“Ridicule my looks, would you?” the well-dressed, scornful man snarled, voice rising, and the watcher glanced up in time to see the fop sweep a long, needlelike poniard from his boot and drive it into the face of the sarcastic tale-teller.
The startled sailor saved his eyes with a quick sweep of his arm, and with the toe of his boot lifted his stool into his attacker’s face. The fop staggered back ward, spitting out teeth and curses, and the sarcastic man produced a hitherto-hidden knife of his own.
Men backed away hastily, spilling ale from their tankards, and a chant of “Blood! Blood!” arose. As men began making wagers on the outcome of this duel, the fat man saw a lammer peer around some of the watchers and then hasten to get the doorguards. Bladed weapons were banned in the Masques, what with all the anger and rivalries and ready drink—and by the looks of things, these two pirates were going to demonstrate why.
There was a sudden shout from the audience as one of the men made a lunge, there was a flurry of stabbing and flailing arms and twisting, and bright blood glistened on the face and arm of the sarcastic pirate.
Some of the watching drinkers hooted, and there was a chorus of shouted suggestions—but the well-dressed sailor was in no shape to hear them. He was sagging back against a table, a dark stain spreading down the front of his breeches.
The sarcastic man strode toward his foe, face set and dagger ready—but a bottle came spinning out of the shadows and struck his head sharply aside. He staggered and fell into someone’s dinner—and the Masques erupted into battle.
All over the room men shouted and snatched at forks and tankards and stools, hurling and swinging and thrusting with all their might. The little man took hold of his tankard, just in case, and placed the fingertips of his other hand on the hilt of the slim needle-knife hidden up his own sleeve. Then he sat as still as his table, and watched.
His eyes were on the seven Sharkers as they thrust back their chairs and backed into a rough defensive ring, eyes wary. They were obviously expecting some of Redbeard’s crew to come seeking them in this battle—and it seemed they might just find the trouble they were waiting for.
Two of the lammers waded into view through the fray, laying about vigorously in all directions with stout wooden clubs—until one of them went down with a hurled knife in his eye. The other fled, and a gong sounded.
By now the Masques was a chaos of splintering furniture, screams, breaking glass, oaths, and flailing fists. Bunkmates and men who were utter strangers were pounding each other for no reason at all but the drink and the pent-up anger of desperate men who spend their days in danger and discomfort and see a ready foe to lash out at.
The fat man found his feet, and the door. A man who wore a purple scarf on his head rose out of the fray with a cutlass in one hand… and a loaded hand crossbow in the other.
He aimed it at the Konigheimer Sharker—and from the corner a hard-thrown stool struck aside the leaping quarrel an instant before it smashed into the face of the man who’d fired it.
As he went down, startled faces turned toward the little man in the dark nook. He beckoned to the seven Sharkers and said urgently, “The Daggers are on their way! Hurry!”
Chapter 2
Decisions in the Dark
Blade glittering, the fat man waved at the Sharkers to follow. He flung the door wide, looking right and left for lurkers by the door—and put his knife into the throat of the one who was swinging a club in his direction.
As the man toppled with a gurgle, a “blind” beggar who’d been sitting mournfully across the doorway scrambled hastily to his feet, his begging bowl spilling out a tangle of coins that proved to be tied to his wrist on fine threads, tossed his cane away, and fled across the dark field as fast as his feet could carry him.
The fat man ignored him, rolling into the grass without pause and coming to his feet as Redbeard’s man was still sagging down the wall, trailing his club behind him.
The pirates exchanged looks. Sharessa saw Kurthe’s mouth tighten; their leader liked nothing about this invitation.
The fat man might well be one of Redbeard’s men himself, here to lure them into a slaughter… but the burly, cold-eyed Daggers of Tharkar were infamous for their brutality even in Konigheim. If a pirate port was to have any law at all—and if it lacked such temperance, neither Ulgarth nor the Free Cities would long have tolerated its existence—its Watch must be meaner and deadlier than a tavernful of drunken pirates.
Even the Tavern of Masques. The Sharkers watched as their companion went to a spill of broken glass, dug under it with the toe of his boot, drew forth some sacking—and from it produced a baldric bristling with daggers.
Their eyes could not see that the blades were tipped with something expensive that made a man sleep for hours. Even a watchman.
Or a hostile Sharker, if it came to that. As the fat man buckled on the baldric Kurthe made a reluctant decision, and the seven pirates came cautiously out the door, brandishing stools as if the well-polished wooden legs were sword blades.
“Over here!” the fat man hissed, waving. They peered at him narrowly as he hastened toward them, and Kurthe growled with irritation.
“Who are you?” the beautiful she-pirate asked the fat man coldly as he came up to them.
“Someone who wants to hire all of you for a little pirating,” he replied, “if I can get you out of here before the Daggers take us all!” He waved at the advancing soldiers, and the Sharkers fell silent. They could see the Daggers as well as he could.
“Just how,” the dwarf asked, “Master ‘Someone,’ are you going to get us out of this little trap, eh?”
“Belmer’s the name,” the fat little man replied. “I can get you out only if you follow my orders. And the first I’ll give is: put down the furniture, or we’ll have the folk of the Masques after us as well as the Daggers.”
“Sound enough,” the dwarf grunted, grounding a stool that was as big as he was. “Next?”
“Stay together in a group, and when—and only when—I say ‘Arrows!’ strike out at a Dagger. Seek to knock down, not to stay and slay.”
The she-pirate looked up at the big Konigheimer beside her, collected his curt nod, and gestured to Belmer to lead the way. The fat man promptly broke into a trot, beckoning them to follow.
“It didn’t take us long to find an overbearing captain again, did it?” Kurthe growled, as they hastened along one wall of the tavern and struck out across the field, ignoring the shouts of the Daggers drawing in around them.
“Be thankful and be still, Kurthe,” the dwarf and the beautiful she-pirate said, more or less in unison. It sounded like something they’d said many times before.
“What’s that ahead of us?” the youth asked uncertainly, as they hastened through the wet grass.
“A rain barrel,” Belmer told him. “From the Masques. I put it there earlier.”
“Why?” the boy asked.
The dwarf chuckled. “I think I know, Ingrar. Watch.”
Two of the Daggers were almost upon them, swords drawn and shields up. “Halt!” one commanded, “in peril of eternal exile from Tharkar!”
“Good evening,” Belmer said, moving suddenly to one side but not slowing his pace. His movement put the barrel between himself and the watchman. “I am Ambassador Droon, of Ulgarth, and I demand the protection of Tharkar’s authorities for myself and my bodyguard. Do you speak for Tharkar?”
“I—” said one of the Daggers, momentarily nonplussed. That was long enough. Belmer came around the barrel with arms open and empty, but suddenly shoved at the man’s gut. Staggering, the armored man stumbled backward against the barrel. Belmer grasped one leg and heaved, finding his job suddenly easier as the grinning dwarf charged in to take the other leg.
The Dagger went over the barrel with a crash—and another Sharker, waiting on the other side with one of his boots slipped onto his hand, brought it down with all his force on the man’s helm. The visor crumpled inwards, and he gave the helm a sw
ift turn to the side, to be sure. The watchman lay silent and still.
The other Dagger snatched at a horn that hung from his belt—but Belmer was already in the air, dagger foremost. The man tried to back hastily aside, lost hold of the horn, hacked wildly with his sword—and was spun around, to find a hard sit-down landing in the grass.
“The barrel!” Belmer called to Kurthe, as he rolled upright once more. “Over him!”
The scowling Konigheimer brightened just a trifle, and caught up the rain barrel as if it was a child’s toy. It was empty. One end gaped open, the rain-hood missing, as Belmer had left it. It fit down around the sitting watchman with a satisfying crash, jamming the man’s sword and shield in around his arms and pinioning him securely.
“Good,” Belmer said, as calmly as if he’d been surveying the weather. “Now we make for that building there.”
“The Ankle Bells?” both women asked, in scornful tones.
“I’ve rented a cellar there,” Belmer told them. “The upper chambers are a mite too perfumed for my tastes.”
“You’re giving the orders, Ambassador Droon,” the ugly, barrel-shaped woman replied with a shrug. “Lead on.”
Belmer had laid his plans well. The Ankle Bells was perhaps the most crowded establishment in Tharkar after the Masques—and if Daggers were going to search it for eight ruffians, seen poorly through night-gloom and at a distance, they were going to have to break down a lot of barred doors, and disturb a lot of men and women who’d be rather irritated with them… and eager to demonstrate this. All of which would take time. Moreover, the damp, evil-smelling cellars weren’t likely to be the first place searched—and one of them linked with the source of the smell: a smuggling tunnel that led right out under the docks, to a waiting skiff.
Most of the seven had visited the Ankle Bells before, and knew about the false door to misdirect hurrying Daggers, and another door that was held up only by twine, ready to crash down on anyone who tried to wrench it open. All of Tharkar knew that skilled actors could be hired there, equipped with enchanted masques that mirrored the features of folk when bid to do so, to provide a harried patron of the Bells with a night’s alibi. The she-pirate Sharessa had even worked at the Bells for a season, and—if she’d wanted to once more awaken memories that all too often burned in her dreams like black flames—could have told the others about the bed-canopy that crushed unwanted occupants, and the trip step on the back stairs…. But even her eyes widened at the password the fat man gave to the drunk slumped atop the refuse-heap—the one that called forth a dozen half-dressed “patrons” to enact an instant brawl that blocked the street behind them. She’d have sworn not more than a dozen ship captains in all Faerûn knew that word—and certainly not this little stranger.
She traded looks with Kurthe, and then with Rings. The seven Sharkers were beginning to be impressed by this bustling little fat man. He seemed to have everything planned, to know exactly what he was doing, and to set about things with unbroken calm—all of which were more than the wild-tempered, brawling Blackfingers had ever done.
The cellar was as damp—and dim—as they’d expected. Broken bedsteads leaned against one wall in a tangle of riven wood, and the rest of the many-pillared room was a litter of crates, barrels, seachests, and stones fallen from the crumbling walls. Evil-smelling remnants of offerings to Umberlee—drowned rats and squirrels, floating in the seaweed-decorated bowls consecrated to the goddess—stood on plinths here and there, their presence guarding the building above against flooding and collapse. The Sharkers crowded in and leaned on several stacks of crates, facing the little man who’d spirited them out of the Masques.
He was perched on a chest well away from them, on the other side of the lone, hooded lamp that dangled from the low ceiling, festooned with spiderwebs cloaked in thick, wet dust. Dead flies the size of a child’s fist hung frozen amid that gray fur.
The Sharkers shifted uneasily. The man facing them showed every evidence of being ready to sit calmly and silently watching them all night. Sharessa opened her mouth to speak; it was time to break the silence.
As often happened, the dwarf beat her to it. “Dispense with ‘Ambassador Droon,’ and give: who are you?” Rings asked abruptly, angling his nose up at the mysterious fat man like the beak of an inquisitive bird.
“Belmer,” the fat little man told him flatly. “An outlander looking to hire pirates for a single task… albeit a task that may take a season, or more.”
“So,” the surly Konigheimer told him, “talk. Just what task, and how much?”
The little man smiled faintly at the seven Sharkers. “To help me find—and slay—a certain someone… who’s not a ruler or lord of particular fame or power.”
“Ah,” Kurthe said, with a thin smile of his own. “A woman.”
Belmer did not quite smile in return, and said nothing.
“The pay,” the barrel-shaped woman with the many-times-broken nose prompted him.
“A chest of jargoons each, now, and a fist of rubies upon discharge,” the little man told them placidly. “Two fists if we’re successful. More—to be negotiated—if the task takes more than this season.”
There was a silent moment of disbelief, and then a ripple of derisive laughter. Jargoons were poor mens’ rubies, but worth a hundred true gold each even in a bad market; a respected and successful pirate might give his crew two or three each for a year’s pay. Pirates could work five decades or more and not see more than one or two rubies to call their own. Gems were the currency of choice in Tharkar because false coins were so plentiful that prices were often given in both “true coin” and “fool’s coin” amounts.
The fat man sat patiently watching them until the laughter trailed off into silence.
“Just how big are these chests?” asked the gravel-voiced, much-scarred veteran. “And how do we know you’ll hold to your end of the bargain?”
“Take the lid off the barrel behind you,” Belmer replied, rising. The unlovely woman gave him a suspicious look, but the moon-faced sharper was already peering into its depths. His hand came up with a coffer, and he looked at Belmer.
The little man indicated the chest he’d been sitting on. “For the jargoons: this size and brim-full of cut, unflawed stones. As for the bargain—” He waved at the sharper to open the coffer, and the pirate did so.
“Writs,” he announced, lifting them with careful fingers.
“Contracts,” the beautiful she-pirate explained to the youth beside her. “Binding us both. To be registered with the Lord of Tharkar, I presume?”
Belmer inclined his head. “Four copies of each writ—for you, for me, for the Lord, and for a Pirates’ Witness of your choosing. The payments already lie in one of his vaults, spell-locked to me.”
This was standard; six of the seven Sharkers had signed writs with Blackfingers—so much safely hidden but worthless paper now. Brows wrinkled, they were already reading these new writs, moving their fingers along the lines. Belmer leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and waited.
“That’s a lot of coin,” Kurthe rumbled, and his companions fell silent. “A great amount for one killing. Who is this woman?”
The fat little man smiled slightly again. “A woman, as you guessed,” he replied, “from Waterdeep. Her name is Eidola, and I’ll not divulge my reasons for desiring her demise. I need your aid twice over: I don’t want to be on the scene to be recognized when she disappears—and I need you to capture her first. My hand must be the one to slay, after I am sure that the captive is the one I seek. I’ve been fooled about such things before.” Silence fell once more.
“ ‘Find,’ you said,” Sharessa reminded him. “Where’ll we look for her?”
“In Doegan,” he replied. “We’ll take ship together, in a vessel I’ve hired—before dawn. If we tarry, or if someone here refuses this mission and word of it gets around Tharkar, a later departure may prove… difficult.”
“Care to tell us who’ll be working against us?”
Kurthe asked. “Or what port we’ll be heading for?”
“No,” Belmer replied.
The burly Konigheimer made a sound deep in his throat, and then turned and barked, “Belgin?”
“I’d sign,” the sharper murmured, looking up. The dwarf, only a line or two slower in his reading, nodded.
Silence fell. The Konigheimer looked around at all of his comrades and then—slowly, face set in reluctant lines—nodded.
Belmer went to the barrel and lifted out two larger coffers. One held a candle, several quill pens, ink, and a striker; he set the candle on a shelf bracket near his head and lit it.
Without a word, Kurthe stepped forward, wrote his name, and made his pirate mark. His comrades followed, Sharessa first. In similar silence Belmer opened the second coffer, drew out a decanter of firewine and eight tall glasses (peering, the dwarf saw another four gleaming in the depths of the container), poured each near-full, and passed them around.
Then he took his copies of the contracts, and read out the names. “Belgin Dree.” The moon-faced sharper in the fine vest and breeches nodded and smiled.
“Brindra Arrose.” The barrel-shaped woman inclined her head.
“Ingrar Welven.” The youth lifted a hand, looking embarrassed. The finery short-term spell he’d hired for the evening was wearing off already—cheap work—and the glimmering and debonair cloth-of-gold shirt he was wearing was beginning to fade back into grimy, patched, much-torn leathers.
“Jolloth Burbuck.”
The hairy, battle-scarred veteran lifted his teeth in a wry grin and said in his gravelly voice, “Call me Anvil. Everyone does.”
“Kurthe Lornar.” The tall Konigheimer nodded curtly.
“Nargin Olnblade.”
Forgotten Realms - [Double Diamond Triangle Saga 03] - The Mercenaries Page 2