asked, incredulous. “Are you jesting?”
Jak shook his head. “I don’t mean an adventurer, Cale, at least not exactly. I mean … you know, someone who does big things.” He cleared his throat. “A hero, is what I’m saying.”
Cale would have chuckled if not for the earnestness in Jak’s voice. He said, “Adventurers are coin grubbers and tomb robbers, Jak. They’re not heroes, if there even are such people.”
Jak stopped and faced him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘if there are such people?’ You do not think there are any? What about Tchazzar? The Seven Sisters? Khelben Arunsun? Even King Azoun of Cormyr, before he fell.”
Cale shook his head and said, “Those people have done big things, great things maybe, but to call them heroes? I don’t know, Jak. The word … reduces a man, makes him more myth than real.”
“What does that mean?” Jak asked.
“It means….” Cale fumbled for words. “Do you think that what we know about the men and women you named amounts to even a fraction of who they were or what they did? They slew a dragon, defeated an army, faced a demon. All well and good. But how did they treat their friends? Their family? I’ll wager they experienced more failures than successes. Should that not factor into the evaluation? We take one aspect of who they were or what they did, grab onto it because we like it or think it admirable, and call them heroes. Hells, Jak, you and I have faced demons, even a dragon. No one knows, no one will remember but us, and I would wager a fortune that no one will call us heroes. Will they?”