The Reaver

by Richard Lee Byers

  Inwardly, Evendur flinched. This truly was bad. He was supposed to kill the boy prophet in a sacrificial ritual that would both augment his mystical power and discredit the reborn faith of Lathander in the eyes of those who might otherwise have credited its message. According to Umberlee, it was the one sure way to ensure the supremacy of her church across the Sea of Fallen Stars, and it obviously couldn’t happen if the infamous lich lord of Thay slew the child instead.

  “Seize the boy,” the goddess said. “Do it with your own hands, and do not fail. You can catch the Thayans’ galley in the straits between Pirate Isle and Gulthandor.”

  The towering figure of water lost cohesion as she ceased inhabiting it. With a splash that soaked Evendur all over again, the brine plunged back down into the well.

  Though he no longer needed air to survive, the habits of life still lingered, and he took a long, steadying breath. Linked as he was to the Queen of the Depths, he generally rejoiced in her transcendent ferocity. But not when she directed any measure of it in his direction.

  He strode through the temple until he found one of the senior waveservants. He told the priest what he wanted done in his absence, then returned to the pool.

  There, he roared words that sounded like a raging gale and surf pounding against rocks. Unlike common waveservants, he’d never studied the secret languages of the sea or any form of magic. But his ascension had put the knowledge in his head.

  The spell didn’t agitate the pool below him in any visible fashion, yet he could sense it changing. It felt like a door opening, and when it finished swinging wide, he jumped in.

  He then swam down the shaft as quickly and agilely as any squid or eel. That was another of Umberlee’s gifts. So was the inhuman sight that allowed him to see despite the rapidly gathering gloom.

  The well twisted just where it always had, but shortly thereafter, he swam across a kind of threshold. He couldn’t see the discontinuity, either, but he felt it as a surge of exhilaration. Grinning, he kicked and stroked faster, until he shot out the end of the passage.

  The mouth of the tunnel was likewise invisible when he glanced back around. The whole of Pirate Isle was gone. Instead of emerging adjacent to the promontory on which the temple rose, or near any other land, he was in open water.

  Specifically, he was floating in the heart of Umberlee’s watery realm. He had only to open his mind to sense currents flowing endlessly on through a thousand reefs teeming with huge, brightly colored fish and the dark gliding or lurking things that preyed on them. Before his transformation, he might have felt alarm upon perceiving the latter, for the least of them could have gobbled up a mortal man without difficulty. But now, fearing them would have been like fearing himself.

  In other places, the sea floor dropped away to frigid gulfs where different predators dangled glowing lures on fleshy tendrils, and blind things crawled and slithered in the ooze. Those creatures were Evendur’s kindred, too, and their grotesqueries made him smile like a child beholding a clown’s capers.

  In fact, had he permitted it, he could have drifted for a long while marveling at the wonders swimming or scuttling on every side. But that was unlikely to please Umberlee, so he thrust the temptation aside.

  Thanks to the esoteric lore the goddess had implanted, he knew that every body of water in the mortal world linked to this ultimate ocean. More, he knew a further secret, one that ordinary priests and mages might never discover in decades of study: Any spot here connected to every place in or on the mundane world’s seas. But only if a mystic possessed the might and skill to force open the way.

  Evendur pulled his rotting hands in gathering motions and croaked words that made it sound as if he were drowning all over again. At first, intrigued by the power they sensed accumulating in the water, gigantic hammerheads and rays came swimming close to investigate. Before long, though, the alternating waves of hot and cold became intense enough to alarm them, and they fled.

  On the final word of the incantation, awareness pierced Evendur like a hundred arrows hurtling from as many different directions. It was like possessing countless eyes and using each one to peer through a different porthole.

  But people, even undead Chosen of Umberlee, were meant to possess only two eyes and use both to look in a single direction. Evendur could make no sense of his jumbled perceptions and felt as if they were punching holes in his mind.

  He imposed order by willing his ethereal eyes shut one at a time until only one still peered at a stretch of the rolling gray surface of the Sea of Fallen Stars. He cast about. When certain no ship was in view, he closed the first eye and opened another on a vista that was nearly identical.

  The third perspective revealed squawking seagulls perched on the floating carcass of a pilot whale and pecking and tearing at the meat. But still no ship.

  Evendur wasn’t counting on spotting the Red Wizards’ galley. That would take considerable luck. But he needed a vessel of some sort. Feeling increasingly impatient, he opened more eyes in quick succession.

  On his twenty-seventh try, he found what he was seeking, a caravel on a starboard tack off the southern coast. In fact, it was the Iron Jest, a vessel that had sometimes cooperated with his own now-sunken Abattoir in raids on ports and merchant convoys.

  That was good. The Iron Jest was a fast ship, and the hard men aboard should be eager to help him catch Lathander’s Chosen and collect the price on his head. In fact, she’d be ideal if not for her captain.

  Evendur had never liked Anton Marivaldi. He’d never liked any of the rare men who refused to defer to him, even in subtle ways, as tougher and more cunning than themselves, and the Turmishan was one such. On occasion, he’d even made his fellow captain the target of his jibes.

  But now, surely, those days were over. Because Anton was the same little mortal he’d always been, and Evendur was a demigod. Thinking that it would be satisfying to make the knave grovel, he allowed all his other ethereal eyes to wither out of existence.

  Then he focused his will on the connection to the Iron Jest’s vicinity and set about transforming it from a spy hole to a passage like the one that had brought him from Pirate Isle to Umberlee’s ocean. He visualized his hands gripping the edges of the opening and pulling them apart.

  When the gateway was wide enough, he swam through then kicked and stroked upward until his head broke the surface. Rain pounded down on him, and the seas were heavy enough to dismay any human swimmer, but he took pleasure in the heaving peril that was no threat whatsoever to him.

  He looked around, found the Iron Jest, and swam after it. A trailing line hung off the stern, and he caught hold of it and climbed hand over hand.

  As he started to clamber over the railing, a shaven-headed pirate with rings in both ears noticed him and gave a squawk of alarm. The fellow looked wildly about, found a belaying pin, grabbed it, and rushed Evendur with the obvious intent of knocking him back into the sea. Maybe he’d mistaken the newcomer for one of the marine ghouls called lacedons.

  Though it was awkward when he was straddling the rail, Evendur ducked the makeshift cudgel, caught the human by the throat, and gave him a single brutal shake. Combined with the pressure constricting his windpipe, the jolt was enough to make the pirate falter.

  Evendur pulled his assailant close and glared into his eyes. “Do you recognize me now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the pirate croaked.

  “Good.” He gave the mortal a second, harder shake, heard his spine break, and tossed him overboard.

  Then he finished climbing onto the deck and ran his gaze over the other men who by now were gaping at him. “Is there anyone else who doesn’t know me?” he asked.

  A man with a long, somber face under a broad-brimmed hat cleared his throat. Evendur thought he ought to recognize the fellow, and after a moment, the memory came to him. The rogue was Naraxes Corieth, the Jest’s first mate.

  “We know you, Captain,” Naraxes said. “Or am I supposed to say Wavelord?”

 
; “Captain will do,” Evendur said. “Where’s Marivaldi?”

  “Gone. I’m captain now.”

  Well, perhaps that was better. Naraxes might prove more tractable than Anton would have. But why did the fool seem so nervous?

  “But the trouble is,” Naraxes continued, “when Anton left, he took the boy with him.”

  The words were so unexpected that it took Evendur a moment to truly comprehend them. “You’re telling me you had the child? The one who preaches that Lathander’s returned?”

  “Well, yes. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  Evendur decided it wouldn’t look especially demigod-ish to admit he didn’t know the apparently tangled tale of how the paths of the Morninglord’s Chosen, Anton Marivaldi, his estranged crew, Red Wizards, and the stars only knew who else had converged and diverged over the course of the past tenday or so. Fortunately, he didn’t need to know to address the current situation.

  “It is,” he said, “but not in the way you think. I’ve decided to catch the false prophet personally, and it’s your good luck that I’ve chosen your ship to do it. Once we take the boy to Pirate Isle, the temple will pay you the promised bounty.”

  Naraxes nodded. “We’ll help.”

  Evendur sneered. “I hope you didn’t think I was asking.”

  “No, Captain! Of course not!”

  “Good. Now come about. We’re looking for a Thayan galley, and I plan to catch her in the straits.”

  Naraxes turned to relay the commands. Strolling toward the bow, enjoying the way the crewmen tried to cringe from him without being obvious about it, Evendur began a first inspection of his new ship. It felt good to have a deck rolling under his boots again, and better still to be on the hunt for a prize.

  Anton woke up cold, wet, and stiff. More promisingly, though, he also woke to the smell of cooking. He opened his eyes, and for an instant was surprised to find himself aboard a vessel considerably smaller than the Iron Jest. Then he remembered capturing Stedd and all that had followed, including the flight from Westgate with Falrinn and Wydda the wizard.

  Well, no doubt he’d have ample opportunity to find out. At the moment, she was in the bow, and he was lying under the low shelter amidships that had manifestly done an unsatisfactory job of keeping the rain from blowing in on him. He crawled out and headed for the stern to attend to one of the cruder requirements of nature as far away from her as possible.

  Still a gentleman, he thought with sour self-derision. Father would be proud.

  Falrinn was in the stern adjusting the tiller, which attached to greasy brass gears that, he claimed, allowed him to do so with exactitude. He made similar boasts about the unconventional arrangements of pulleys, ratchets, and such he’d incorporated into the rigging. Anton remained skeptical that all the various contrivances would do a knowledgeable human mariner any good, but on previous voyages, he’d seen how they allowed one small gnome to trim sail and pilot the boat with ease and efficiency.

  As Anton buttoned up his breeches, Falrinn proffered a spyglass. The human accepted it with the care such a valuable tool deserved.

  “The wizard says we’re looking for a galley,” Falrinn said. “But she doesn’t know what style of galley, the port or realm the ship calls home, or even exactly where it’s heading.”

  Anton grinned. “You’d almost think she doesn’t trust us.”

  He ducked back under the shelter to scoop some breakfast—eggs scrambled with chopped fish—from the frying pan on the little wrought iron stove. He wolfed them down and then, feeling more vital and alert, headed into the bow. The mage gave him a nod.

  The exertions of the previous night had left her looking bedraggled and weary, with dark smudges under bloodshot eyes. But except for that, her skin was smooth and creamy, a little rosier atop the high cheekbones, and the eyes were a vivid green. Anton realized for the first time that she was comely.

  “You know,” he said, “from one secretive soul to another, there really isn’t much point in not telling Falrinn and me exactly what vessel we’re chasing. We’re going to sight her from far away.” He showed the wizard the spyglass. “That first look will tell us a great deal about her, and the gnome will turn our boat around if he doesn’t like what he sees.”

  The mage frowned. “Don’t you think I’d tell you more if I could? I want to catch up with my fellow Lathanderians quickly. But my … superior only hired the galley a short time ago. I never got around to learning much about her. Nor did he choose to tell me exactly where he planned to take Stedd. He truly is a ‘secretive soul,’ and he must have thought it safer for me not to know.”

  Anton smiled. “Nonsense. You’re the kind of person who never stops observing and discovering, especially information that bears on your own well-being. You’d ferret out the details of your lord’s plans whether he wanted you to have them or not.”

  The wizard hesitated. “You give me too much credit.” She lifted her hand to flick stray strands of brown hair off her cheek, and her sleeve slid partway down her forearm. In so doing, it exposed marks on her forearm. They looked faded, but Anton discerned that was because they were actually peeking through a layer of pigment she’d spread on top of them.

  The sight of the tattoos made him take reflexive note of the location of his weapons. He only had his dagger and skinny hidden boot blade on his person; he’d left the saber under the shelter. He considered, too, the feasibility of simply lunging at her and shoving her over the side. Yet he realized he was no more inclined to kill her now than he had been on the street in Westgate.

  “Actually,” he said, “I didn’t give you enough credit. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that you might be one of the wicked tattooed wizards of Thay.” He gestured to indicate the exposed sigils.

  She gave a start and peered at the telltale marks. He could all but hear her thoughts as she quickly considered whether she could possibly convince him that the arcane symbols weren’t what he believed them to be. Then, grimacing, she said, “The Black Hand take it, this stain is supposed to be waterproof!”

  “Take it from a sailor,” Anton replied, “nothing is truly waterproof over the long haul. And we’ve had a very wet night and morning.”

  “Well, at least I can stop wearing this nasty thing.” She pushed her cowl back, pulled her brown wig off, and gave the shaven scalp beneath a vigorous scratching. A hint of stubble grayed the ivory skin of her scalp.

  Somewhat to Anton’s surprise, baldness didn’t mar the mage’s looks. Rather, it made her exotic, like the occasional sea elf women he’d encountered over the years, though he suspected the latter would have mightily resented the comparison.

  When she finished scratching, she said, “But you have to understand—”

  “Please,” Anton said, “allow me. You and your master are virtuous Thayans, expatriate because you can’t bear your native land’s depravities. You only disguise your nationality to avert prejudice, and you truly do mean to help Stedd. It could scarcely sound more plausible, and naturally I believe it all implicitly.”

  A grudging smile tugged at the corners of the wizard’s generous mouth. “As I fervently believe the halfling really did hire you, one of the most infamous reavers from Suzail to Escalant, to help whisk a little boy to safety.”

  Anton grinned. “It sounds like neither one of us is able to lie to the other anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.”

  “Fair enough. But in this interlude of relative candor, will you favor me with your real name? I doubt it’s Wydda. That’s not Thayan.”

  “It’s Umara Ankhlab.”

  “Well met, Umara.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. She had the soft skin of someone who’d never performed manual labor, but her grip was firm. “I assume you and your leader—”

  “Kymas Nahpret.”

  “—you and Kymas are actually hoping to collect the bounty on Stedd the same as I was.”

  Umara frowned. “You’re wrong there. Kyma
s and I are in service to Szass Tam. The Lich King tasked us to find Chosen and fetch them back to Thay.”

  “And Stedd’s a ‘Chosen’? He doesn’t call himself that, or at least he didn’t while we were traveling together.”

  “But he is. The champion of reborn Lathander, as Evendur Highcastle is the hand of Umberlee.” She sighed. “With each, I employed a talisman to be sure.”

  “If you knew all that, it might have been more sporting of you to go after the undead pirate lord instead of the wandering farm boy.”

  The wizard scowled. “And it might have been more ‘sporting’ for you to win your gold attacking cogs and round ships like pirates are supposed to.”

  “I imagined the lad would be older, and likely a lunatic or charlatan who wasn’t doing anybody any good … but as we’re being honest, I’ll confess it wouldn’t have mattered if I had known the truth. Evendur’s offering a lot of gold. Which, given that Stedd is now in the hands of your fellow Thayans, I suppose has now passed beyond my reach. Unless, of course, you care to help me pluck the boy from Kymas’s clutches. You, I, and Falrinn can split the bounty three ways, after which you can live out your days in luxury as a genuine expatriate.”

  Umara hesitated just long enough to make him wonder if she was actually considering the proposition. “I’m afraid not. My family is Thayan nobility going back for centuries. I know my path, even if … That is to say, I know my path, and it isn’t treason.”

  “Even though your superior left you behind in Westgate?”

  “With the sunlords pursuing us, he set sail as expeditiously as possible to safeguard the success of our mission. It was just what I should have expected of him, and I don’t hold it against him.”

  Anton suspected that wasn’t wholly true. But he also sensed that pursuing the matter wouldn’t subvert her loyalty. “Well,” he said, “in any case, I can’t honestly recommend treason as the gateway to a happy life.”