“Retch is rumored to always have a means of escape,” Maimun explained as they crossed the threshold into the private room, exactly as Arabeth had instructed Maimun to do.
“All pirates do,” Deudermont replied. “Where is yours?”
Maimun stopped and regarded Deudermont out of the corner of his eye for a few moments, but otherwise let the jab pass.
“Or are you implying that you have an idea where Retch’s escape might be found?” Deudermont asked when his joke flattened.
Maimun led the captain through a secret door and into Retch’s private quarters. The room was gaudily adorned with booty from a variety of places and with a variety of designs, rarely complimentary. Glass mixed with metal-work, fancy-edge and block, and a rainbow of colors left onlookers more dizzy than impressed. Of course, anyone who knew Captain Argus Retch, with his red-and-white striped shirt, wide green sash, and bright blue pants, would have thought the room perfectly within the wide parameters of the man’s curious sensibilities.
The moment of quiet distraction also brought a revelation to the two—one that Maimun had expected. A conversation from below drifted through a small grate in the corner of the room, and the sound of a cultured woman’s voice fully captured Deudermont’s attention.
“I care nothing for the likes of Argus Retch,” the woman said. “He is an ugly and ill-tempered dog, who should be put down.”
“Yet you are here,” a man’s voice—Robillard’s voice—answered.
“Because I fear Arklem Greeth more than I fear Sea Sprite, or any of the other pretend pirate hunters sailing the Sword Coast.”
“Pretend? Is this not a pirate? Is it not caught?”
“You know Sea Sprite is a show,” the woman argued. “You are a facade offered by the high captains so the peasants believe they’re being protected.”
“So the high captains approve of piracy?” asked an obviously doubting Robillard.
The woman laughed. “The Arcane Brotherhood operates the pirate trade, to great profit. Whether the high captains approve or disapprove is not important, because they don’t dare oppose Arklem Greeth. Feign not your ignorance of this, Brother Robillard. You served at the Hosttower for years.”
“It was a different time.”
“Indeed,” the woman agreed. “But now is as now is, and now is the time of Arklem Greeth.”
“You fear him?”
“I’m terrified of him, and horrified of what he is,” the woman answered without the slightest hesitation. “And I pray that someone will rise up and rid the Hosttower of him and his many minions. But I’m not that person. I take pride in my prowess as an overwizard and in my heritage as daughter of the marchion of Mirabar.”
“Arabeth Raurym,” Deudermont mouthed in recognition.
“But I wouldn’t involve my father in this, for he is already entangled with the brotherhood’s designs on the Silver Marches. Luskan would be well-served by being rid of Arklem Greeth—even Prisoner’s Carnival might then be brought back under lawful and orderly control. But he will outlive my children’s children’s children—or out-exist them, I mean, since he long ago stopped drawing breath.”
“Lich,” Robillard said quietly. “It’s true, then.”
“I am gone,” Arabeth answered. “Do you intend to stop me?”
“I would be well within my province to arrest you here and now.”
“But will you?”
Robillard sighed, and up above, Deudermont and Maimun heard a quick chant and the sizzle of magical release as Arabeth spirited away.
The implications of her revelations—rumors made true before Deudermont’s very ears—hung silently in the air between Deudermont and Maimun.
“I don’t serve Arklem Greeth, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Maimun said. “But then, I am no pirate.”
“Indeed,” replied an obviously unconvinced Deudermont.
“As a soldier is no murderer,” said Maimun.
“Soldiers can be murderers,” Deudermont deadpanned.
“So can lords and ladies, high captains and archmages, pirates and pirate hunters alike.”
“You forgot peasants,” said Deudermont. “And chickens. Chickens can kill, I’ve been told.”
Maimun tipped his fingers against his forehead in salute and surrender.
“Retch’s escape?” Deudermont asked, and Maimun moved to the back of the cabin. He fumbled about a small set of shelves there, moving trinkets and statues and books alike, until finally he smiled and tugged a hidden lever.
The wall pulled open, revealing an empty shaft.
“An escape boat,” Maimun reasoned, and Deudermont started for the door.
“If he knew it was Sea Sprite pursuing him, he is long gone,” Maimun said, and Deudermont stopped. “Retch is no fool, nor is he loyal enough to follow his ship and crew to the depths. He no doubt recognized that it was Sea Sprite chasing him, and relieved himself of his command quietly and quickly. These escape boats are clever things; some submerge for many hours and are possessed of magical propulsion that can return them to a designed point of recall. You can take pride, though, for the escape boats are often referred to as ‘Deuderboats.’”
Deudermont’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s something, at least,” Maimun offered.
Deudermont’s handsome face soured and he headed through the door.
“You won’t catch him,” Maimun called after him. The young man—bard, pirate, captain—sighed and chuckled helplessly, knowing full well that Retch was likely already back in Luskan, and knowing the ways of Kensidan, his employer, he wondered if the notorious pirate wasn’t already being compensated for sacrificing his ship.
Arabeth had come out there for a reason, to have that conversation with Robillard within earshot of Captain Deudermont. It all started to come together for clever Maimun. Kensidan was soon to be a high captain, and the ambitious warlord was working hard to change the very definition of that title.
Despite his deep resentment, Maimun found himself glancing at the door through which Deudermont had exited. Despite his falling out with his former captain, he felt uneasy about the prospect of this too-noble man being used as a pawn.
And Arabeth Raurym had just seen to that.
“She was a good ship—best I ever had,” Argus Retch protested.
“Best of a bad lot, then,” Kensidan replied. He sat—he was always sitting, it seemed—before the blustering, gaudy pirate, his dark and somber clothing so in contrast to Argus Retch’s display of mismatched colors.
“Salt in your throat, ye damned Crow!” Retch cursed. “And lost me a good crew, too!”
“Most of your crew never left Luskan. You used a band of wharf-rats and a few of your own you wished to be rid of. Captain Retch, don’t play me for a fool.”
“W-well…well,” Retch stammered. “Well, good enough, then! But still a crew, and still workin’ for me. And I lost Folly! Don’t you forget that.”
“Why would I forget that which I ordered? And why would I forget that for which you were compensated?”
“Compensated?” the pirate blustered.
Kensidan looked at Retch’s hip, where the bag of gold hung.
“Gold’s all well and fine,” Retch said, “but I need a ship, and I’m not for finding one with any ease. Who’d sell to Argus Retch, knowing that Deudermont got his last and is after him?”
“In good time,” said Kensidan. “Spend your gold on delicacies. Patience. Patience.”
“I’m a man of the sea!”
Kensidan shifted in his seat, planting one elbow on the arm of the chair, forearm up. He pointed his index finger and rested his temple against it, staring at Retch pensively, and with obvious annoyance. “I can put you back to sea this very day.”
“Good!”
“I doubt you’ll think so.”
The deadpan clued Retch in to Kensidan’s true meaning. Rumors had been filtering around Luskan that several of Kensidan’s enemies had been dropped into t
he deep waters outside the harbor.
“Well, I can be a bit patient, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Kensidan echoed. “And it will be well worth your time, I assure you.”
“You’ll get me a good ship?”
Kensidan gave a little chuckle. “Would Sea Sprite suffice?”
Argus Retch’s bloodshot eyes popped open wide and the man seemed to simply freeze in place. He stayed like that for a very long time—so long that Kensidan simply looked past him to several of Rethnor’s lieutenants who stood against the walls of the room.
“I’m sure it will,” Kensidan said, and the men laughed. To Retch, he added, “Go and play,” and he waved the man away.
As Retch exited through one door, Suljack came in through another.
“Do you think that wise?” the high captain asked.
The Crow shrugged and smirked as if it hardly mattered.
“You intend to give him Sea Sprite?”
“We’re a long way from having Sea Sprite.”
“Agreed,” said Suljack. “But you just promised…”
“Nothing at all,” said Kensidan. “I asked if he thought Sea Sprite would suffice, nothing more.”
“Not to his ears.”
Kensidan chuckled as he reached over the side of his seat to retrieve his glass of whiskey, along with a bag of potent leaves and shoots. He downed the drink in one gulp and brought the leaves up below his nose, inhaling deeply of their powerful aroma.
“He’ll brag,” Suljack warned.
“With Deudermont looking for him? He’ll hide.”
Suljack’s shake of his head revealed his doubts, but Kensidan brought his herbs up beneath his nose again and seemed not to care.
Seemed not to care because he didn’t. His plans were flowing exactly as he had predicted.
“Nyphithys is in the east?”
Kensidan merely chuckled.
CHAPTER 2
DEFYING EXPECTATIONS
T he large moonstone hanging around Catti-brie’s neck glowed suddenly and fiercely, and she brought a hand up to clench it.
“Devils,” said Drizzt Do’Urden. “So Marchion Elastul’s emissary wasn’t lying.”
“Telled ye as much,” said the dwarf Torgar Hammerstriker, who had been of Elastul’s court only a few short years before. “Elastul’s a shooting pain in a dwarf’s arse, but he’s not so much the liar, and he’s wanting the trade. Always the trade.”
“Been more than five years since we went through Mirabar on our road that bringed us home,” King Bruenor Battlehammer added. “Elastul lost a lot to our passing, and his nobles ain’t been happy with him for a long time. He’s reachin’ out to us.”
“And to him,” Drizzt added, nodding down in the direction of Obould, master of the newly formed Kingdom of Many-Arrows.
“The world’s gone Gutbuster,” Bruenor muttered, a phrase referring to his wildest guardsmen and which Bruenor had aptly appropriated as a synonym for “crazy.”
“Better world, then,” Thibbledorf Pwent, leader of said guardsmen, was quick to respond.
“When we’re done with this, ye’re going back to Mirabar,” Bruenor said to Torgar. Torgar’s eyes widened and he blanched at the notion. “As me own emissary. Elastul done good and we’re needing to tell him he done good. And not one’s better for telling him that than Torgar Hammerstriker.”
Torgar seemed less than convinced, to be sure, but he nodded. He had pledged his loyalty to King Bruenor and would follow his king’s commands without complaint.
“Business here first, I’m thinking,” Bruenor said.
The dwarf king looked at Catti-brie, who had turned to stare off in the direction the gemstone amulet indicated. The westering sun backlit her, reflecting off the red and purple blouse she wore, a shirt that had once been the magical robes of a gnome wizard. Bruenor’s adopted daughter was in her late thirties—not old in the counting of a dwarf, but near middle-aged for a human. And though she still had that luminescence, a beauty that radiated from within, luster to her auburn hair and the sparkle of youth in her large blue eyes, Bruenor could see the changes that had come over her.
She had Taulmaril the Heartseeker, her deadly bow, slung over one shoulder, though of late, Drizzt was the one with that bow in hand. Catti-brie had become a wizard, and one with a tutor as fine as any in the land. Alustriel herself, the Lady of Silverymoon and of the famed Seven Sisters, had taken Catti-brie in as a student shortly after the stalemated war between Bruenor’s dwarves and King Obould’s orcs. Other than the bow, Catti-brie carried only a small dagger, one that seemed hardly used as it sat on her hip. An assortment of wands lined her belt, though, and she wore a pair of powerfully enchanted rings, including one that she claimed could bring the stars themselves down from the sky upon her enemies.
“They’re not far,” she said in a voice still melodic and filled with wonder.
“They?” asked Drizzt.
“Such a creature would not travel alone—certainly not for a meeting with an orc of Obould’s ferocious reputation.” Catti-brie reminded him.
“But escorted by other devils, not a more common guard?”
Catti-brie shrugged, tightened her grip on the amulet, and concentrated for a few moments then nodded.
“A bold move,” said Drizzt, “even when dealing with an orc. How confident must the Arcane Brotherhood be to allow devils to openly walk the land?”
“Less confident tomorrow than today’s all I’m knowing,” muttered Bruenor. He moved down to the side of the stony hill that afforded him the best view of Obould’s encampment.
“Indeed,” Drizzt agreed, throwing a wink at Catti-brie before moving down beside the dwarf. “For never would they have calculated that King Bruenor Battlehammer would rush to the aid of an orc.”
“Just shut yer mouth, elf,” Bruenor grumbled, and Drizzt and Catti-brie shared a smile.
Regis glanced around nervously. The agreement was for Obould to come out with a small contingent, but it was clear to the halfling that the orc had unilaterally changed that plan. Scores of orc warriors and shamans had been set around the main camp, hiding behind rocks or in crevices, cunningly concealed and prepared for swift egress.
As soon as Elastul’s emissaries had delivered the word that the Arcane Brotherhood meant to move on the Silver Marches, and that enlisting Obould would be their first endeavor, the orc king’s every maneuver had been aggressive.
Too aggressive? Regis wondered.
Lady Alustriel and Bruenor had reached out to Obould, but so too had Obould begun to reach out to them. In the four years since the treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, there hadn’t been all that much contact between the various kingdoms, dwarf and orc, and indeed, most of that contact had come in the form of skirmishes along disputed boundaries.
But they had come to join in their first common mission since Bruenor and his friends, Regis among them, had traveled north to help Obould stave off a coup attempt by a vicious tribe of half-ogre orcs.
Or had they? The question nagged at Regis as he continued to glance around. Ostensibly, they had agreed to come together to meet the brotherhood’s emissaries with a show of united force, but a disturbing possibility nagged at the halfling. Suppose Obould instead planned to use his overwhelming numbers in support of the fiendish emissary and against Regis and his friends?
“You wouldn’t have me risk the lives of King Bruenor and his princess Catti-brie, student of Alustriel, would you?” came Obould’s voice from behind, shattering the halfling’s train of thought.
Regis sheepishly turned to regard the massive humanoid, dressed in his overlapping black armor with its abundant and imposing spikes, and with that tremendous greatsword strapped across his back.
“I–I know not what you mean,” Regis stammered, feeling naked under the knowing gaze of the unusually perceptive orc.
Obould laughed at him and turned away, leaving the halfling less than assured.
Several of the forward sentries began cal
ling then, announcing the arrival of the outsiders. Regis rushed forward and to the side to get a good look, and when he did spy the newcomers a few moments later, his heart leaped into his throat.
A trio of beautiful, barely-dressed women led the way up the path. One stepped proudly in front, flanked left and right by her entourage. Tall, statuesque, with beautiful skin, they seemed almost angelic to Regis, for from behind their strong but delicate shoulders, they each sprouted a pair of shining white feathered wings. Everything about them spoke of otherworldliness, from their natural—or supernatural! — charms, like hair too lustrous and eyes too shining, to their adornments such as the fine swords and delicate rope, all magically glowing in a rainbow of hues, carried on belts twined of shining gold and silver fibers that sparkled with enchantments.
It would have been easy to confuse these women with the goodly celestials, had it not been for their escort. For behind them came a mob of gruesome and beastly warriors, the barbazu. Each carried a saw-toothed glaive, great tips waving in the light as the hunched, green-skinned creatures shuffled behind their leaders. Barbazu were also known as “bearded devils” because of a shock of facial hair that ran ear to ear down under their jawline, beneath a toothy mouth far too wide for their otherwise emaciated-looking faces. Scattered amongst their ranks were their pets, the lemure, oozing, fleshy creatures that had no more definable shape than that of a lump of molten stone, continually rolling, spreading, and contracting to propel themselves forward.
The group, nearly two score by Regis’s count, moved steadily up the rock path toward Obould, who had climbed to the top to directly intercept them. Just a dozen paces before him the leading trio motioned for their shock troops to hold and came forward as a group, again with the same one, a most striking and alluring creature with stunning too-red hair, too-red eyes, and too-red lips, taking the point.
“You are Obould, I am sure,” the erinyes purred, striding forward to stand right before the imposing orc, and though he was more than half a foot taller than her and twice her weight, she didn’t seem diminished before him.
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