Corsair botm-2

by Richard Baker

  Mirya rose and bowed her head. “Mistress Sennifyr. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Not at all. We have missed you, my dear. Tell me, how is young Selsha?”

  “Very well. She just passed her ninth birthday.”

  “Indeed.” Sennifyr raised an eyebrow. “What have you told her about her father?”

  Mirya kept a neutral expression on her face, but flinched inwardly. There were few things in her life that she truly regretted, but what she had done to the man who’d fathered Selsha was one of them. Sennifyr knew that, of course. She was the one who had arranged the whole thing, drawing Mirya deeper and deeper into her snares at a time when Mirya had been younger, more foolish, anxious to find approval in her eyes.

  It was a mistake to come here, she told herself. Sennifyr had not forgotten any of her old cruelty. But to flee now would gain Mirya nothing. Instead, she made herself answer the question with iron truthfulness. “I told her that I knew him only for a short time and that he died soon after she was born. I’ll tell her no more than that for now.”

  “Poor Mirya. You were always so strong, so clever, and so much was asked of you.” Sennifyr offered her a small smile. “The Lady chose a difficult path for you. I know it. But you must understand that you will find no easing of your pain as long as you refuse to go as you have been called. Surcease lies in surrender to the Lady’s will. It is never too late to return to the path awaiting you.”

  “I’ve not forgotten it, Mistress Sennifyr. For now I choose to go my own way.”

  “The day will come when no other comfort avails you, my child. The Lady knows her own, and once you have been in her embrace, you will always be hers. We will await your return.” Sennifyr folded her hands in her lap. “Now, I doubt that you came to my house to seek the Lady’s comfort. You want something of the Sisterhood.”

  Mirya grimaced. Sennifyr had never been stupid, either. “Well, aye, though I hope that you’ll see it to be in your own interest too.”

  “No justification is necessary, my child. I have not forgotten your devotion to the Lady, even if you have for a time. How may I be of service to you?”

  Mirya smoothed her skirt. She had never been one to fence at words. The worst of it was that some long-buried part of her ached to answer Sennifyr’s words of forgiveness, to return to the Sisterhood she had left and make amends for the faithlessness of the intervening years. She fixed her mind firmly on the task ahead and ignored her old guilt. “I found out a servant of Cyric a few days ago-a pale man in a hood, masquerading as a common laborer. He knows that I know his secret. I need to learn his name and what purpose he has in Hulburg.”

  “And you thought we might know something about him?” Sennifyr reached over to the table next to her and poured herself a cup of tea. “My dear, we have nothing to do with the Black Sun’s minions.”

  “I know. But there’s not much that happens in Hulburg that the Sisterhood doesn’t see. If the servants of Cyric are preaching to the poor folk of the Tailings or stirring up trouble with the Cinderfists, the Sisterhood would know of it.”

  “And if you did learn this man’s name, what would you do?”

  “See to it that the harmach knew it too.”

  “I see.” Sennifyr sipped at her tea. “It is no secret that Geran Hulmaster is close to you. I imagine that a word whispered in his ear would reach the harmach soon enough. For that matter, I would be surprised if Geran did not act on such information himself. He is not one to hesitate over such matters. But how do you see this as a concern for the Sisterhood?”

  “It seems to me that the Cinderfists are exactly the sort of trouble a servant of Cyric would foment among the poor outlanders of the town.” Mirya paused, choosing her next words carefully. “I’d imagine that the hooded priest teaches the folk of the Tailings to rebel against their circumstances, to fight against their sorrows. Where would those folk turn if he were to leave? More than a few might seek comfort in the Lady’s embrace, mightn’t they?”

  Sennifyr gazed thoughtfully at Mirya. “It pleases me to hear you speak so, Mirya.”

  “I’m weary of the troubles plaguing my home, Mistress Sennifyr. Someone is stoking the fires, and I want an end to it.” Mirya didn’t doubt that there would be trouble of a different sort if the Lady of Sorrows came to hold the hearts of Hulburg’s poorest folk, but at least the Sisterhood wouldn’t incite riots and rebellion in the streets. Besides, she was sure that she was not saying anything that hadn’t occurred to Mistress Sennifyr already.

  “The Sisterhood would approve,” Sennifyr said. She took another sip from her cup and set it down in its saucer. “Very well. We have heard something of this. As you guess, a few of our Sisters are newcomers to Hulburg. They hear things from the other outlanders that the native-born do not. I think that one of them might know the man you encountered. I do not know who he is, but she might. Go to the Three Crowns and ask for Ingra.”

  “Thank you, Mistress Sennifyr.”

  “It is nothing, dear Mirya. But you must go in secret. Ingra will help another Sister, but only if no one sees her to do so.”

  “I understand.” Mirya stood and inclined her head to Sennifyr, who returned a gracious nod.

  “I hope you will visit again soon, Mirya. I know in my heart that the Lady’s full purpose for you is still to be revealed.” Sennifyr stood and watched as the servant returned to show Mirya to the door.

  After the gloom of Sennifyr’s house, the overcast day seemed clean and whole to Mirya. She drew a deep breath and climbed back up to the seat of her wagon. She thought now that it would have been better if she hadn’t come, but she’d done it, and there was nothing to be gained by second-guessing her decision now. The only question was whether she’d find an answer at the Three Crowns worth the price of reminding Sennifyr and the Sisterhood that she remembered them.

  TEN

  2 Marpenoth, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

  Narsk set his course eastward from the meeting at the Talons, swinging far out to sea around Hillsfar then closing on the Moonsea’s southern coastline once the well-defended port was a good thirty or forty miles astern. Moonshark ran under a full spread of canvas by day, making good time. By night Narsk ordered Sorsil to take in sail and slow their pace, which was not unusual for ships sailing the Moonsea. For the most part the great lake was deep and uncluttered by islands or reefs, so most captains kept some sail on during all but the darkest of nights.

  It proved much harder to find an opportunity to slip into Narsk’s cabin than Geran would have imagined. The chief difficulty was that Narsk rarely left his cabin and did not linger for long on the deck when he did. The gnoll took all his meals in his room and issued most of his orders through Sorsil. Geran had several ideas in mind for actually slipping inside without being seen, if Narsk would simply vacate his cabin for a decent amount of time; if nothing else, he knew a spell of teleportation he could use from the usually empty storeroom under the captain’s cabin. He considered trying to surprise and overpower the gnoll by teleporting into the cabin without warning, but he couldn’t be certain that he could do it in absolute silence and slip away again unseen. That meant he and his friends might have to deal with the rest of Moonshark’s crew, and Geran didn’t care for the odds if it came to that.

  While waiting and watching for the chance to move, Geran and his friends settled into the ship’s routine. The weather turned cold and damp on their second night from the Talons, and the ship slipped through intermittent showers as she continued eastward. As the newest hands on board, they were assigned to the midwatch under the second mate, a portly Mulmasterite named Khefen. That meant they had to stand watch in the middle of the night and catch what little sleep they could before and after. At least Khefen was more or less indifferent to the three of them, so long as they didn’t bungle the few adjustments to the sails he saw fit to make during the night. The second mate drank steadily from a large leather flask he kept hidden under his cloak throughout the watch, without
showing any sign of growing drunk, and ignored the deckhands otherwise.

  During their second midwatch with Khefen, the rains were especially persistent. After several hours of standing lookout and scrambling aloft when the second mate ordered them to, all three companions were soaked, shivering, and generally miserable.

  “I am not enjoying this,” Sarth muttered to Geran as they went back below. “Truly, is this necessary?”

  “We’ll give it two or three more days,” Geran replied under his breath. “Something may turn up, and I’d still like to know what Kamoth is planning.”

  The tiefling grimaced under his magical guise. “Very well, but I will think twice before I accompany you on your next ill-considered venture.”

  Later that morning Geran was hard at work splicing an old, well-worn line-a particularly tedious and exacting job that the tattooed Northman Skamang had foisted off on him-when the cry of “Sail ho! Fine on the port beam!” came from the lookout aloft. He stood and shaded his eyes with his hand, looking for the other ship. This time it was indeed a fair distance off, easily seven or eight miles, and all that could be seen of it was the mast. Sorsil summoned Narsk to the quarterdeck, and the two conferred quickly before the gnoll ordered the helmsman to turn and sent the watch aloft to crowd on more sail. The wind favored Moonshark; by good fortune the pirate galley was well positioned to run down her quarry with the morning sun at her back and a freshening crosswind that let Narsk aim the galley’s bow a little ahead of the other ship.

  Geran glanced at the sky. It was overcast, but no storms or squalls seemed likely to appear. And they were at least thirty or forty miles from any sort of harbor. Unless the cog was faster than she looked, he guessed they’d catch her in a couple of hours. Most of the crew was gathered along the rail, gazing greedily at the other ship. Some were already picking out weapons for the anticipated boarding.

  Hamil and Sarth climbed up from the galley, where they’d been sent to help Tao Zhe with his scullery work. The halfling looked around at the pirate crew then up at Geran. “What’s going on?”

  “Narsk’s sighted prey,” Geran said in a low voice. He pointed. “We’re trying to chase down that cog there.”

  “Well, there it is,” Hamil murmured after peering over the rail. What do we do if Narsk catches her? he asked. Do we go along with the rest of the crew and keep to our ruse? Or do we interfere and keep Narsk from taking that ship?

  Geran looked down at his friend, brow creased in worry. “I don’t know,” he said. He should have anticipated they might find themselves in this very situation. He didn’t doubt the three of them could find a way to fight ineffectively or hang back from the worst of what was coming, but their shipmates might notice, and that would do very little to advance their standing in the crew. More to the point, it would hardly absolve the three of them of responsibility for not thwarting a pirate attack that they were in position to foil. But it was hard to see how that wouldn’t give away their ploy and bring their effort to infiltrate the Black Moon to an end.

  Sarth glanced at Hamil; the ghostwise halfling was evidently repeating his question for the tiefling. Sarth looked around to see if any of the crew were in earshot and leaned on the rail beside Geran. “A difficult decision,” he said. “I am not sure how to counsel you, Geran, but I suppose you could consider the matter in this way: What would have happened if we weren’t aboard? If it seems that Moonshark would catch the merchant and take her without our help, our participation wouldn’t change what fate had already intended for that ship. For that matter, it might not be in our power to prevent an attack. There are only three of us, after all. If we can’t prevent Narsk from taking that ship, then we might as well maintain the ruse. What we learn here may save other lives on some other day.”

  “I hear you,” Geran answered. “But, as it turns out-we are aboard and nothing is fated at the moment. Besides, we’d have the advantage of surprise and your magic as well. If we deal with a few key crewmen right at the outset, the rest might lose their nerve.”

  “I think I’m with Sarth on this,” Hamil said softly. “I’m not anxious to pick a fight with fifty enemies for the sake of total strangers. But we might be able to interfere in another way. If the ship were to lose a sail or the rudder were to fail …”

  “It will mean a fight if we are caught at it,” Sarth answered.

  Geran thought of what Nimessa had told him about the fate of Whitewing’s crew. If they stood aside or went along because the merchant was doomed anyway, they’d still be a party to the worst sort of murder. They might be able to defeat Moonshark’s crew by killing Narsk, Sorsil, and perhaps Skamang or Khefen quickly … but it was probably more likely that any such mad assault would succeed only in getting all three of them killed, and he was not any more eager than Hamil to lose his life for a handful of strangers.

  “If we can keep Narsk and the rest of the cutthroats on this ship from murdering the crew and passengers of some hapless ship, I think we have to try,” he said. “Hamil’s suggestion has merit. We’ll just have to make sure no one notices.”

  Over the next hour, Moonshark steadily closed on the cog. Geran was surprised to see that the merchant ship didn’t try to flee, but instead kept to her original course. Either she hadn’t noticed the pirate galley on her beam-which seemed more and more unlikely-or the captain blithely assumed that he sailed in friendly waters. He supposed it was possible that the merchant captain had already determined for himself that there was no escape and therefore hoped to bluff his way out of an attack by a simple show of boldness, but that struck him as even more unlikely. As the pirate galley slowly overtook the merchant cog, Geran and his comrades began to plan their act of sabotage.

  They were well along in their planning, and the cog was a little less than a mile off, when Sorsil shouted down at the main deck from her position by the helm. “Back to your stations!” the first mate called. “Go on, you dogs! There’s nothing for us here!”

  Geran and his companions exchanged looks then turned to the quarterdeck. Narsk gripped the rail, glaring at the cog with his fangs bared. Then he snarled something to Sorsil and stormed off the quarterdeck, disappearing into his cabin once more. Sorsil took one more look at the cog then ordered the helmsman to turn away. Moonshark turned smartly to starboard and cut across the wake of the ship a mile astern of her, now running downwind.

  “What in the world?” Geran asked aloud. “What was that about?” He heard a few murmurs from other crew too, likely expressing the same sentiment.

  “Narsk gave up the pursuit,” Sarth observed. “Why would he do that?”

  “Look!” Hamil said. “The merchant’s raised a pennant.”

  Geran turned back to the cog, now falling astern. A pennant floated in the breeze from the ship’s mainmast; he was sure it hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, so the cog’s captain must have just ordered it flown. It was a quartered flag of red and gold, and Geran knew it well. “That’s a House Marstel ship,” he said.

  “Marstel? As in the Marstels of Hulburg?” Sarth asked.

  “Yes,” Geran replied. “That double-dealing bastard! He’s paid off the Black Moon to leave his ships alone. And he was the one who argued for the harmach to do something about piracy.”

  “Badgering the harmach to do something likely kept other merchant companies from making a deal with the pirates,” Hamil said. “Lord Marstel’s a sly old fox if that’s the case. I never would have thought he had it in him.”

  “Nor would I,” Geran said. He frowned, trying to figure out what to make of it. Then the pirates crowded along the rail drifted back to their duties and the ship returned to its routine.

  The crew’s disappointment at being turned away from a prize in their grasp likely accounted for what happened that evening. Moonshark was too small to have anything like a mess deck; the galley was located in the forecastle, and Tao Zhe, the cook, ladled the evening’s stew into whatever cup or bowl each man brought to him. After receiving warm food and
a hunk of coarse bread, the deckhands retreated to whatever corner of the main deck they could find that offered shelter from the weather and a good place to sit and eat. Geran, Hamil, and Sarth had just settled down to their unappetizing meals when several crewmen belonging to Skamang’s fist sauntered up to them. A round-bellied Chessentan named Pareik, who shaved his head and wore large gold earrings, led the band. “Get up, new fish!” he snarled. “That’s our place you’re in.”

  It looks like Skamang’s decided to try us out, Hamil observed. With a sigh, he carefully set his dinner on the deck.

  “It suits me well enough,” Geran answered Pareik. It would have been easier to defer and avoid what was coming, but he suspected that he’d be at Skamang’s beck and call for the rest of the voyage if he did. Standing up to Pareik now and showing a quick and violent temper might save him no end of trouble later, as well as furthering their ruse. Besides, he was in a foul temper, and he didn’t like the look of the fellow. “Go find a different place.”

  Pareik grinned. “So you’re too good to take your supper somewhere else,” he said. He slapped Geran’s dinner tin out of his hands, spilling the stew. “You can eat it off the deck, then! What do you think about that, new fish?”

  Without a moment’s thought, Geran seized his dinner tin from the deck and leaped to his feet. He didn’t have to feign his anger; before he could think better of it, he threw the tin and the remaining stew in Pareik’s face. Pareik recoiled, belatedly raising his arms to defend himself, but Geran planted his boot at the Chessentan’s belt buckle and propelled him back across the deck. The pirate stumbled to the deck and rolled, fetching up against the opposite gunwale. “I think I’ll knock out your damned teeth, that’s what I think!” Geran snarled at him.