Queen of the Depths

CHAPTER 6

Vurgrom and Shandri whirled to the rhythm of the reel, while the yarting, longhorn, and songhorn wailed, the double-headed hand drum clattered, and the spectators clapped and stamped out the beat. He tried to press against her as he was accustomed to. She shoved him away, maintaining a bit of space between them.

At the end of the dance, he sought to cling to her for another. But she’d fulfilled the requirements of courtesy, done what was required to maintain the impression that she and her superior were on amiable terms, and she twisted away from him and snatched hold of Durth’s hand. She and the grinning, gray-skinned ore pranced away, stepping high and kicking on the final beat of every other measure.

Sweaty, breathing heavilywhen had he grown so old and fat that a single dance winded him? Vurgrom turned and headed for his customary seat overlooking the torch-lit courtyard. One of the serving wenches gave him a lascivious smile as if offering herself in Shandri’s place. But he’d had the girlhe’d had them alland as he dimly recalled, she was nothing special. He sneered, and she hastily lowered her eyes.

He lumbered up onto the verandah and flopped down in his chair, which creaked under his weight. He picked up the wineskin he’d left beside his battle-axe and squeezed a spray of a tart Sembian white into his mouth.

“Captain Clayhill,” murmured a contralto voice, “is disrespectful.”

Vurgrom turned. It was Tu’ala’keth who’d crept up behind him. But she looked differenteven stranger and less human, maybe, because of her spindly frame, dorsal fin, and lustrous black eyes.

Vurgrom realized he was staring and shifted his gaze a little. “It’s good for morale,” he said, “when the captain celebrates with the crew. Shandri’s shrewd to dance with the ore.”

The shalarin smiled. “You are generous, and she is ungrateful.”

“Well… maybe a bit.” It was poor leadership to discuss Shandri with someone of lesser rank, particularly an officer under her command. But Tu’ala’keth had expressed his own opinion so succinctly it was difficult not to agree with her.

Besides, he now recognized that she didn’t seem different so much as more… pleasant to look on, maybe, or at least sympathetic. Her frame wasn’t gaunt, as he’d always imagined, but rather slim and graceful, like the body of an elf, and her dark, narrow features conveyed warmth and empathy despite the impediment of the goggles.

“I marvel at her arrogance,” the shalarin said. “By Umberlee’s grace, she has conducted one successful raid, and now she deems herself better than the benefactor who made it possible, who has taken more plunder than she can even imagine, whose dread name is spoken even in Seros beneath the waves.”

Tickled by the flattery, Vurgrom grinned. “It’s because of my victories that I can afford to indulge her foolishness.” He supposed it was truer than not. He’d taken his share of ships and sacked his share of hamlets, even if his adventures hadn’t been quite as glorious or profitable as he liked to claim.

“Your forbearance does you credit. Unless it reaches a point where others believe you weak. Then the lesser men who have always feared your strength will swarm on you.”

“I didn’t need that bit of advice, but thank you, anyway.” For a newcomer and a member of an exotic species, she betrayed an admirable comprehension of the realities of life on Dragon Isle. “I wonder, though, why you gave it to me. I thought you’d decided Shandri is the Bitch Queen’s pet and, therefore, entitled to your loyalty.”

“Umberlee inspires,” said Tu’ala’keth. “When it pleases her, she grants strength and luck to her petitioners. But she owes no loyalty to small, limited beings like ourselves. She has no compunction about abandoning us if ever we fall short of her requirements.”

Glistening membranes flicked across Tu’ala’keth’s eyes. The silvery flicker fascinated Vurgrom, and for a moment, he almost lost the thread of the conversation.

“Has Shandri fallen short?” he managed.

“It may be so. I came to your house that first day because the goddess whispered that herein, I might discover a spirit like a shark’s tooth. But if it belonged to Captain Clayhill, would I constantly need to coax and urge her onward?”

“Maybe,” Vurgrom said, “you found the right house, but the wrong soul.”

“That possibility,” said Tu’ala’keth, “has occurred to me.”

“Let’s speak plainly, then. Sail with me, not one of my underlings. I can use your counsel and magic, and I promise Umberlee blood aplenty.” It would be a joy to see Shandri’s face when she found out he’d lured her prized ship’s cleric away.

But to his chagrin, Tu’ala’keth seemed in no hurry to agree to his proposal. Instead, she studied him thoughtfully. “You may be the one,” she said. “I would like it to be so. But my preferences are irrelevant. What matters is that this time I see clearly and waste no more of my mistress’s grace.”

“You must have heard tales of my exploits.”

“How could I avoid it, abiding in this house?” He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not. If so, it didn’t anger him the way it usually did. “More importantly, I have seen you, and the strength in your limbs.” She ran a fingertip along his forearm.

Her webbed hand of midnight blue made his flesh look bone-white by contrast. Her skin was cool and silky smooth, almost slippery, as though still wet from the sea. The light, gliding contact afforded him a wholly unexpected thrill of sensual pleasure.

“I can well believe,” she continued, “this arm has slain a thousand men and could slaughter a thousand more.”

“Well, then,” he said, his voice thick in his throat.

She took her hand away. “But when folk speak of the greatest corsairs on the Sea of Fallen Stars, they name Teldar first and Vurgrom the Mighty second. You have sought to supplant him for years and never accomplished your purpose. I wonder then, can you truly be brave and merciless enough to serve as Umberlee’s blade?”

“Yes! If youand shewill only help me, I’ll master all the Pirate Isles and plunder every prize my ships can reach.”

The shalarin smiled. “Well said. I will ponder the matter, and we will speak again.” She turned and walked back into the mansion. In a moment, the shadows swallowed her.

Tu’ala’keth had quarters in Vurgrom’s mansion, but preferred to rest in the sea. Anton knew the route she took from the sprawling coquina house down to the water and thus could intercept her along the way when they wanted to confer unobserved.

Even though it was summer, the night air carried a chill. He hunkered down in the usual shadowy notch between two buildings; wrapped himself in his scarlet cape; and reflecting sourly on just how much of his life had been spent in uncomfortable circumstances, and settled himself to wait.

For a long while, he had nothing but scurrying, chittering rats and the rhythmic boom and hiss of the surf to keep him company. Finally, though, when the stars were fading and the eastern sky was lightening to gray, the shalarin came striding down the street, head held high, trident canted over her shoulder.

Anton rose and stepped out into the open. “I expected you sooner,” he said.

“Have you learned something?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, no. I just wanted to find out if you’ve had any luck.”

“Not yet. That is why I am attempting a new ploy.”

Anton frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that. I know the pirates. You don’t. You need to check with me before you make a move.”

“You could not have dissuaded me, for the need to try something different is obvious. We won a place among the reavers and killed the foes who resented us for it. It was a good beginning, but since then we have accomplished nothing at all.

“Indeed,” she continued, “I do not know how you expected to. The affairs of Immurk’s Hold are too complicated. Ships constantly set sail for undisclosed destinations, and every captain keeps his particular secrets. To make it even worse, Dragon Isle is only one of several pirate strongholds. We must rely on hearsay to assess what’s happening on Alphar Isle and Mirg Isle, and most of the time, we can’t even ask directly for news of the Cult of the Dragon, lest our curiosity arouse suspicion. I do not understand how spies ever discover anything about anything.”

“You have to be patient,” Anton said. “We poke about and poke about, and it seems nothing’s happening. Then, if we’re lucky, we peek in the right window, and suddenly we have the answer. Trust me, that’s the way it works.”

“The wyrms ravage Seros,” she replied. “Umberlee’s altars stand neglected. I cannot afford patience beyond a certain point.”

He sighed. “You’d better tell me what you did.”

“I prompted Shandri Clayhill to refuse when Vurgrom calls her to his bed. Once she was out of the way, I began the process of fixing his interest on me.”

“I don’t understand. Our two peoples aren’t drawn to one another in that way.”

“Normally, no. But I know spells to enhance my personal magnetism to such an extent that it will not matter what is natural and what is not. At least, not to Vurgrom. Captain Clayhill says he often makes loves to females of other races, and if that is not enough, I mean to persuade him I am the key to realizing his aspirations. Desire and ambition will twine together in his mind, each deepening the other. Then, as I tease him and lead him on, I will cozen his secrets out of him.”

Anton shook his head. “It’s a bad idea, for all sorts of reasons. For one, you don’t know Vurgrom’s sitting on the information we need, so you can’t justify the added risk.”

“He is one of the two most important men on Dragon Isle, and the one to whom Umberlee led me.”

“ led you to Vurgrom simply because it was likely his faction was recruiting.”p›

“But you are Umberlee’s agent, and even were you not, she reveals herself through chance.”

“I can’t be sure about that, but I do know enough about divine magic to understand that when you cast a spell to increase your force of personality, everybody’s going to feel the pull. Some other priest or wizard is likely to realize you’re trying to enthrall Vurgrom and give him a warning.”

“I will approach Vurgrom at quiet moments, and fade into the shadows when our discourse is through. Other folk will have little opportunity to scrutinize me while the magic lends me grace.”

“What about Captain Clayhill? It doesn’t matter that she’s rejected him. I guarantee you, given what they’ve shared together, she’s still keeping an eye on him. She’ll notice what’s going on and realize you convinced her to end the affair, not for her benefit, but to open up opportunities for yourself.”

“That,” said Tu’ala’keth, “is where you come in.

Shandri Clayhill is worried about keeping you aboard Shark’s Bliss, and as her history attests, she is willing to use her charms to secure her ends. Encourage her to seduce you; then keep her out of my way.”

“What if I’m not the sort of man who lights her candle?”

“She gave herself to Vurgrom. How particular can she be?”

He laughed. “There is that. I’m going to be busy, playing jump-in-the-daisies with her and palavering with the other factions, too. But since I see I can’t talk you out of this, we’ll try it. Just be wary. Maybe you look at Vurgrom and see a fat, randy sot, but he’s dangerous. He’s murdered dozens in his time, and if he suspects you of tampering with his mind, a carnal itch won’t stop him from adding you to the tally.”

A caravel such as Shark’s Bliss could never go unattended, even in port. She always needed a hand or two to guard and maintain her. But while her crew had loot to squander in the stews and taverns of Immurk’s Hold, they had no interest in staying aboard a minute longer than necessary.

Such being the case, Anton wasn’t particularly surprised to see Captain Clayhill alone on deck. Someone else was surely aboard, but maybe he was working below.

The absence of her underlings gave the pirate a reasonable amount of room to practice with her new greatsword. Grunting, face intent, she stamped back and forth, circled, blocked, and cut. Her ridiculous skirts swirled about her legs, and her jewels sparkled in the hot afternoon sunshine. The enormous blade, however, didn’t gleam even when bathed in brightness. A murky dullness oozed inside the steel.

Anton rowed straight on toward the ship floating at anchor in the harbor. The breakrocks, a system of artificial reefs, lurked beneath the waves to rend the hull of any large vessel whose pilot hadn’t learned to thread the maze, but his little boat didn’t draw enough water for it to matter. He shipped the oars, tied his craft to Shark’s Bliss, and swarmed up a rope onto the larger vessel.

By that time, of course, Shandri Clayhill had long since seen him coming. Still, as he swung himself over the rail, she took a lurching step toward him. The greatsword twitched an inch or two upward, as if she were contemplating a head cut, and her jittery nerves had given away her intent.

Anton grinned. “Easy, Captain! It’s not the Sembian navy paying a call, only your ship’s mage.”

“I see that!” she snapped. She grabbed the greatsword’s scabbard, shoved the weapon in hard enough to clank the guard against the silver mouth of the sheath, and set it down on the deck. “I’m simply surprised. I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“I know,” he said, putting on a rueful expression. “The truth is, after the way I acted when we divvied up the swag, I was ashamed to face you. I was greedy and arrogant, and I’m sorry.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She plainly hadn’t expected an attempt at conciliation and wasn’t certain what to make of it. “If you’re so sorry,” she said, “tell me what became of Kassur and Chadrezzan. I know they didn’t simply run off. The mute wouldn’t leave his grimoires behind.”

Anton had already decided to give her a version of the truth. In his experience, such confidences opened the way for other forms of intimacy.

He made a show of hesitation then said, “I killed them. I killed them in self-defense. They came after me. But after offending you, I feared to tell you.”

“So why do it now?”

“To regain your trust, if it isn’t too late.”

“You’re more likely to make me angry all over again. If you hadn’t stormed out that night, it needn’t have come to slaughter.”

“I truly regret quarreling with you but not because it would have averted trouble with the Talassans. We were going to fight eventually. I think you knew that.”

“Well, maybe the wrong party survived. I’ve lost two valuable officers, each a more powerful spellcaster than you.”

“But neither as wily a tactician nor as sprightly a dancer.” He smiled. “Besides, Tu’ala’keth says you don’t need Kassur or anyone else in particular. The Queen of the Depths has marked you for greatness. Why, then, would you worry about attracting followers? We lesser mortals must vie to convince you we’re worthy to sail under your command.”

Her lips quirked upward. He could tell she liked the flattery but doubted its sincerity. “If you’re eager to remain aboard Shark’s Bliss, then why spend your time reveling with the chieftains of the other factions?”

He shrugged. “I told you: I felt sheepish hanging around Vurgrom’s mansion after making a jackass of myself. Besides, if folk want to stand me drinks and praise me as if I were Immurk come again, why would I say no? It’s a pleasant way to pass the time. But it means nothing. In fact, it’s beginning to bore me.

“We should go back to work. This is the height of the raiding season. Even with dragon flights wreaking havoc, the sea lanes are fat with trading vessels. Yet Shark’s Bliss sits in the harbor.”

She pulled a sour face. “I want to go out again. We can’t build a lasting reputation on one venture, no matter how bold or successful. But the crew still has plenty of gold to spend.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’ll go if you tell them to. They believe in you.”

Yet she, for whatever buried reason, found it difficult to believe in herself. She wanted to be strong, and in reality, she was. Yet she sported the impractical gown and the rest of her regalia to conjure the image of a colorful, eccentric pirate captain out of legend, because she feared the underlying reality would impress no one. More important, she hungered for avowals of admiration and fidelity.

It was all Anton needed to discern to worm his way into her affections. The rest was simply a matter of glibness.

“Then we’ll sail,” she said. “We’ll buy provisions and lay our plans.”

“I’m glad. But I should go now. I interrupted your weapons practice and you’re probably eager to get back to it.” He looked for a twist of disappointment in her face and found it readily enough. “Unless you’d like to spar?”

She grinned. “I would. I have wooden swords in my cabin.”

“Why not use live blades? We’re skillful enough to avoid cutting each other, and with a new sword to learn, you ought to practice some parries against a real weapon.”

He’d watched her dogged trainingher near-obsessive labor to make herself as formidable a combatant as any in the Pirate Islesenough to notice she only practiced with the greatsword while isolated aboard Shark’s Bliss. Since he’d handled the weapon itself before she’d claimed it, he reckoned he knew why.

She averted her gaze a little, as though abashed, and he was certain of it. “That’s not a good idea,” she said.

“Why not? Because of the spirit inside the blade?”

“Yes. It’s… bloodthirsty. I’ve decided it’s dangerous to draw it except when I’m alone or have foes to kill.”

“But Shandri,” he said, “you’re the mistress of the sword as surely as you’re the mistress of this ship. It can’t do anything you don’t permit. But I imagine it’s like a dog. It will keep testing you and trying to get its own way until you prove you’re in control.”

“Do you truly think so?”

“Yes, so let’s fence.” He picked up the greatsword and tossed it to her then drew his cutlass. “Just take it slow at first.”

“All right.” She took hold of the leather-wrapped hilt and pulled the long weapon from the scabbard. As she came on guard, it quivered, and darkness billowed up the blade like blood dispersing through water. Anton felt a pang of unease and wondered if what he’d suggested was as stupid as it suddenly seemed. But even if so, it was too late to back out now.

She slowly cut at his flank, and he brought the cutlass across in a leisurely parry. The greatsword leaped high, above the defense, and hacked at his head. He sprang backward, and the vicious stroke hurtled down, missing by a matter of inches. Shandri started to rush after him then jerked herself to a halt. The dark blade shuddered in her grasp.

“You see?” she gasped, shame in her voice.

“I see the hound slipped the leash for a second, but then you regained control. Let’s try some more.”

For a few slow exchanges, everything was all right. Then, when they sped up a little, the greatsword spun downward, trying to sever his foot at the ankle. This time, though, the muscles in her bare, tattooed arms bunching, Shandri stopped it in mid-stroke.

“No!” she screamed. She wrenched herself around, marched to the mast, and hammered the flat of the sword against the wood. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”

In response to its punishment, evidently, the blade turned pitch black. When she finished beating it, the pirate glared at the weapon. Anton surmised that she and the sword were speaking mind to mind.

After a minute, she turned back around. “Once more,” she said.

From that point forward, the greatsword refrained from trying to kill him, even when sparring at full speed. At the end, eyes shining, face exultant, Shandri set the weapon aside and gripped his forearms. It was almost a hug, the implication of an embrace from a woman who wasn’t certain he’d welcome the familiarity.

She needn’t have held back. He was now sure they’d be lovers by the end of the evening. But with that certainty came a sudden, unexpected spasm of self-disgust.

Maybe it was because, in a vague way, her lack of self-worth reminded him of the boy he’d been, hating himself when the other novices prattled of mystical communion with Torm and he had nothing to say, when they started conjuring wisps of light or healing sores and scratches with a glowing touch while he tried repeatedly and failed. Or maybe it was because he’d seduced too many trusting women over the years. Whatever the reason, he didn’t want to use and ultimately betray Shandri in the same way.

But it was his work, and if the means were shabby, the ends were important, or so he had always striven to believe. He smiled back at her and brushed a lock of sweaty bronze hair away from her eye.

A slender, gleaming shadow in the moonlight, coral tunic glinting, Tu’ala’keth picked at her plate of raw, spiced shrimp and perch. Born in a world without fire, she had no taste for cooked food and preferred a seat without a back so as to avoid compressing the sweeping fin running down her spine. Vurgrom had learned these details and dozens of others over the course of the past few days, yet in the ways that mattered most, she remained a mystery. Maybe that was why she fascinated him.

It wasn’t an entirely comfortable fascination. He wasn’t used to lying sleepless, imagining the pleasures a wench had withheld in actuality. He’d always taken what he wanted when he wanted it.

But Tu’ala’keth was different: a shalarin waveservant, the partner he needed to topple Teldar at last. He had to treat to her with circumspection.

Or so it had seemed at first. But she’d made it plain she was judging him, assessing his fitness to champion her savage, relentless goddess, and in the middle of a tossing, feverish night, it had finally dawned on him just what sort of test it might actually be.

Still, when her long, dark fingers reached for a certain dark green morsel, he almost stopped her. Because what if his understanding was deficient? He took a drink of brandy to drown his doubts, and as he swallowed, she did, too. Now it was too late for second thoughts.

“Did you like that?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, black eyes reflecting the teardrop glow of the candle in the center of the table. “We pickle seaweed in As’arem, also. Tell me more of the smugglers on Kelthann. Do they dispose of all the plundered goods our faction seizes?”

Vurgrom snorted. “Don’t you ever get bored, talking about raiding and the like? It’s a beautiful night.” Perched on a balcony at the top of the house, they had a fine view of bright Selune and her tears shining in a cloudless sky, the wavering yellow lights of Immurk’s Hold running down to the harbor, the dark, heaving vastness of the sea, and the waves crumbling to pearly froth near the shore. Far out on the water, a ship’s lanterns glowed at the bow and stern. “Too beautiful for my list of gripes about greedy, thieving, gutless go-betweens.” He covered her cool, silken hand with his own, and experienced the usual pang of excitement.

She must feel it, too, for her flesh quivered. But her voice remained steady and cool: “I wish to know about your dealings so I can give you whatever help you require.”

“If you and Umberlee deem me worthy,” he said dryly. “Yes.”

“Maybe you should tell me again what the goddess expects, so I’ll know what to do to measure up.”

She eyed him quizzically, but he was sure she’d accede to his request. She never tired of talking about Umberlee. Even he, who doted on hermuch as he’d struggled against such a needy, mawkish emotion-grew weary of it sometimes.

Sure enough, she rose, and clasping his hand, drew him to the balustrade. “Behold the sea,” she said.

“All right.”

“On the” She hesitated then frowned. He had to suppress a smirk of anticipation. “Are you all right?”

“Perhaps your cook has not yet learned how to prepare food that agrees with me. My stomach… never mind. I am well. On the surface of the waves and beneath them, every moment, a thousand thousand predators kill and devour their victims. Most people understand this, even if they rarely bother to think about it.”

“I follow you.”

“Now recognize… recognize” she paused to massage the round mark on her forehead”recognize all those separate deaths as aspects of a higher unity. Comprehend that the sea itself, acting through its creatures, is the killer. Per… perceive it for what it is, a gigantic set of eternally gnashing, tearing jaws.” “Umberlee’s jaws,” he said.

“Yes, and to find favor in her sight, you must embody the same qualities. You must be fearless and ruthless. You must take” She swayed and grabbed the balustrade to keep from falling. “Something is wrong with me.”

Vurgrom let the leer stretch across his face. No need to hold it in anymore. “I drugged you, dear one. It will wear off by morning.”

Or at least it would if she were human. The apothecary couldn’t guarantee it would affect a shalarin in precisely the same way. But Vurgrom had decided it was worth the risk to bring an end to his frustrations. As it would, one way or another.

To his surprise, Tu’ala’keth still had the strength to tear her hand from his and stumble a couple of paces backward. Of course, she had nowhere to run in the confined space of the balcony. “You… are a blasphemer.”

“How do you figure?” Vurgrom replied. “Weren’t you just now telling me the Bitch Queen wants me to be bold and merciless and take what I want? All right, then, I’m taking you. That’s the test, isn’t it, to see if I dare. Well, watch me.”

Tottering, she gripped the skeletal hand dangling on her breast and gasped the opening words of an incantation.

He lunged and punched her in the jaw, snapping her head to the side and spoiling the cadence of the spell. He wrested the sacred pendant out of her fingers then yanked it from around her neck.

“No magic,” he told her and hit her again. Her legs buckled, and her arms flopped to her sides. He grabbed her before she could collapse and hauled her to the table. He swept the dirty dishes crashing to the floor to make a space then thrust her down.

The coral tunicsilverweave, she called itshould have come off easily. She wasn’t fighting anymore, and the armor was split all the way down the back to accommodate her fin. But it clung to her somehow, perhaps by virtue of an enchantment.

The more he struggled with it, the angrier he became, while desire burned hotter and hotter inside him. For an instant, he felt like a stranger to himself, as if his urgency was unnatural, or some sort of malady, but he pushed the reflection aside. If his need was a sickness, then satisfaction would provide the cure.

Finally, with a soft clinking, the silverweave pulled apart. In his frantic yanking and fumbling, he’d evidently released some sort of hidden catch. He didn’t know how or where, but neither did he care. He only had eyes for Tu’ala’keth’s narrow torso with its subtly inhuman contours and gill slits on the collar bones and ribs. In that moment, it seemed both the strangest and most desirable thing he’d ever seen, and he stretched out a trembling hand to caress it. As if his excitement had kindled a comparable ardor in her, she shuddered violently.

Tu’ala’keth and Anton stood arguing in the narrow side street. He offered his objections to her scheme, and she refuted them. Yet when he finished, she felt obscurely disappointed.

“You didn’t,” she said, “make the one point that might almost have deterred me.” She’d thought that by now, he understood her well enough to think of it.

“What point is that?” he asked.

“I intend to cloud Vurgrom’s mind, not my own, and to beguile him properly, I must allow him to touch me from time to time. It will be repulsive and unnatural for me.”

“Can you bear it?” Anton asked. “Act as if you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” Within limits, she thought. “As I told Shandri Clayhill, I will be a hunter stalking her prey, and that is a sacred act.”

“Good,” said Anton, except that he wasn’t Anton anymore. Somehow, between one heartbeat and next, he’d swelled into hulking, blubbery, leering Vurgrom. The pirate chieftain flung his arms wide, pulled her into a crushing embrace, and planted his lips on hers.

His mouth stankand tastedof wine and gluttony. Viler still were the mustache and whiskers, the bristling hairs jabbing into her skin. She suffered it while she silently counted to three then squirmed be free of him.

He lumbered after her, and the chase was like a dance, flickering from one day and location to the next. On the verandah, in the solar, in his suite and aboard the small sailboat he kept as a toy, she lured him in and pushed him back again.

“It’s a matter of balance,” she told him, “of pitting one emotion against another. As long as you fear to offend me as much as you yearn for my touch, you won’t demand too much, and I can tolerate you.”

“Can you tolerate this?” He was Kassur now, complete with eye patch, and he thrust out his hands at her. Yellow flame leaped from his fingertips, inspiring a jolt of terror that shocked her from her delirium.

Unfortunately, reality was equally nightmarish. Confused, for the first moment she understood only that the “balance” she intended to keep her safe had somehow tilted precipitously. She was on her back with Vurgrom leaning over her, mauling her. His ruddy face with its broken capillaries was contorted with passion, and it was plain he meant to use her as brutally as he’d treat a slave.

When she tried to clench her fists and pummel him, her limbs flailed uselessly, and she felt a burning throughout her frame. For a moment, she imagined the fire from her delirium had somehow accompanied her into the waking world to sear her in truth. Then, however, she realized the feeling wasn’t really heat but rather a kind of starved frenzythe panic of a body no longer able to breathe.

Vurgrom had divested her of her silverweave. Most likely he didn’t understand she needed it to survive out of water, for she naturally hadn’t told him of her vulnerability. Now if she couldn’t recover the coral mesh quickly, that sensible reticence would be the death of her.

“Armor,” she croaked. “Dying.”

He slapped her and resumed his pawing, as if he had no more comprehension than a beast. Perhaps he didn’t. Maybe that was what her magic had made of him.

It was certain only magic could save her now. She struggled to compose her thoughts for conjuring. It was difficult when her body hurt so badly, Vurgrom’s caresses were so loathsome, and she could feel life itself withering inside her. She reached out to Umberlee, and the goddess granted her a wave of frigid anger, sweeping through her mind to scour weaker, useless emotions away.

Tu’ala’keth wheezed the opening words of the invocation. Straining to control her spastic hand, she attempted a mystic pass. Vurgrom realized what was happening and reached for her throat to silence her.

She flailed her other arm across her body, blocking the human’s clutching hands. It gave her time to complete the spell. Despite the fumbling execution, power seethed through the air. Vurgrom shrieked, scrambled off her, and floundered backward, fetching up against the door that led to his apartments. Shaking and whimpering, he gawked at her.

The magically induced terror would only last a few heartbeats. She had that much time to save herself from asphyxiation. She heaved herself up off the tabletop, tried to catch her balance, but her legs gave way beneath her. She collapsed to her knees, banging the left one hard, a sharp stab of pain to punctuate the ongoing, all-encompassing excruciation.

She cast about for the silverweave, and failed to discern it or much of anything else. Even when its dazzling sun forsook the sky, the world above the waves had always been bright by her standards, but now darkness seethed and swam through the air, obscuring everything. A fresh cramp in her guts suggested the cause might be the poison Vurgrom had fed her.

Still the armor had to be here, didn’t it? Well, no, actually, it didn’t. Not if, wild with passion, Vurgrom had flung it off the balcony.

But if that were true, she was as good as dead, and Umberlee’s cause, as good as lost, and so she refused to believe it. Instead, she crawled, praying that, her near blindness notwithstanding, she’d spot the tunic when she dragged herself close enough.

She didn’t. But eventually, when she set her hand down, something clinked beneath her palm, and she felt the familiar mesh of sculpted coral. She scooped up the silverweave and examined it by touch as much as sight, searching for the sleeves. She located one and fumbled an arm in, and Vurgrom bellowed, a roar of rage, not panic. His footsteps shook the balcony as he charged.

Until she had the silverweave on properly, she couldn’t fully benefit from its enchantments. She was like a beached fish with the edge of the surf washing and receding over its body. Her gills worked one moment and not the next. It wasn’t enough to quell her spasms or restore her depleted strength, but she had no time for anything more.

She groped aboutshe still could only barely see-found the heavy golden goblet from which he’d swilled his brandy lying within reach, and grabbed it. As he bent over her kneeling body and poised his thumbs to gouge her eyes, she rammed the cup into his groin.

It was a puny blow, but it caught him where he was sensitive. His mouth fell open, and he groaned. She bashed him in the knee, and he fell beside her, which enabled her to pummel him about the head.

He howled and tried to shield himself with his arms. She rolled away beyond his reach and back onto her knees then hastily drew the silverweave on as it was meant to be worn.

At last she could breathe as easily as if she were under water. It didn’t end her spasms or restore more than a frail shadow of her former strengthno hope of that with the drug still ripping at her gutsbut it helped.

Vurgrom scrambled to his feet and charged. “Trip!” she gasped. He caught one foot behind the other and fell headlong, bashing his face against the floor. She reared over him and pounded his skull with the goblet, which bonged and crumpled under the force of the blows. Blood streamed from his split scalp to stain his coppery hair a darker hue, and he stopped moving.

Tu’ala’keth yearned to keep hitting him until she was certain he’d never stir again, but that would preclude him serving Umberlee’s purpose. Besides, she was nearly as avid to end her own distress.

She set the cup aside and retrieved the drowned man’s hand from the floor of the balcony where Vurgrom had tossed it. She cast restorative charms on herself and, clasping the hand, she purged the poison from her system. The clenching pains in her belly eased, and the veils of darkness shrouding the world dropped away.

Next, she prayed for enhanced vitality. The magic flowed through her in a cool tide, easing her aches and replenishing her strength. She then found one of the sharp knives she and Vurgrom had used to slice their food, crouched over him, and chanted a healing prayer.

It was only a minor one. She didn’t want him fit enough for further fighting. He moaned, and his bloodshot eyes fluttered open. She set the knife against the throbbing artery at the side of his neck.

“Struggle or cry out,” she said, “and I will kill you.”

“Bitch,” he said, his voice low. “If you were a proper woman and not some ugly fish, the drug would have kept you helpless.”

“I perceive,” she said, “you have shaken off the glamour I cast upon you. No matter. Your attempt at molestation has taken us beyond such tricks. Now I will ask questions. You will answer truthfully or die.”

He stared at her. “‘Questions?’ You bewitched me just to get some sort of information?”

“Yes.”

He snorted. “All right. I’ll tell you anything. But you have to swear by your goddess to let me live if I give you what you want.”

Tu’ala’keth scowled. “Very well. I swear it on the wrath of Umberlee. Now what do you know of the Cult of the Dragon?”

He peered at her quizzically. “Just what everyone knows. They’re wizards and lunatics who like wyrms. What kind of fool question is that?”

Anton had warned her Vurgrom might know nothing helpful. Was it possible the spy was correct?

No. It wasn’t. Umberlee had surely brought her to this moment for a reason.

“You have no dealings with the cult?” she persisted.

“No! Never.”

“Then who among the pirates does?” “As far as I know, no one.”

“Where in these islands is the cult’s stronghold?”

“I don’t know that they have one. If they did, they’d keep it a secret, wouldn’t they?”

She pressed the knife against his neck, reminding him of its proximity. “Thus far, Captain, you have given me no help. You must do better, or my oath will not constrain me from cutting your throat.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”

“Let us try again. Somewhere in the Pirate Isles, a group of recluses has established a community. They do not raid as the rest of you do, and their purpose is a mystery. They would prefer to go unremarked, but you have discerned their presence because you strive to know all that occurs hereabouts. Point me to them.”

He frowned. “Well, if you put it that way… Tan?”

Her pulse quickened. “Tell me.”

“They’ve been there for a few years now. Someplace, whatever shelter they’ve built, you can’t see it from offshore. They trade for some of the plunder passing through Mirg Isle, necessities like food and cloth, but stranger and more valuable items, too, like alchemical supplies and fine gems.”

“What account do they give of themselves?”

“Mostly, they don’t. The rumor is, they’re monks, the last followers of some dead god trying to pray and magic him back to life, but nobody really knows. They could be wyrm worshipers.”

They were. Tu’ala’keth was certain of it, and flawless jewels and alchemist’s equipment were the proof. According to Anton, the cultists required such things to transform living dragons into dracoliches.

“So,” growled Vurgrom, “have I earned the right to go on living?”

“I promised,” she said, “in the name of Umberlee.

Now consider the choice before you. You can seek revenge on me, but only by making this humiliation public. Forever after, folk will laugh over the tale of how an ‘ugly fish’ besotted Vurgrom the Mighty. Or you can do nothing, in which case no one will ever know.”

He glared at her. “Curse you”

“Just think about it.” She snatched up the battered cup and bashed him with it. His eyes rolled up in his head.

She reckoned he’d remain unconscious for a while, but that was no reason to dawdle. She strode into Vurgrom’s suite, retrieved her trident and goggles, and hurried on to the door leading to the remainder of the house. She opened it to behold one of the pirate chieftain’s followers, a tall, thin man with a sallow face and drooping mustachios, peering directly at her.

“Yes?” she said.

“I thought I heard noises,” he replied. “Somebody yelling, maybe.”

“Everything is all right. You can go about your business.”

It was possible he’d obey. She still had the enchantment in place to enhance her force of personality. It wouldn’t rouse his amorous inclinationsit had taken guile to make Vurgrom react in that fashionbut it might incline him to believe whatever she told him.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, then…” His dark eyes squinted at her. “Waveservant, is your face bleeding?”

She realized Vurgrom had marked her, and that despite her efforts to heal herself, she must still bear visible scrapes and bruises. After the ordeal she’d suffered, the sting of such petty injuries simply hadn’t registered.

“I had an accident,” she said. “It is nothing.” “I think,” the thin man said, “I should talk to Captain Vurgrom. For a second, anyway.”

“He is sleeping and will be angry if you wake him.”

“Then he’ll swear and yell at me, I suppose. But I still need to do it.”

“As you wish.” She withdrew a pace into the suite, giving him room to pass. Then, as he strode through the opening, she drove her trident into his stomach.

He stared at her and doubled over. She pulled the weapon from his body, and he toppled. She stuck him five more times until the writhing stopped and he lay motionless in a pool of blood.

His death, though necessary, was unfortunate, for suppose someone else came looking for him? Even if Vurgrom remained unconscious, or woke but chose to heed her advice, Tu’ala’keth’s situation was still precarious. She swept her skeletal amulet through a sinuous pass and murmured the opening phrase of another spell.

Anton ushered Shandri into the private room he’d hired on the top floor of the settlement’s least objectionable inn. Candlelight gleamed on crystal and white porcelain trimmed with gold leaf. Red roses perfumed the air, and the sweet, breathy notes of a longhorn trilled from an alcove. The casement stood open, providing a view of the harbor below and the myriad stars above.

Shandri exclaimed in pleasure, as well she might. With all the plunder moving though Immurk’s Hold, a good many luxuries were available, yet in most respects, it remained as crude and raucous a place as any outlaw haven. Accordingly, it took some doing to collect the elements of an elegant, romantic supper for two and assemble them to create the proper effect.

Not that Anton had any authentic claim to breeding or refinement, but as he’d hoped, the trace that had rubbed off on him during his contacts with wealthy merchants and aristocrats was sufficient to impress his companion.

“Vurgrom’s banquets are splendid,” she said. “But this is… lovely.”

“Shall we?” He seated her then poured them each a cup of a ruby-colored Impiltur an wine. He toasted her. “To Shandri Clayhill, fiercest and most ravishing corsair on the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

“To Anton, her gallant ship’s mage.”

They drank. To his undiscriminating palate, the red was too sour, with a hint of bitter aftertaste, but he pretended to savor it so as not to spoil the mood. “The cook said the first course will be up in a minute or two.”

“I’m in no hurry,” Shandri said. “I could sit here all night.”

“I’m glad you like it. Someday, maybe we’ll sup like this every evening.”

She smiled. “I doubt the Hold is up to the task of providing such elegance on a regular basis.”

“Who says we’ll always live on Dragon Isle?”

“We’ll always live on one of the Pirate Isles. Where else is there for reavers to go?”

He shrugged. “We wouldn’t be the first raiders to strike it rich at sea then use a piece to the loot to bribe their way to a pardon, or even patents of nobility, on land. Mind you, I’m in no hurry, but it’s something to bear in mind.”

“Something to dream of, at least.” Bracelets glittering in the candlelight, tattoos crawling on her slim but muscular arm, she reached across the stainless linen tablecloth and laid her hand on his. “I do like it that you imagine us together years hence.”

“Of course,” he said and felt as if he meant it, for a spy deceived others by splitting himself into two people. The one who revealed himself to his dupes truly became the role, the lie, at odd moments even forgetting he was simply a mask. But behind the semblance lurked the true personality, loyal only to Turmish, ready to burst through the shell as soon as circumstances warranted.

“Where, exactly, would you wish to live,” Shandri asked, “once we’re ready to put our cutthroat ways behind us?”

He grinned. “Saerloon seems to be lucky for us, but it’s a nasty sort of place. I wouldn’t want to raise a family there.”

She laughed. “Oh, you’ve decided on children as well.”

“Naturally. Fifteen or twenty stout sons, and maybe a daughter or two to help with your embroidery.”

“If I have to learn to embroider, forget the whole thing.”

“Fair enough. You needn’t touch thread or needles of any kind. I see us spending the bulk of our time on a country estate. Someplace with sheep, hedges, and”

Something pale and luminous stirred at the edge of his vision. Startled, he looked around. A shape was oozing through the crack between the door and the jamb. Once clear, it hovered in the air, thickened, and wriggled until it shaped itself into a spectral hand. It crooked its index finger in Anton’s direction.

“What’s the matter?” Shandri asked.

She was looking where he was, but plainly perceived nothing out of the ordinary. Tu’ala’keth had explained that if she used this particular spell, only he would be able to see the disembodied messenger.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I heard the server on the stairs. But I’ve just now remembered something. I have to go.”

She frowned. “Why? I’m your captain. What urgent obligation can you have if I didn’t impose it on you?” “It’s Tu’ala’keth. I promised to assist with a ceremony. Something she must do tonight, before the tide goes out.”

“Curse it, the waveservant is under my authority as well. Her wishes don’t take precedence over mine. You” Shandri caught herself. “No. I’m just being bitchy because I’m disappointed. I don’t really want you to break a promise to Tu’ala’keth. We’ll both attend her and worship as she instructs. She tells me I need to pay homage to the goddess, and here’s an opportunity.”

“I’m sorry. I wish you could accompany me, but Tu’ala’keth said I need to come alone.”

Shandri frowned. “That’s odd. Usually, she wants as many people as possible to pray and offer to Umberlee. She hates it if anyone holds back.”

“I guess it’s a special ritual. Please, stay here. Eat. The meal should be grand, so don’t let it go to waste. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

“Yes, you will. I order you to.”

He rose, she followed suit, and they embraced. She gave him a deep, passionate kiss, and it stirred him. It saddened him a little to reflect that in all likelihood, he’d never see her again.

He extricated himself from her arms, turned his back on her, and followed the floating hand: out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street.

Hanging several paces in front of him at head level, the construct led him through crowds of roistering pirates and finally into the quiet side street where he and Tu’ala’keth sometimes met. She stood waiting in the niche between the shanties. Two sea bags lay amid the litter at her feet, another indication things were happening fast.

The phantom hand blinked out of existence the instant he laid eyes on its maker. “I have our share of the Thayan treasure,” she said. “It may prove useful.”

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Did Vurgrom know where the cultists are? Did he finally give up the secret?”

“In essence, yes.”

Anton shook his head. “I can’t believe your luck.”

“Our ‘luck’ is the grace of Umberlee.”

“Then, not to quibble, but it’s too bad she didn’t give you even more of it. If everything had gone as planned, we wouldn’t be absconding so hastily.”

“Now that we have what we came for, it is time to go. But I confess, you are right. Vurgrom responded to my enchantments in a way I failed to anticipate, and he assaulted me.”

“You mean”

“I stopped him before it went very far then extorted information from him at knife point. After we parted company, I found it necessary to kill one of his underlings. Thus, it is possible Vurgrom’s folk are already hunting me. We will need to exercise caution as we make our departure.”

“Apparently so. How many of those pellets do you have left? The ones that let me breathe under water.”

“Only one.”

“Enough to let me swim or ride one of the seahorses a goodly distance from Dragon Isleand drown between islands when the magic wears off. We need to steal a small, fast boat.”

“It will be fast when I call the wind to fill the sails.”

“Good.” He stepped forward to pick up one of the sea bags, and a cry rang out.

“Men of Shark’s Blissl Of Vurgrom’s faction! I’ve found the traitors! Follow me!”

Anton pivoted to see Shandri standing on guard several yards away, glaring, dark sword shivering in her hands.

“I followed you,” she said. “I cared for you, but I’m not an imbecile, even though you played me for one, and what you were babbling just didn’t make sense.”

Anton reflected bitterly that he was the imbecile. Normally, he took care that no one shadowed him, but tonight, he’d been too busy keeping track of the ghostly hand. Whereas Shandri, with the ring that let her see in the dark, had had little difficulty keeping him in view.

“And I was wise to be suspicious,” the pirate continued. “Because, if I’m not mistaken, people worship Umberlee at the water’s edge, not in filthy little alleys.”

“All right,” he said, “I did mislead you. But I can explain.”

“Don’t bother. I heard some of what you and Tu’ala’keth had to say to one another. Enough to understand the two of you are spies. You came here to steal a secret, and now that you’ve got it, you hope to vanish in the night. Well, it won’t be that easy.” Once again, she shouted: “Shark’s Blissl Vurgrom’s men! I need you!”

“Be silent,” said Tu’ala’keth. “We have done no harm to you or your ship, and we intend none. But if you continue to shout, we will kill you.”

“‘No harm?’ What about your lies?”

“I said you can be strong, and so you can. The choice is up to you.”

Shandri sneered at Anton. “You told other lies besides that one.”

“Love is pleasant,” said Tu’ala’keth, “but it is a petty thing compared to the mastery and slaughter which are your birthright. You demean yourself by making much of it. Now sheathe your sword and trouble us no more. Otherwise, I will kill you.”

Shandri smiled. “Try.”

“As you wish,” said Tu’ala’keth. She gripped her bony pendant, started to conjure, and several men and ores came dashing around the corner and down the street. Umberlee, it seemed, was even stingier with her

“grace” than Anton had imagined. Folk were actually combing the streets for the shalarin, and they’d heard the pirate captain yell.

Sealmid was at the head of the pack, amethyst bow in hand. “You found them,” he said to Shandri. “I didn’t know you’d even joined the hunt.”

“Thus far,” said Tu’ala’keth, “you are all faithful worshipers of Umberlee. Do not offend her, lest she curse you.”

“We thaw what you did to Yuiredd,” said the first mate. “We’ll take our chantheth.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging at his hip.

Retreating, Tu’ala’keth resumed her chant. Pirates drew their blades and stalked after her.

Shandri said, “Anton is mine.” She charged.

He snatched his cutlass from the scabbard, barely in time to parry a head cut. The clanging impact jolted down his arm.

“Don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you, and you don’t really want to kill me.”

“Yes,” she said, “I do.” The dark blade leaped at him.

As they circled, he caught glimpses of Tu’ala’keth’s part of the battle. Now outlined in some sort of protective blue-green aura, she conjured a howl of sound. It staggered her foes but didn’t stop them. The next time he saw her, pirates were hacking at her, while Sealmid loosed an arrow. The shaft veered like a bird on the wing to swing wide of the archer’s comrades, turned, and struck the shalarin in the back. From his vantage point, Anton couldn’t tell whether it pierced her silverweave or not, but it knocked her lurching forward, and a broadsword slashed at her torso. Snarling, she caught the blow on the haft of her trident.

Her eyes seething with shadow like the greatsword, Shandri struck blow after furious blow, until Anton’s arm felt half-numb from the stress of parrying. It seemed impossible that anyone could hit so hard with such a ponderous blade and recover quickly enough to attack again just an instant later. He realized he’d never seen the pirate wield the living sword in actual combat, when she and it were united in their avidity for the kill. He hadn’t understood what a fearsome weapon it truly was.

She was pressing him so hard that already, it was difficult to attack or riposte, and if anything, she kept striking faster and harder, as if battle-rage were making her steadily stronger when by all rights, she should be tiring.

To make matters even worse, she was using the superior length of her weapon to good effect, keeping a measure that allowed her to attack him but not the other way around. He needed to adjust, to slip inside the critical space where his cutlass could cut and stab but a greatsword was unwieldy.

He parried repeatedly, looking for the opening he neededuntil a sweep of the dark blade snapped his own in two, leaving just a jagged stub protruding from the bell guard.

Shandri laughed and sprang at him, swinging the greatsword at his neck. He blocked with the shattered cutlassuntil the bell crumpled or broke beneath her hammering blows, it could still serve as a makeshift bucklerand snatched a dagger from his sash.

It was a pathetic weapon compared to the greatsword, especially considering that, by pushing him so relentlessly, Shandri wasn’t even permitting him to shift it to his right hand. But it was all he had left.

“I love you,” he said and, hoping the words might make her hesitate for a split second, lunged. Shandri instantly took a retreat, opening up the distance again, and the greatsword leaped at his belly. Somehow he stopped short, and the stroke whizzed harmlessly by. He blocked the next one with the broken cutlass.

Such good fortune couldn’t last. She was going to penetrate his guard eventually, most likely within the next few heartbeats. He risked another glance at Tu’ala’keth, and saw she was still in no position to help him. A couple of her opponents sprawled on the ground, dead or incapacitated, but the rest were still assailing her, and one of Sealmid’s arrows was sticking through her bloody calf.

Anton would have to save himself, and it was plain his combat skills were insufficient. He supposed that left sorcery.

The problem was magic would require him to focus his attention on the intricate business of conjuring, which was all too likely to slow his reactions as he tried to parry and dodge the greatsword. But still, it seemed his only chance.

He threw the knife at Shandri’s head, but it flew wide of the mark, and she didn’t even bother ducking. He told himself it didn’t matter. The real point had been to free up a hand. He reached into his pocket, fumbled out his bit of ram’s horn, and she feinted high and cut low. He recognized the true attack just in time to leap backward and avoid a fatal chop to the guts. Still, the dark blade sliced his arm. His fingers flew open, and he dropped the spell trigger.

The greatsword pounced at him. It was a blur now. It was like dark lightning flickering in an infernal sky. He realized he had no more time to grope for and manipulate another talisman, even if she’d permit him to hold on to it, nor could he possibly stand still long enough to execute any sort of cabalistic pass without her burying the sentient blade in his body. His only hope was a spell purely verbal in nature.

He couldn’t believe it would actually save him, but he gasped out the rhyming words. The greatsword leaped at him, and as he’d feared, with his attention divided, he failed to defend as nimbly as before. He caught the blow on the ruined cutlass, but the dark blade smashed through the battered guard and sheared deep into his arm just below the wrist.

Perhaps because of the virulence in the living sword, the shock of the blow, harbinger of pain to come, was nearly enough to arrest thought. Nearly, but he wouldn’t let it ruin the spell. He fought to maintain the cadence, to enunciate precisely, to grit the remaining syllables out.

Magic sighed through the air, and responding to the charm of opening, each of Shandri’s many bracelets and necklaces unfastened itself to drop clinking and glittering to the ground. The diamonds even fell away from her earlobes.

Anton had suspected that even if he managed to complete the spell, it wouldn’t matter. Furious as she was, she wouldn’t care when the baubles dropped off. She might not even notice.

Yet she did. Maybe it was because she so loved the jewelry or simply because she was so surprised, but she stopped attacking. She took her eyes off her adversary to glance down at the treasure strewn around her feet.

Anton rushed her.

The greatsword cut at him but too late. At last he was too close for it to threaten him. He drove the broken cutlass at Shandri’s face, half slashing with the jagged stump of blade and half bashing with what remained of the bell. He grabbed her, hooked his leg behind her, and threw her down. The back of her head cracked against the ground. He cut at her neck, and his ruined sword made a ragged cut. Blood gushed. The pirate thrashed for a moment, and she was gone.

Panting, Anton looked around. Tu’ala’keth was still fighting, the outcome of the battle still in doubt. He twisted the greatsword’s hilt from Shandri’s death grip.

As soon as he grasped it himself, a surge of gleeful viciousness washed away his weariness and the throbbing in his wounded arms. For a moment, the influx of the greatsword’s savagery sickened him, but he accepted the contamination anyway because he suspected that, in his spent and injured condition, it was only by surrendering himself to the weapon’s bloodlust that he could prevail.

He jumped to his feet and charged Sealmid. The bowman was aiming another shaft at Tu’ala’keth but must have glimpsed Anton from the corner of his eye, because he pivoted and sent the arrow streaking directly at him.

Anton should have died then, pierced through the heart. But the greatsword, of its own volition, shifted across his body and knocked the arrow off course. Anton struck Sealmid down, and felt an exultation as the blade bit deep. He jerked it free and turned to find the next foe.

After that, he lost himself in the dizzying joy of slaughter. Until only one target remained within reach. He raised the sword to cut it down.

“Enough!” said Tu’ala’keth. “I am your comrade. The fight is won.”

With that, he recognized her but yearned to kill her even so. Fortunately, though, revulsion at the cruelty welled up from deep inside him, a sort of counterweight that enabled him to push the alien passions back into the sword. He threw the weapon down, sensing a twinge of its irritation just as it left his hand.

“Umberlee has blessed us,” the shalarin continued. She knelt, gripped the arrow transfixing her leg beneath the point, and drew the fletchings through the wound. “We were outnumbered. I had not wholly recovered from my mistreatment at Vurgrom’s hands. Yet we are victorious.”

“For now,” whispered Sealmid, still lying where he’d fallen. Anton was surprised the first mate was alive, but it was plain he wouldn’t be much longer. Blood soaked his clothes from neck to crotch, and more of it bubbled on his lips.

“What do you mean?” asked Tu’ala’keth.

“Vurgrom’th thending everybody to kill you bath-tardth, not… jutht uth. Had to round everyone up, haul them out… of the tavernth, but… ” The dark froth stopped swelling and popping in his mouth.

Anton found it easy enough to complete the dead man’s thought. “But by now, Vurgrom’s got men patrolling the waterfront to cut off our escape. Curse it, anyway!” He gripped the more serious of his gashes in an effort to stanch the bleeding.

“After I heal my leg,” said Tu’ala’keth, “I will help you with that.”

“Do it fast. We need to move away from here. Somebody else may have heard Shandri yelling, or all the commotion afterwards.”

“Where shall we move to?”

“Good question, considering that the whole island hates a spy.” But wherever they went, he meant to go well armed. He stepped over the greatsword to examine one of the pirate’s cutlasses.

Tu’ala’keth rose stiffly to her feet. “Take Shandri Clayhill’s sword.”

“It clouds my mind.”

“It purifies you. When you hold it, you are truly fit to serve Umberlee. It would not surprise me to learn that some of her worshipers here on land had a hand in the forging of it.”

“Then they can have it back.”

“It is the finest weapon here. You are too shrewd to spurn such an instrument.”

He realized with a pang of resentment that she was right. He survived by his wits and shrank from using any magic that could muddle them, but in the present desperate circumstances, the greatsword might prove more useful than any lie or ruse. He still chose a cutlass, but when he and Tu’ala’keth skulked onward, he carried the living blade, drowsing in its scabbard once more, as well.

‹§›SS‹§›S SSS

Teldar gazed out over the entertainments his largess had provided, at his followers guzzling grog and ale, gnawing chicken legs and slabs of pork and beef, ogling and pawing the dancing girls, and flinging clattering dice or slapping cards down on a tabletop in a game of trap-the-badger. As the clamor attested, everyone was having a good time, and he reckoned he’d lingered long enough to play the part of a proper pirate chieftain. Now he was free to retire to diversions more in keeping with his own humor, a volume of old Chon-dathan verse and a dram of cinnamon liqueur.

He pushed back his chair, nodded goodnight to anyone who might be looking in his direction, and exited the hall. Outside in the lamp-lit gloom of the corridor, the relative quiet and fresh air, untainted by the odor of dozens of sweaty, grubby reavers packed in too small a space, came as an immediate relief.

He took a deep breath, savoring the moment. Then Anton Falloneif that was his real namestepped from a doorway farther up the passageway. Teldar reached for the hilts of his short sword and poniard, drew them, and came on guard. He accomplished it all in one quick, smooth motion, as a master-of-arms had taught him in another life, more years ago than he generally cared to recall.

“You don’t need your weapons,” Anton said.

“What are you doing here?” Teldar asked.

The younger man grinned. “Well, you did tell me I’m welcome anytime.”

“That was before Vurgrom put out the word that you and the shalarin are spies. Where is she, by the way?”

“Hiding outside. I reckoned that even if one of your people spotted me sneaking in, he might not take any notice if I just kept these hidden.” He pushed back his scarlet cape and lifted his arms, displaying torn, bloodstained sleeves and the scabby gashes inside. “But Tu’ala’keth’s harder to overlook.”

“What do you want?”

“Could we talk about it in here?” Anton nodded toward the doorway through which he’d just emerged. “It’s a nice room and more private than a corridor in a busy house.”

Teldar frowned, pondering. All he had to do was shout, and his men would come running to take Anton prisoner. Then he could question the spy in complete safety. Yet his instincts told him the intruder meant no harm, and even if he did, the pirate was confident of his ability to handle a lone assassin. So, as Anton had piqued his curiosity, why not grant him a private conversation? At the very least, it promised to be interesting.

“After you,” Teldar said.

As Anton had said, it was a pleasant room, with shelves of fragrant leather-bound logs and rudders taken from scores of prizes, framed charts from places as far away as Lantan decorating the walls, and a lanceboard with its sixty-four squares of alternating red and white. The chessmen sat neatly centered in their starting positions, ivory on one side, carnelian on the other.

“All right,” the pirate said. “You’re a spy. For Impiltur, Cormyr, or whomever. I suppose you and your accomplice have gleaned the most about Vurgrom’s business, but you’ve had ample opportunity to pry into my affairs, and the dealings of all Immurk’s Hold, as well. Should you escape to report your findings, you could do all us reavers incalculable harm. Perhaps you even know the disposition of the breakrocks, and the rest of our defenses. Maybe you’ve stolen all the secrets your masters need to launch a full-scale assault on Dragon Isle. What, then, can you possibly expect from me?”

“You’re a shrewd, careful man, and you built this fortress. Accordingly, I suspect it has an escape tunnel, with a well-provisioned sailboat at the end. If you saw fit, you could help Tu’ala’keth and me get away, and even your own followerswho, I realize, might take exceptionwould know nothing about it.”

Teldar snorted. “I could also stick feathers in my ears and squawk like a gull. But it’s unlikely.”

“Look,” Anton said, “you’re right: I am a spy. I’d deny it if I thought it would help, but I can tell the game is up. I’ve worked against you pirates for a while now. The intelligence I’ve gathered has sent your ships to the bottom and their crews to the gallows.

“But I swear on the Red Knight’s sword, this summer, I have a different target: the Cult of the Dragon.”

“Then why trouble Dragon Isle?”

“Because it was a way to pick up their trail.”

“And did you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. My next move is to make my report. Then my superiors will send a fleet to wipe the madmen out.”

“Interesting, but I’m still unclear as to why I should help you. You’re a dangerous man, and have, by your own admission, injured me in the past. It would be sensible to ensure you won’t do so again.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. But this is a unique time. Do you understand the cult’s ultimate goal?”

“To turn live dragons into undead ones?”

“Yes, and this is their moment. As I understand it, wyrms who haven’t yet contracted frenzy are scared of getting it, and changing into dracoliches renders them immune. So they’re seeking out the cult in record numbers, and the necromancers and such are making a supreme effort to transform them as quickly as possible. By the end of the year, we could have a dozen dracoliches bedeviling the Sea of Fallen Stars. Maybe more. Imagine what that would do to your business.”

“I’ve never seen a dracolich,” Teldar replied, “but from what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t be a pleasant prospect.”

“Then help me prevent it. I’m not asking you to send your own ships to fight wyrms and sorcerers. Just let me fetch the folk who are willing to take on the job.”

Teldar sheathed his weapons and doffed his slate-gray cape. “We’ll wrap the shalarin in this to bring her inside. That fin on her back will keep it from fitting properly, but it has a virtue in it that will make her inconspicuous even so.”

“Before we fetch her, I have to ask one more thing of you: Tu’ala’keth’s intentions aren’t the same as mine, and she doesn’t know what I intend to do with the information we’ve gathered. Please, don’t tell her.”

“All right, but in that case, why am I helping you, if not to visit destruction on the cultists?”

“Because we’re bribing you with a story that will make Vurgrom a laughingstock, and with all the jewelry Shandri Clayhill used to wear.”

Teldar smiled. “Well, that will be a nice bonus.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”