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  If ill fortune followed the guilty, Sergen thought, then his father had certainly earned his share and more. He decided not to voice that sentiment. He hesitated for a moment, then he said, “I’m afraid there is something more to Geran’s involvement. The Harmach’s Council ordered Geran to fit out a warship to deal with Kraken Queen. Geran is likely at sea by now, searching for you.”

  “By all nine of the screaming Hells!” Kamoth leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “Warship? What warship?”

  “Apparently the Verunas left a serviceable caravel named Seadrake behind when they abandoned the city. They’ve got a large detachment of Shieldsworn and mercenaries aboard.” Sergen smiled. “They believe it will be easier to track you to your lair than to patrol the sea lanes near Hulburg, awaiting the next attack.”

  The pirate lord stifled a snort of derision. “Grigor Hulmaster thinks one impressed ship is a match for the Black Moon Brotherhood? I should go burn Hulburg to teach the harmach some respect.”

  Sergen shrugged. So far events were proceeding more or less as he’d expected. His father’s pirate flotilla had virtually strangled trade going to Hulburg by sea over the summer, creating no small amount of difficulties for the Hulmasters. He’d originally planned for Kamoth’s corsairs to slowly tighten their grip over the next few months, bringing the harmach to his knees. “We expected that the Hulmasters would take steps to protect their shipping,” he said. “They have no choice. If Grigor does nothing, the Merchant Council has to act in his place.”

  “I expected that they’d arm their merchantmen, perhaps send a few soldiers to sea, or maybe strike a deal with Hillsfar or Mulmaster for protection,” Kamoth said. “I didn’t think they’d fit out a warship so quickly. Why in the world did House Veruna leave anything that useful behind?”

  “She couldn’t sail, and they didn’t have enough hands for the oars.” Sergen frowned; he’d spent his last few days in Hulburg hiding in the Veruna compound, and he remembered the Mulmasterites’ retreat all too well. “I told them to burn anything they couldn’t carry off, but Darsi chose not to listen to me. She thought she’d be able to convince the High Blade of Mulmaster to demand the return of the storehouses and Seadrake from the harmach.”

  Kamoth waved his hand. “Bah. Ifyou can’t protect your own, you deserve to lose it. I don’t blame the High Blade for ignoring her complaints.”

  “So what do we do about Geran and his ship?”

  “Let him chase his own tail all around the Moonsea, as far as I care. Or set a trap for him.” Kamoth grinned fiercely and set a hand to the pommel of his dagger. “Yes, I like the thought of that. The day I see the son of Bernov Hulmaster dead on the point of my blade would be a fine day indeed.”

  Other than the fact that Sergen hoped to be the one holding the blade, he approved of his father’s sentiment. “If my source is correct, there are close to a hundred of Hulburg’s soldiers and militia aboard Seadrake … along with Geran and Kara Hulmaster. Geran is little more than a reckless adventurer, but he is a formidable swordsman, and Kara is far and away the best commander in the harmach’s service. Can you defeat him?”

  “So many, eh? Then I’d need two ships or a ruse of some kind.” Kamoth frowned, his eyes fixed on some distant vision of mayhem as he considered the problem. “Damn, but it might be better with three ships at that. I know Geran can fight, and those Shieldsworn’ll be tough bastards. It makes you wonder who’s left in Hulburg.”

  Sergen looked sharply at his father and laughed. A bold idea had just occurred to him. “In fact, that is exactly what I’m wondering. With both Geran and Kara away from Hulburg and a shipful of Shieldsworn absent from the town’s defenders, I think a bold stroke might be called for.”

  The pirate lord raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. “Raid the town? Now that is a bold idea, my boy. If I summon the Black Moon together, we could land better than six hundred men. Would that be enough to take Hulburg?”

  “Take it? No, you’d never be able to fight your way into all the merchant compounds or storm Griffonwatch. But with even a little bit of surprise, you could pillage the harbor district and fire as much of the town as you liked.” That would in fact serve Sergen’s plans even better than slowly choking off the town’s trade; the harmach’s weakness in the wake of such an attack would demand action. And it would wound Geran to the heart if Hulburg suffered while he was wandering aimlessly hundreds of miles away. Sergen had much to repay Geran after the swordmage’s interference in his plans.

  “A bold stroke nonetheless,” Kamoth mused. “Ah, the stories they’d tell about the Black Moon Brotherhood after a feat like that! I like the thought of it, my boy. You might be worth something after all.”

  Sergen allowed himself a small smile. It wasn’t often that he found a way to earn his father’s approbation. Kamoth was quick to praise one of his cutthroats or laugh at the coarse humor his crewmen enjoyed, but Sergen had always had to come up with something exceptional to earn that fierce grin. He took a deep sip of the brandy and said, “In that case, when does the Black Moon sail against Hulburg?”

  SEVEN

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

  A cold, steady rain fell as Geran and Sarth rowed Seadrake’s skiff toward the broken towers of the ruined city. Hamil sat in the stern of the small boat, his hand on the rudder. It was a dark and dreary night, the sort of weather that would persist over the Moonsea lands until the bitter winds of winter arrived sometime in early Nightal. The steady hiss of rain falling into the sea masked the creaking of the oars in their locks and the soft slap of water under the small boat’s hull. They’d only been rowing for half an hour, but they were already soaked. Geran didn’t mind; the foul weather meant that fewer unfriendly eyes would be watching them.

  Seadrake was a mile behind them, invisible in the darkness. She showed no lights, since Geran hoped that their landing in Zhentil Keep would go unnoticed. As an additional precaution, they wore the same sort of common garb that any deckhands might wear on a sodden Moonsea evening. Instead of a fine jacket and jaunty cap, Hamil glowered under a drenched hood. Geran had left his fine elven backsword in his cabin on Seadrake and carried a plain cutlass instead, while Sarth had used his magic to disguise himself as a sellsword of Teshan descent, with a thick black mustache and dark, fierce eyes under a heavy brow.

  Hamil surveyed the crumbling buildings of the ruined city with a dubious expression. “That looks like the sort of place you venture into when you’ve a mind to feed yourself to some horrible monster,” he said. “Are you sure of this plan, Geran?”

  “Sure of it? No, but I think it’s worth a try.” Geran paused to glance over his shoulder as the city’s ramshackle docks drew closer. Zhentil Keep sprawled on either side of the mouth of the River Tesh. In better times it had been the busiest harbor on the Moonsea, and both banks of the river-as well as some of the lakefront too-had been lined with broad stone quays that could accommodate scores of ships at a time. He would have liked to bring Seadrake into the Tesh and drop anchor in the river mouth, but he guessed that the sort of brigands and outlaws he was looking for would have vanished into the rain and rubble at the first sight of a hostile warship. “We’ll find the sort of cutthroats we’re looking for soon enough. Or they’ll find us.”

  Sarth frowned as he pulled at his oar. “Are you not concerned that the sort of villains we seek might rob and murder three strangers the moment they catch sight of us?”

  “A fate easily avoided. We have to appear too poor to rob and too dangerous to pick a fight with.” Geran smiled humorlessly. “Trust me, we should fit right in.”

  Hamil looked past his larger companions and shifted in his seat. “We’re getting close. Steer for the docks on the north bank here, or do you want to tie up on the other side of the river?”

  “The first spot you see. If the fellow in Mulmaster was right, there may be a ship or two moored up the Tesh, and I don’t want to run into them.” Geran paused in his rowing and tu
rned around to get a better look at the looming shadows around him.

  A hundred years ago, Zhentil Keep had been the most powerful city in the Moonsea lands. Its soldiers held the Tesh vale, the mighty Citadel of the Raven in the Dragonspine Mountains, and the ruins of Yulash; Hillsfar they subdued in Myth Drannor’s War of Restoration. Gold flowed into Zhentil Keep’s coffers from a dozen far lands intimidated by Zhentarim sell-swords or inveigled by Zhentarim spies. But the Zhents, for all their ruthlessness and might, had inevitably aroused the wrath of an enemy beyond their strength.

  The unliving archwizards of the newly reborn Empire of Netheril did not look kindly on such an aggressive neighbor, and they’d turned their fearsome sorcery against Zhentil Keep. In the years before the Spellplague, the Netherese razed the city and scattered its lords, its priests, and its wizards to the four winds. Zhentarim expatriates dotted the lands of the Inner Sea, but their native city was now a shadow-haunted ruin that all decent folk gave a wide berth.

  Except, of course, for Geran and his companions.

  Geran’s eye fell on a dark quay that seemed like a safe spot to leave their boat. “There, that will do,” he said. He and Sarth resumed pulling, and in a few minutes the skiff bumped up alongside the old landing. Hamil scrambled out and looped the skiff’s bowline around a rusted bollard, then the swordmage and the tiefling followed. Geran paused on the cobblestone street to gain his bearings, hand on his sword hilt. The old buildings loomed over him, most standing five or six stories in height and crowded shoulder-to-shoulder like tired soldiers standing in ranks. Dark doorways and empty windows looked down over the street. It was said that the curse of the Netherese archwizards still lingered over the city, some nameless doom waiting to swallow anyone so foolish as to venture into the darkest shadows. Geran had no idea if that was true or not, but he sensed brooding menace just beyond his sight.

  “This is an accursed place,” Sarth said. “Terrible spells were spoken here.”

  “We’ll keep to the riverbank. The stories I’ve heard about this place claim that whatever lingers here doesn’t like the water, or that the Tesh has washed away some of the curse,” Geran said. “Either way, I don’t think it would be a good idea to explore any of these buildings.”

  Hamil stopped and looked up at him. “It’s also a bad idea to leave a fire untended, speak a demon’s name, or run while you’ve got a knife in your hand. Is there anything else we should go over?”

  Sarth snorted through his mustache. Geran sighed. “I’ve known you to ignore common sense once or twice,” he said to Hamil. “I remember some times with the Dragon Shields when you leaped before you looked.”

  They left the skiff tied up by the quay. Since there were no ships visible at the river mouth, and Geran didn’t see or hear anything to suggest that other folk might be around, he decided to follow the riverside street westward, deeper into the city. They gave the old buildings on their right a wide berth, staying out in the open street.

  After a half mile or so, they passed the remains of one of the city’s great bridges, now little more than a series of six stone piers in the river. Beyond the bridge piers, several ships were moored to the old quays-a couple of small coasters that were likely smugglers of some sort, a round-hulled cog, and a half galley with a long, slender hull. A few dim lanterns illuminated the streets by the riverside, and the distant strains of voices and faint music carried over the water. Geran and his friends exchanged looks, then they continued.

  Along the riverbanks above the first of the bridges, a dismal little town of sorts had grown up in the city ruins. Although the looming stone buildings here were still mostly abandoned, the lower floors of a dozen or so in the immediate area had evidently been reoccupied. Lanterns hanging from posts outside marked the locations of taverns, festhalls, boardinghouses, provisioners, fences, armorers, sailmakers, and others who did business with the sort of brigands and pirates who lurked in the ruins. Despite the late hour, dozens of men-and a few women-loitered out in the street, staggered drunkenly from one place to the next, or simply lay sprawled on the cobblestones wherever they’d fallen asleep or passed out. More than a few seemed to be half-orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, and other such creatures, but the humans seemed to pay them no special attention.

  “We’ll try the taverns first and keep our ears open,” Geran said. “Let’s get the mood of the place before we start asking dangerous questions.”

  They headed for the first taphouse they saw. A crude signboard hung above the door, showing the image of two busty mermaids. Directly under the sign a gray-bearded sailor slumbered in the street. Geran stepped over him and pushed open the door. Inside, raucous sailors crowded a small room that looked like it might once have been a well-off merchant’s parlor. Simple tables and benches replaced all of the old furnishings, and an overturned skiff served as the unlikely bar. In one corner, a man in a patched cape strummed at a lute, but no one was paying him much attention. They were watching a contest of knife throwing, with the target hanging close by the door. As Geran ducked through the door, a small dagger thunked into the wood not far from his face. Drunken sailors and their rented lovers roared with laughter as he flinched aside.

  “I think you’ve found what you’re looking for,” Hamil said. “What a charming place.”

  Geran gave the knife thrower a hard look and made his way over to the bar. Hamil and Sarth followed, while the game resumed behind them. The barkeep was a balding dwarf with a striking scar across his mouth that notched his beard. He looked up at Geran with a yellow-toothed grin. “Dun’t think I’ve seen ye before,” he said. “Are ye lads from the Impilturian merchant lying on t’other side o’ the river?”

  Geran was momentarily tempted to say yes just to satisfy the fellow’s curiosity, but of course he had no idea whether any of the other crewmen were in the room. He decided that it would be best to say as little as possible. “No, we’re new in town. What do you have to drink?”

  “I’ve got a keg of Hillsfar’s own Moonsea Stout tapped, and I’ll draw ye a mug for half a silver talent. Or I could find ye a bottle of southern wine, though that’ll cost ye dear. It’s hard to come by.”

  “The stout, then,” Geran told him. He fished two silver coins out of the purse at his belt and handed mugs to Sarth and Hamil. His companions found stools fashioned from old barrels sawn in half around a battered old capstan salvaged from some wreck or another, and settled in to nurse their ale and observe the crowd. Geran lingered to speak with the barkeep, and motioned for him to stay a moment.

  “What more are ye wantin’?” the dwarf asked.

  “The warship out in the river. Who is she?”

  “That would be Moonshark.”

  “Is she a Black Moon ship?”

  “Why, are ye lookin’ for a billet?”

  “We might be.” Geran shrugged and glanced at the patrons of the taphouse. “Are any of these fellows Moonshark crewmen?”

  “Dun’t think so,” the dwarf answered. He took up a rag and started wiping down the bar; Geran decided to leave him to his work instead of pressing the question. He joined Hamil and Sarth at their table.

  They drank a round, listening to the people around them. Geran and Hamil made a point of keeping up an animated discussion about various taverns in the cities of the Vast, providing Sarth with the opportunity to study their neighbors surreptitiously. The tavern-goers included seamen from the ships hidden in Zhentil Keep’s ruined harbor, sellswords on hard times, and brigands and outlaws who preferred the company of others of their kind.

  After half an hour, Geran leaned in to speak to Sarth and Hamil. “I think we’ve heard everything we’re going to,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find some of Moonshark’s crewmen on the street. We might find one that’s talkative when drunk.”

  “A good idea,” Sarth agreed. The three of them drained their mugs then filed out into the dark street outside. The hour was growing late, but there was little sign of it in the pirate den. The faint strains of m
usic still echoed across the water, broken by the occasional sound of breaking glass or a shouted oath. They headed upriver, toward the next island of lanternlight they could make out.

  A door on their right burst open, and a party of boisterous men flooded out into the street. Geran halted to let them pass, but one of the men-actually a bandy-legged half-orc with one tusk at the corner of his mouth-turned and met his eyes. A dark scowl came over the half-orc’s features. “Now what d’you think you’re lookin’ at, you goat-buggering bastard?” he demanded.

  Geran bit back a retort and nodded down the street with more friendliness than he felt. “Just on my way to the next taproom. Don’t mind me.”

  “I’ll mind whatever I decide to mind,” the half-orc growled. The fellow’s companions-five of them-moved to surround Geran and his comrades. They were a dirty, ill-favored lot, dressed in ill-fitting leather and armed with cutlasses or cudgels at their belts. At least a couple of them seemed unsteady on their feet, more than a little in their cups, but the sallow half-orc was unfortunately not one of them. “I don’t think I’ve seen you lot ’round here before. You ain’t in any crew I know. That means you’re mine.”

  It seems we’ve seen this more than once, Hamil remarked. The halfling shifted a half step behind Geran, hiding his hands from view.

  Geran glanced over his shoulder at Sarth and gave the tiefling a subtle shake of the head. “No magic,” he mumbled under his breath. Sarth scowled, but he nodded. It would be hard to masquerade as common sellswords if thunderclaps and blasts of fire erupted in the street. Then he looked back at the half-orc glaring at him. He doubted it would work, but he had to try. “We’ve got no cause to quarrel,” he said. “We’ll go our way, and you can go yours.”

  The half-orc spat something in Orcish and swept out his cutlass. Geran had no idea what he’d said, but as far as he could tell negotiations were at an end, and he drew his own cutlass an instant later-nearly sticking the blade in the scabbard because the shape and weight were different from the fine elven steel he was accustomed to. The other brigands followed suit; the sound of steel rasping on leather filled the air, followed an instant later by the ring of steel on steel. Geran blocked the half-orc’s first vicious cut by passing it over his head then stepped close to smash the heavy handguard into the side of the half-orc’s head. The half-orc staggered back, and Geran immediately turned and leaped at the man to his right. They hacked at each other for three quick passes of steel, then Geran slashed the cutlass out of his hand with a nasty cut to the forearm. The cutlass dropped to the cobblestones with a shrill ring, and when the brigand doubled over holding his arm, Geran surged forward and planted a boot in the center of the man’s belt. With a strong shove of his leg, he sent the wounded brigand stumbling over the side of the quay and into the water.