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  “I might have,” Harask answered. “What’s it to you?”

  “We’ll pay well for news of her whereabouts,” Geran answered.

  “Ah, so you are a man of means,” Harask observed. His eyes darted to the ruffians lounging behind Geran. Geran whirled and reached for his sword, just in time. Without a word the smugglers waiting in the storehouse threw themselves at the three companions, producing knives and cudgels hidden under their cloaks and tunics. For a furious instant, Geran feared that they might be overwhelmed. He dodged back from a knife slash, parried the fall of a club with his blade then slashed the truncheon out of his enemy’s hand with a cut that also removed two fingers. Behind him, Hamil put a man on the floor with a cut to the hamstring then threw himself at the shins of another ruffian to send him crashing to the floor. Geran knocked that one unconscious with a kick to the face while he was on the ground. Then a brilliant, blue flare seared the room, and lightning crackled across the space. Several of the ruffians shrieked and fell convulsing. As quickly as it had started, the brief assault fell to pieces.

  Sarth held up his rod that was glowing with a dangerous blue light. “I do not care to be accosted by the likes of you!” he snarled. The ruffians still on their feet stared at him then bolted for the door.

  Geran turned back to Harask and found the fellow halfway out a small, concealed door. He lunged after him and dragged him back into the room, throwing him into his seat. Then he tapped his sword point on the man’s chest. “Now where were you going?” he asked.

  The fat man glared at him. “You’ll be sorry for this,” he said. “I have powerful friends in this city! They’ll see to you soon enough.”

  “I don’t much care about your friends,” Geran replied. He reached down and seized Harask by the collar, giving him a good shake. “Now tell me, what do you know about the Black Moon?”

  “To the Nine Hells with you!”

  Geran was out of patience. Some of the ruffians might already be on their way to summon more help or even find the local Watch, and he had no particular desire to explain himself to the lawkeepers in Mulmaster. He cracked the flat of his blade across Harask’s left ear, a stinging blow that elicited a howl of pain and raised a bright welt on the side of Harask’s face. “Mind your manners,” he said. “Now, tell me: Have you seen a ship with that banner? Where did you see her?”

  “Zhentil Keep,” the man replied. “Damn it all, she was in Zhentil Keep! Now leave me be!”

  “You’re lying. No one goes to Zhentil Keep. It’s a monster-haunted ruin.”

  “Cyric take my tongue if I am lying!” the man snarled. “Outlaws and smugglers from the cities nearby hide in the ruins along the Tesh. No one troubles them, and there’s always a ship or two there looking for a few hands.”

  The swordmage narrowed his eyes, studying Harask, who sat glaring at him with a hand clapped up against his ear. If he’d been in the ruffian’s place, Zhentil Keep was exactly the place he might have told his interrogator to go to. The ruins happened to lie all the way at the other end of the Moonsea, and they were infested with monsters. But Zhentil Keep was about the only place in the western Moonsea that he hadn’t looked already. Merchant ships had no reason to go any farther west than Hillsfar and Phlan, so he’d turned Seadrake back to the east without working his way another hundred miles into the prevailing wind to search deserted coasts and ruined cities. The prospects for a pirate lair in the ruins seemed almost as dim as those for a base in the Galennar … but Geran had heard stories that brigands and such outlaws occasionally laired in Zhentil Keep. It was at least plausible that pirate ships might lurk there too.

  I believe he’s telling the truth, Hamil said to him.

  Geran knew that the talent of the ghostwise for speaking mind-to-mind didn’t allow Hamil to read the thoughts of others, but it did mean that the halfling had a better sense for truthfulness than most. I think so too, he answered Hamil. To Harask he said, “If I find that you’ve lied to me, I will come back for you.” He jerked his head toward Sarth. “My friend the sorcerer here will invert you with his magic. You’ll walk on your tongue and carry your eyes on your arse, so you’d better hope that we find what we’re looking for in Zhentil Keep.”

  Sarth gave Geran a startled look, but Harask didn’t see it; he was cringing. “I’ve told you what I know!” he said.

  The swordmage looked at his companions and nodded toward the door. They filed into the fogbound street outside. None of the men who’d fled the storehouse were in the vicinity; Sarth’s magic had well and truly put them to flight.

  “So it’s off to Zhentil Keep, then?” Hamil asked in a low voice.

  “So it seems,” Geran answered. A shrill whistle rang through the night, piercing the fog. Apparently some of the ruffians had run straight for the Watch to report dangerous sorcery on the loose. Geran winced then exchanged looks with Sarth and Hamil. “Let’s be on our way. I think we’ve worn out our welcome in Mulmaster.”

  SIX

  29 Eleint, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

  A foul night,” Sergen Hulmaster muttered. From the gate of the Five Crown Coster’s tradeyard, he frowned at the murk gathering around the streetlamps outside. He detested the evening fog of Melvaunt. On days when the brisk western wind failed, the stink of the city’s smelters and cookfires and sewers covered the town like a great foul blanket. He’d been careful to purchase a villa that overlooked the city from the heights of the headland west of the harbor-a neighborhood that was distinctly upwind of the town itself, at least most of the time-but his storehouses were located in the heart of the commercial districts, and it seemed that if the air started to grow still and foul, it always started here.

  “Is everything well, m’lord?” asked his chief armsman Kerth. The sellsword hovered close by Sergen. Magical tattoos covered the man’s brow, part of the elaborate enchantments that made him absolutely incapable of turning against his master. The precaution had cost Sergen a fortune, but he had too many enemies to worry about the loyalty of his bodyguards. They were well compensated for agreeing to undergo the necessary rituals.

  “Well enough, so long as one doesn’t mind smelling like the harbor for the rest of the evening,” Sergen answered. He was a fastidious man, and he took great care in maintaining his wardrobe. Tonight he wore a lavender tabard over a shirt of black silk, with a broad belt and high boots of expensive Sembian leather. A wide-brimmed hat with a rakish tilt matched his tabard. He was just about to retreat inside the dubious comforts of his storehouse when he heard the muffled clip-clop of hooves on slick cobblestones and the creaking of wooden wheels.

  “Wagons coming, m’lord,” Kerth said.

  Sergen smiled in a distinctly predatory fashion, pleased that his late vigil would be rewarded after all. “About time. Kerth, turn out your men to lend a hand. Quick and quiet now!”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” the armsman Kerth answered. He raised a knuckle to his scarred forehead and turned to rasp orders to the other guards waiting nearby. Sergen stood aside from the doorway as his armsmen unbarred the gate leading into the narrow alleyway between his storehouses and hurried out to guide several large wagons inside. This was not the sort of work he liked to give his highly paid guards, but he was certain of their loyalty. Unfortunately the small army of clerks, scribes, and porters who worked in the Five Crowns tradeyard during the customary hours of business was not under any sort of magical compulsion to serve with unquestioned loyalty. Oh, some of them were trustworthy enough, but Sergen knew that clerks and porters tended to gossip with their colleagues in other trading houses when the day was done. When he caught Five Crowns men making that mistake, he punished them severely, but it was impossible to stop all such talk. Better to keep the night’s work to those he could trust to keep it to themselves.

  Sergen unlocked a door leading to a rarely used storeroom. “In here,” he told his men. The drivers of the wagons weren’t in his employ, but they knew better than to ask questions or look too
closely at the cargo they were hired to carry. They set their brakes and climbed down to undo the ties that held each wagon’s canvas cover in place. Beneath the canvas, the wagons were laden with heavy crates, casks, barrels, and chests. Each had been seared with the black mark of the Five Crowns brand, conveniently covering the former owners’ marks. Over the next tenday or so, Sergen would arrange to dispose of the stolen cargo a few parcels at a time, which would turn a tidy little profit for his merchant company.

  It irked him that he had to attend to such details, but that was the nature of his circumstances. As much as he affected the habits of the nobility, he was simply one more merchant in Melvaunt, and his fortune was not so substantial or secure that he could leave it in the hands of underlings. A few months ago he’d entertained dreams of making himself lord over Hulburg, but his so-called family had somehow survived his carefully planned acquisition of power, largely through the interference of his thrice-damned stepcousin, Geran Hulmaster. Instead of ruling from the throne of Griffonwatch, he was reduced to skulking about in dark storehouses in the middle of the night, with spellbound sellswords the only minions he could trust.

  Kerth interrupted his brooding. “That’s all of it, m’lord,” the tattooed swordsman said. “The wagonmaster’s asking after his coin.”

  “He is, is he?” Sergen answered. He looked into the storeroom, studying the merchandise with a practiced eye. He’d been expecting at least another wagonful or two, but apparently it wasn’t coming tonight. With a shrug, he closed and locked the storeroom. “Very well, then. Bring him in to my office.”

  While Kerth went to fetch the wagonmaster, Sergen unlocked his office and counted out the gold coins of Melvaunt-anvils, they were called-from his strongbox. By the time he finished his swordsman was back, standing at the side of a portly halfling dressed in a thick, quilted tunic. The halfling doffed his cap and bobbed his head. “Good evenin’, m’lord,” he said. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

  “I suppose. Were you seen?”

  “Not by the shore, m’lord. No one was about; I think the fog drove most folk indoors tonight. We made the usual arrangements at the city gate, and had no trouble.”

  “I was expecting more merchandise.”

  The driver nodded. “The man who met us said you would be, m’lord. He gave me this to give to you.” He handed Sergen a small envelope sealed with a blank daub of wax.

  Sergen took the letter, broke the seal, and read it. It was short and to the point: “We must meet. Expect me at two bells. Take the usual precautions. -K.” Sergen tugged at his goatee, wondering what new development this signaled. Well, he would find out soon enough. It was already an hour past midnight-one bell, as they said in Melvaunt-so he needed to conclude his business and return home. “Your payment,” he said, handing the halfling a small pouch. “I’ve counted out ten anvils since your load was lighter than I’d been led to believe.”

  The wagon driver winced, but he did not complain. It was hard but fair, and he knew that he’d get no more from Sergen this evening. “Thank you, m’lord,” he said. He bowed and withdrew.

  “Kerth, have my carriage brought up immediately,” Sergen told his bodyguard. “We’ve got company coming. Have your men lock up here.”

  In a matter of minutes Sergen and Kerth clattered away from the Five Crowns storehouses in a swift black carriage, driving back up to the hillside where Sergen’s villa overlooked the harbor. The guttering streetlamps painted the murk hanging over the city a dull red-orange color, but as the carriage climbed, the thick stink lessened perceptibly. Soon enough the carriage clattered past the comfortable houses of the wealthy, each surrounded by its own wall, and some guarded by watchmen with pikes. Near the top of the hill they reached Sergen’s estate and turned into the long, gated driveway. “Order the servants to their quarters, and douse the streetlamps,” Sergen told Kerth. “I’ll be waiting in the study.”

  “I understand, m’lord,” the mercenary said.

  The carriage stopped by the manor’s door. Sergen allowed his footman to open the carriage door for him. As he climbed the steps to the manor’s foyer, a valet took his cloak and the doorman held the door for him. He might not have a noble title, but he certainly could afford the trappings of nobility. While Kerth spoke with the servants and saw to the arrangements outside, Sergen headed back to his study, a large room with broad windows overlooking the harbor. He drew the curtains closed and then poured himself a glass of good dwarven brandy from a service he kept near his desk. Taking a seat by the room’s fireplace, he listened to the faint sounds of the household staff receding and watched as one by one the lights were turned down low outside. His visitor valued discretion, after all.

  Sergen waited no more than a quarter hour in the dark study before he heard footsteps in the hallway outside. He set down his brandy and stood as Kerth opened the door to admit a tall, cloaked figure. The armsman looked at Sergen; Sergen nodded to him, and Kerth stepped outside and closed the door, leaving him alone with his visitor. The man undid the fastenings of his heavy cloak and tossed it carelessly onto the nearest sofa. “This is a fine house, my boy,” he said. “But living here is making you soft, mark my words.”

  “It’s all for show,” Sergen answered. “Hello, Father.” He stepped forward for a quick embrace and a hearty thump on the back. Kamoth Kastelmar was a lean, well-weathered man of fifty-five years, a little taller than his son. A gray-streaked beard of black framed his square face, and his eyes smoldered beneath craggy brows. He wore a knee-length black coat with gold embroidery at the cuff and collar, and a fine saber rode at his hip in a scabbard of Turmishan leather. Once upon a time he’d been the scion of a minor noble family of Hillsfar, but he’d put his home behind him at an early age, seeking better opportunities. Fifteen years ago Kamoth married Terena Hulmaster, the sister of the harmach, and brought Sergen-his son by his first wife, a woman Sergen hardly remembered-to Griffonwatch to live with Terena’s family. But Kamoth was a restless man, an ambitious man, and he soon began to plot against his brother-in-law, Harmach Grigor. When those plots were uncovered, Kamoth had been forced to flee Hulburg and seek his fortune elsewhere. He’d left Sergen to be raised by the family of his stepmother. Sergen had hated him for that for a long time, but Kamoth was his father for better or worse. Beyond the shadow of a doubt he’d taught Sergen everything he’d needed to know about how to look out for himself.

  Kamoth thumped his back one more time and stepped back. “I don’t suppose you have something worth drinking in here?” he asked.

  Sergen nodded at the brandy service. “Good dwarven brandy.”

  The older lord snorted. “Well, perhaps living soft has its advantages.” He poured himself a tall glass and actually took a moment to inhale the aroma. “Did that fat little halfling get my cargo to your storehouse?”

  “He did, although it was only three-and-a-half wagons’ worth,” Sergen replied. “Was that all of it?”

  “I lost almost a third of the cargo after I beached the Sokol ship,” Kamoth said. He scowled fiercely. “Some madman spied out my landing and crept down after dark to set fire to my prize. What’s more, he cut the Sokol lass free of her bonds and fought his way out of my camp while my lads were busy fighting the fire. Killed two men and crippled another.”

  Sergen grimaced. “Your madman was named Geran Hulmaster.”

  “Geran? He was the one that fired my prize?” Kamoth turned away with a muttered oath. He glared into the fireplace for a long moment before he composed himself and turned back to Sergen. “All right, then. How did you find out about Geran’s little visit to my encampment?”

  “Geran told his uncle about it the hour he returned to Hulburg. Grigor called the Harmach’s Council together to discuss the matter, and my ally on the council heard Geran’s story for himself. He keeps me informed of the council’s business; I heard the tale several days ago.”

  Kamoth looked past Sergen, his eyes fixed on old memories. “Bernov’s son,” he mur
mured. “I saw him from a distance before he fled the beach, fighting his way past my lads. I thought he seemed familiar, and now I know why.” He shook his head and seated himself in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “Nine years now that Bernov Hulmaster’s been dead, and his wanderfooted son shows up to ruin the best part of a prize I took with my own two hands. Damn that man! Even from the grave he’s finding ways to hinder me.”

  “The fire ruined that much of the Sokol cargo?”

  “No, not that-the lass. She was a splendid sight, my boy. I had designs upon her, I did.”

  Sergen grimaced. Kamoth was a man of violent appetites. When he said he had designs on a woman, those designs often ended in the most heinous sort of murder. It was one of the reasons his father had never bothered to establish himself in civilized society again after fleeing Hulburg years ago; his proclivities would have soon enough earned him a death sentence in all but the most lawless of settings. Sergen considered himself a pragmatic, unsentimental man, and he did not shy from the idea of taking what he wanted, but he’d never been able to understand the demonic urges that moved Kamoth. At its best Kamoth’s cruelty was simply wasteful. At its worst it was the very soul of wickedness, something so spiteful and nihilistic that even Sergen shrank from it. “I’m sure she was,” he temporized.

  “How in the world did Geran know to lie in wait for me on that deserted shore?” Kamoth mused aloud. “I didn’t know myself where I’d put in until I saw the cove and decided it would serve.”

  “Sheer accident. According to what my man on the council heard, Geran was off visiting his mother in Thentia. He was on his way home to Hulburg when he stumbled across your camp. A day or two to either side, and he never would have seen you.”

  “By all the misfortunes of Beshaba. What did I do to deserve that?”