Corsair

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 murmured. “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?”

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?”