by Unknown
Startled to hear his full name from the mouth of a stranger, Kostin blurted, “You didn’t know my father.”
The kapteo nodded. “True. I only knew of him. There was a time when I knew all the comings and goings of the People from Rag’s End to the Underbridge. He was a good man, as you know. He would not cross silver with us, with any clan. And for that we loved him in our way—he was as the stone that does not feel the storm. A strong man is like that, yes? Do you follow?”
“I…” Kostin was at a loss for words. He glanced down at his dirty breeches, ash-smeared from the scorched remains of his father’s home. He was conscious for the first time of smelling like smoke.
“But you are here, now.” The kapteo grinned, leaning back in evident satisfaction. “And that can only mean you have failed him, yes? You are a boy in trouble, a boy in a man’s body, just as any nestling who has hid like a child from the world.” It was said mildly, matter-of-factly, but the venom of the old man’s words was palpable.
Kostin, anger kindled, locked eyes with the kapteo and bared his teeth.
“A friend is an enemy’s enemy,” Kostin quoted the old Varisian saying. “It’s the same in every language, kapteo. I’m not here for a handout, and Desna take your insults. I’m here to make a deal about the Shoanti.”
The kapteo raised one bushy white eyebrow and gestured for Kostin to continue.
“The worst scum in Beacon Point—what do they call themselves? The Iron Eaters? Something ridiculous. We both want them out of the picture—only you have an agreement with the Night Scales not to touch them. They’re the Scales’ blunt instruments in this part of town, and they push and push at you and all you can do is complain to navedo bosses that life isn’t fair.” Kostin stopped, took a breath, and noticed his hands were knotted into fists. “I can get rid of them.”
A calculating look crept into the old man’s eyes. “If one pretends the Scales will ignore what they can surely find out about such a deal, what do you want from us?”
Kostin named his figure.
The kapteo licked his lips before speaking. “A lot of coin. It will take time to raise such a loan.”
Kostin hissed a choice Varisian oath and slammed his hand into the ground between them, sending a leather-punch skittering across the carpets. The old man’s eyes flashed fire, and his hand slipped to the hilt of his blade.
“It isn’t a loan, you old cheat. Either I get it done, in which case it’s payment. Or I don’t—in which case I’m dead, either at their hands or yours. And I don’t need coin. Hacksilver, trade bits, ingots—hell, dinnerware is fine, just have it for me by this time tomorrow. I have people that need to get paid.”
The kapteo shook his head, his anger giving way to amusement. “Too much risk. I cannot say yes to this. But it is good to see the spirit of the People is still in you, mossback.”
Kostin leaned back and smiled. “You don’t know the best part yet, kapteo. I admit that I’m an unknown quantity to you—my abilities in this area cannot be seen as a guarantee. But the real risk you’re talking about is retaliation from the Scales.” Kostin scrutinized the old man, noting his interest. “But the Scales grow tired of their alley dogs, and they’ve already tried to arrange the killing of the Shoanti Azahg, the mad shaman that holds their leash.”
“And I am to take your word at this? You would say anything; I see revenge in your eyes.”
Kostin stood. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled forth a wad of fire-blackened cloth, its former intricate and multi-hued pattern barely discernable. It was his kapenia, his family scarf. The story of his parents and his parents’ parents, the story of his life before it had been given him. He dropped the ruined thing before the old man.
The kapteo smoothed the garment with bent fingers, and said nothing.
“This time, tomorrow. It’s enough time to check my story. One of Symirkova’s brats down at the Bazaar can tell you all about the Kellid freelancer who took a shot at Azahg, and how the deal was brokered by a couple of town guards called Marster and Dennebris. Maybe you’ve already heard of that pair—they certainly run their mouths enough. The girls of half-a-dozen Lowcleft dance halls had plenty to repeat about those two, about how they like to go around spending Night Scales silver and playing the big men.”
Kostin declined to mention the remaining link in the chain of information he had uncovered this morning—that it was Donal Carent that had sent him sniffing after Marster and Dennebris, the two men that had rolled into Dockyard impound one day with a cartful of supposedly confiscated sundries and a false bill of lading. Their cargo had disappeared by the end of the day, gone home in the pockets and pouches of a score of guards and officials. All their cargo, that is, except for a black, wizard-locked box.
The kapteo spoke after a moment’s consideration, “If this is true, then the Scales will take care of our problem for us.”
Kostin shook his head. “The Scales want to cut off the head of the beast, to better control it. If they do that, your problem doesn’t go away. If you back me on this, what’s left of the Shoanti will turn tail and scatter and the Scales won’t press the issue. It’s the navedo way—they won’t blood feud over a pack of foreign gutter grubbers that they have already grown tired of.”
Kostin paused, studying the kapteo as he sat motionless in the dim interior, the old man’s hands moving delicately over the ruined fabric of the Dalakcz kapenia.
“Let it be Sczarni silver,” Kostin interjected into the silence that had fallen between them, “and a Varisian hand that accomplishes this task. That is our way.”
The kapteo nodded, once, decision made. “Tomorrow you will have your silver, if what you say is true. Desna walk with you, Kostinnavolus, and may she light your path.”
“And yours, kapteo. My thanks.” Kostin bowed and slipped from the tent, fighting to keep a grin off of his face.
Outside the sky had cleared, and the first stars of early evening stood out like hard diamonds in the fading blue. A day ago he had brought the box into his home, the home he had watched burn from the fifth floor of the Rope Works building while bucket teams scrambled to douse it. A day ago his life had changed forever.
It was time to hit back. Time to cash in some favors, make some promises, and build his team.
Chapter Three: Nothing Ventured
The girls were, by any objective standards, far too beautiful for the Point. But in the dim glow of the dockyard lights they did the trick. Silently the trio gestured, gyrating hips that would make the women of the Keleshite Emperor’s harem seem bony lads in comparison, their impossible skin as smooth and silver as the moon above. Their black tresses—tinged with a seaweed green—hung in long clinging strands that managed to suggest more than they concealed. They were, when it came down to it, completely irresistible.
If you were born yesterday, Kostin thought with a smirk.
The pair of Shoanti thugs guarding the old rum joint moved toward the gorgeous trinity like fish pursuing a hooked worm. When they passed through the darkest and narrowest part of the alleyway, Kostin struck.
He slipped in behind the leftmost guard and smashed across the base of his skull with a lead-filled sap. The man dropped.
Opposite him in the dark a giant figure loomed up, felling the second Shoanti with a single blow from a sledgehammer fist.
“Nice hit, Gyrd,” Kostin said, gritting his teeth as his voice came out too loud.
At the end of the alley, the three nymphs gave a silent cheer, flinging their arms up and bouncing on their heels like schoolchildren.
Kostin swiftly bound the arms of the unconscious Shoanti with rawhide tethers and gagged them with wads of cloth. Gyrd stepped in when he was finished, reeking of sour sweat and stale mead, and threw a guard over each broad shoulder. The Ulfen’s chainmail jangled under the load. Kostin pointed further down the alley and the big northerner stomped off with his cargo to dump them where they would not be found until morning.
“Enough with the girls,”
Kostin said through clenched teeth, noting that the illusory threesome was now engaged in activity fit to make a Calistrian blush. With a final, sensuous wave they winked out of existence—and a child-sized figure vaulted onto a nearby stack of discarded casks and gave a bow.
“Not too bad, yeah?” Her voice was the very model of gnomish enthusiasm. “I actually met a sea-nymph once, you know. And so I took her likeness and this tavern girl that Gyrd used to know—well, everyone used to know, apparently—and—”
“Yes, Shess. But we need to keep quiet—” Kostin was interrupted by the sudden flaring of a light behind him.
Whirling around and drawing his sword in the same motion, he saw Aeventius and Taldara walking up from the opposite end of the alley. A glow like daylight emerged from the wizard’s left hand, from the onyx and platinum ring that bore his family seal and was an integral part of his magic.
Aeventius held up his other hand before the livid Kostin could speak. “There are no watchers outside, no windows—the light is safe. But just to keep you from making faces…” The wizard—dressed more appropriately for a night at the opera than a raid into a dockside gang’s stronghold—cupped his hand over the ring and brought the daytime radiance back down to something approaching a dim lantern.
“What’s she doing here?” Kostin stage whispered, gesturing at Taldara.
The half-elf stepped between Aeventius and Kostin before the wizard could answer. “Why is that the first thing everyone says when I show up? You got me into this, Kostin—”
“Not this!”
“Yes, this. The box, the Shoanti—staying up all night and watching them try to save your father’s house. Don’t think it’s all about you—he was a father to me long before I ever met mine. Besides,” Taldara smirked, raising the crossbow she held at the ready, “this is better than sketching the Irespan all day.” Her badger, wobbling where it clung to her right shoulder, chattered agreement.
“She followed me,” Aeventius added.
“You aren’t hard to track—and a city isn’t so much different than the wilderness, especially the city where I grew up.”
Just then Gyrd reappeared like some vast berg of steel and flesh.
Aeventius let out an audible sigh. “Of course, where the imp goes, the ogre follows. You smell like an alehouse latrine.”
“That’s where we found him!” Shess piped up, bouncing to Aeventius’s side. The wizard flinched away.
Gyrd, bearded face impassive behind a tangle of red and gray hair, took a long pull from a leather drinking skin. The raw, almost chemical odor of potent spirits rolled out from him like an aura.
“None of this!” Kostin said, snatching the bag from Gyrd before the giant could react. “You can have it back when we’re done.”
“What did you think of my casting, Aevy?” Shess gazed up at the wizard through a shock of emerald green hair.
Kostin interrupted, clearing his throat. “Enough talking. Come.” He moved back down the alley toward the old rum house.
“Too beautiful,” Aeventius said to the gnome as he turned to follow Kostin. “And do not ever call me that.”
“Of course!” Shess said, skipping in stride with the wizard. “I always knew you liked your women short and green!”
“It seems Taldara picked up a number of new skills in her years away from home.”
Taldara moved to Kostin’s side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your, um, ‘gang?’”
“Certainly. Forgive my manners,” Irritation creeping into his voice, Kostin turned back around. The group halted.
“This here is Shess, the best little sneak thief in Magnimar.”
The gnome, beaming, gave a mock curtsey. She was dressed in a patchwork of styles and colors, resembling something like a collision between a Chelish noble, a Tian merchant, a Sczarni blade, and an Ulfen minstrel.
“And Gyrd here is, um…”
“Blacksmith,” the giant answered, no expression on his ruddy, heavily scarred face. His chainmail hauberk gleamed dully in the light, and he held a battle-dinted round shield in his left hand. Gyrd looked as if he had just stepped out from a shieldwall—and was aching to get back.
“Really?” Kostin asked, surprised. “Well, ah, everyone, this is my oldest friend, Taldara, who is some sort of big deal Pathfinder now.”
“Ooh,” said Shess, eyes round with interest as she studied Taldara. “But I thought Aevy was your oldest friend.”
“I thought I was his only friend,” Aeventius said blandly.
Taldara smiled and opened her mouth to reply, but Kostin grabbed her arm and tugged her along behind him. “Plenty of time for all of this later!” he said over his shoulder. The rest followed.
Aeventius was correct in that there were no signs of observation from the rum house. It was as Kapteo Giuleppeschi had said—the place was boarded up and abandoned. The Sczarni boss had come through for him that afternoon, granting him not only his silver, but valuable information about the Shoanti hideout. Kostin had modified his original plan to storm their front door in favor of this one—to come in undetected through the secret back entrance the Shoanti used to slip in and out along the shore side of the Point. Further west of here was the Wyrmwatch lighthouse, marking the spot where the great Indros had battled the sea dragon. South and east, and you had a tumble of smugglers’ wharfs along the mouth of the Yondabakari leading down into the slums of Rag’s End. It was a good location for a pack of robbers and thugs.
“Door is clear,” Aeventius said behind him, and Kostin turned to see the wizard’s eyes glowing with an eldritch blue light.
The guards had not had any keys on them. “Alright. Shess, you’re better at this than me. Get us in there.”
“Yes, sir!” Shess, saluting Kostin ridiculously, leaped onto Gyrd’s back. Drawing her sword, the gnome leveled it at the door like a cavalry officer ordering a charge. “Smash it, Gyrd!”
Before Kostin could react the Northman—Shess still clinging to his back—raised his shield and launched himself shoulder-first at the door. It crashed inward with a splintering boom.
“‘Best little sneak thief in Magnimar,’” said Taldara, covering the door with her crossbow. Aeventius snorted in amused agreement.
Kostin, sword drawn and teeth clenched in annoyed disbelief, entered after the mad gnome and the half-drunk warrior.
Inside it was dark and empty. A few sprung and moldering casks rested against the walls, and the odd sliver of wood or twist of ship’s rope littered the ground. On the far wall a doorless portal yawned blackly.
“So far it’s as the kapteo claimed,” Kostin said. “The old cellar of this place abuts the sunken warehouse. From there we’re right at the shaman’s quarters. Most of the Shoanti should be on the other side, in the warehouse proper. We nip in, take down Azahg, get the box, set some fires, and get the hell out again. Questions?”
Shess raised her hand and Kostin pushed it back down. The others shook their heads.
“Alright, then. Let’s go.”
The way ahead was easy to see—years of wear had left a path of dirt and scraped stone for them to follow. The blocks of the cellar wall had been pried out to form a crude doorway into the domain of the warehouse—a shoddily built structure that had sunk and partially collapsed at its south end and had long been abandoned by any legitimate concerns. Scrabbling through the wall and into the building, they followed a sloping and precarious floor upward. Kostin wiped sweat from his eyes; the air in the warehouse was close and redolent with the stench of mold and decay.
A flickering light ahead caused Aeventius to clamp a hand tightly over his radiant ring.
There were two of them, talking animatedly in the guttural cadences of the Shoanti. Gyrd tensed as if to spring forward, but Taldara clapped a hand on his shoulder and bade him be still. With her other hand she held a finger to her lips, urging them all to stay quiet.
After a brief exchange, both Shoanti moved off down the corridor.
Taldara t
urned to the group. “They say Azahg and his wives have been a night and a day in his sanctum, and they worry. They wish to know what powerful treasure he has discovered in the box, but also do not know if they should counter his orders and try to enter his rooms.” Taldara shrugged. “At least that’s the most I could get out of it.”
“You speak Shoanti,” Kostin said, impressed.
“They aren’t all bad, you know. I think they may have had to come to the city to turn into this.” Taldara scratched her badger behind the ear. Lifting it gently from her shoulder, she nuzzled it before placing it on the ground.
“Mordimor will scout they way for us,” she continued as the badger zipped off down the corridor. Taldara closed her eyes and drew a shape in the air.
“Tal, are you—” Kostin stopped at a sudden smack on the arm from Aeventius, who gestured for silence.
The badger returned as swiftly as he had left, and Taldara muttered a few words in a language Kostin had never heard, one different from the ancient tongue of magic he had listened to Aeventius utter on so many occasions.
Mordimor leaped into Taldara’s arms, and the two commenced to have the strangest conversation Kostin had ever witnessed.
“He says it’s clear, but he gets a bad feeling about the shaman’s door. Or, maybe, what’s on the other side of it.” Taldara plopped the badger back up on her shoulder. It still muttered at her ear and Taldara cocked a playful smile. “He also says the wizard should go first.”
“A woodland wit,” Aeventius said, scowling.
Kostin led the way, stalking ahead with barely a sound. Shess followed, moving silently with little effort. Taldara and Aeventius came next, creeping forward with careful steps. Gyrd shuffled in the rear, heavy one-handed sword drawn, armor tinkling despite his apparent caution.
They paused at the door for a time while Aeventius and Shess examined it—the wizard scanning for magical emanations and the thief checking for traps.
Shess, now wearing a ridiculous pair of spectacles devoid of their lenses, gave a thumbs-up, while Aeventius murmured something incomprehensible under his breath. Finally, he turned to Kostin. “I can open it, whenever we’re ready.”