The Reaver

CHAPTER TWO

Anton awoke lying in the dark with no idea where he was or what had happened to him. He only knew his head was throbbing and he urgently needed to throw up.

Instinct warned him he mustn’t stay on his back lest he end up choking. He tried to roll over onto his side, but something prevented it. In his blind confusion, he couldn’t tell whether it was simply that the agony in his head made him spastic or if something external restrained him.

He strained and finally flopped over just in time to retch out the contents of his stomach. Then he passed out.

When he roused again, it was to a telltale rolling beneath him and light shining through his eyelids. Squinting, he discerned that the glow came from a storm lantern in Naraxes’s upraised hand. They were in the cramped hold of the Iron Jest. The lanky first mate stooped to avoid bumping his head.

Anton’s hands and feet were tied, which had likely contributed to the difficulty he’d experienced turning over. Stedd Whitehorn, the boy prophet, was a few steps away and bound in a similar fashion.

Anton wanted to talk sitting up as opposed to lying in a sticky puddle of his own puke, but when he tried to lift himself, the pain in his head, which had subsided to an almost-tolerable ache, exploded back into full-blown pounding torture. “By the Maiden’s kiss,” he gasped, tears blurring the lantern light, “how many times did you bash me?”

“Just three,” Naraxes said. “Just until I was sure you were out. But then the men kicked you around and stamped on you.”

“Why? Why mutiny at all when I’ve led you to dozens of prizes and we’d just seized the biggest one of all?”

Naraxes hesitated as though he might be feeling the slightest twinge of guilt. “I didn’t plan it. I just … lost my temper, and it went on from there. But it’s been coming for a while. You throw our lives away and laugh as the corpses pile up.”

“Maybe no one ever told you this, but a pirate’s trade is inherently dangerous. And I never required anybody to run a risk greater than the ones I ran myself.”

“Still, we’ve followed you as far as we care to.”

“So why let me claim a captain’s share of the price on the young preacher’s head? I follow that much of your logic. But why bring me back aboard? If you’re all so disgruntled, why not finish me off? Or leave me to the pig farmers?”

“You’ll remember the gale you insisted on sailing through. There’s a chance it’s still blowing, or that another will rise, and if we give a life to Umberlee, maybe she’ll show mercy to the rest of us.”

Anton snorted. It made his head throb. “A little treachery is one thing, but now I’m truly disappointed in you. You’ve spent too many years at sea to believe you can bribe the weather, by tossing people overboard or otherwise.”

Naraxes frowned. “Maybe I didn’t always believe it, but I’ve changed along with the world. You haven’t, and that’s another reason to get rid of you. Only captains who truly revere Umberlee-and the crews that follow them-will prosper in the days to come.”

“And reverence involves more than hunting someone down and trading him for a heap of Evendur Highcastle’s gold. Fair enough. But maybe it’s not too late for me. Perhaps you, with your deep understanding of spiritual matters, could instruct me in the mysteries of your faith.”

Naraxes smiled a crooked smile. “Why settle for a mortal teacher when you’ll meet the goddess herself soon enough?”

“Are we absolutely set on that? What if we don’t run into a storm?”

“Then a sacrifice will show our gratitude and keep you from reaching Pirate Isle alive to complain you were ill used. The goddess knows, you have no friends there, not as such, but even so, other captains might object to a mutiny.”

“And here I was consoling myself with the expectation that all Immurk’s Hold would mourn my passing.”

“Not likely. But it still seems easier all around if people believe the pig farmers killed you. Make your peace, Captain. We’ll come and fetch you when it’s time.”

Naraxes turned, hung the lantern over his arm, and climbed the ladder that ascended to the main deck. The hatch creaked open, thumped shut, and utter darkness swallowed the hold once more.

“Well,” Anton murmured, “that could have gone better.” He tried to bring his feet and the hands tied behind his back together.

Pain stabbed down the length of his body. Until this moment, the hammering in his head had masked the full extent of his injuries, but now they announced themselves enthusiastically. He had broken ribs and a broken collarbone for certain, perhaps a broken hip and knee as well, and bruises and swelling everywhere.

But he’d always been strong and limber, and he couldn’t afford to let the damage stop him. His breath rasping between his teeth, he strained uselessly until the self-inflicted torture wrung a cry out of him, and he had no choice but to relent.

Panting, he gathered the resolve to try again. Then he heard something sliding and bumping in his direction.

Still addled with pain, he needed a moment to remember his fellow captive and infer that the boy was crawling toward him. “What?” he croaked.

“I can help you,” Stedd answered. “Just stay still.”

Anton wasn’t sure exactly why the boy wanted to help him, but in his current circumstances, he didn’t care. He drew breath to instruct Stedd, and then small fingers brushed his forearm.

Surprise kept him from speaking as he’d intended. Stedd’s touch was warm, but somehow, not in a way that suggested fever. Rather, the warmth felt right, natural, or at least that was as close as Anton could come to describing the sensation.

“The Morninglord gave me a lot when I was using it to help the village,” said the boy. “I don’t know how much more I can pull in right now. But whatever I get, you can have.”

For a breath or two, nothing more happened, and Anton wondered how, without alienating him, he could convince Stedd to stop playing at being a holy man and do something practical. Then the child gasped, and the warmth in his fingers surged up Anton’s arm and into the core of his body, while red and gold light washed across the hold. Because he and his fellow prisoner were lying back to back, Anton couldn’t see the source of the glow but assumed Stedd was creating it somehow.

The tingling warmth and the light faded together, and as they did, Anton realized his many pains were dwindling, too. Even when he stretched, twisted, and pulled against his bonds, the resulting discomfort was insignificant compared to the torment he’d suffered mere moments before.

“By the fork,” he murmured.

“You should thank Lathander,” panted Stedd, a touch of childish exasperation in his voice, “not call out to his enemy.”

Folk had gotten out of the habit of thanking Lathander since the god had supposedly disappeared a hundred years ago, but Anton saw no profit in remarking on it. A theological discussion wouldn’t get him untied. “If you say so. Now hitch down until you can reach the top of my left boot. Unless my shipmates searched me very thoroughly, there’s a skinny little blade riding in a hidden sheath. Pull it out.”

Stedd fumbled at the task for a while. Then he said, “I found it, but I can’t get it! They tied my hands too tight. My fingers are numb!”

“Never mind,” Anton replied. “Roll back out of the way and let me do it.”

This time, he managed to contort his body into the necessary position but then discovered his fingers were dead and clumsy, too. As he repeatedly tried and failed to extract the blade, he wondered why the power that had fixed his battered head and body hadn’t relieved him of this impediment as well. Maybe it enjoyed spurring men on with false hope and the frantic, futile struggles that ensued.

But his own struggling wasn’t futile, or at least not yet. Finally, his thumb and forefinger pinched the end of the knife hilt-really, just the portion of the needle blade that lacked sharp edges-and slid it forth.

He reversed the blade and sawed at the loops of thick, coarse rope constraining his wrists. With the knife in such an awkward attitude, it was impossible to bring any strength to bear. He had to rely on persistence and the keenness of the blade, and they seemed unlikely to get the job done before Naraxes and the other pirates came for him.

But eventually, one strand parted, then another, and then the remaining ones felt looser. Anton set down the knife and struggled to pull his wrists apart. That loosened the coils a little more, and he managed to drag his right hand out of them.

A moment later, his hands stung as though he’d stuck them into a nest of hornets. Teeth gritted, he rubbed them together to restore the circulation as quickly as possible, then picked up the knife and cut his feet free.

“That’s got it,” he whispered, “I’m loose. Speak up and show me where you are.” He’d lost track of the boy’s precise location while he was squirming and writhing around.

“Here,” answered Stedd.

Anton crawled to him, and, working by touch, cut him free. The boy hissed as he too suffered the pain of returning circulation.

“That will pass in a moment,” Anton said, “and then we need to go.”

“Where?” Stedd asked.

“The only place there is to go. Up on deck.”

The boy hesitated. “Aren’t the pirates up there?”

“A couple, certainly, but most of them are in their berths asleep.” Or at least Anton hoped so.

“But not all?”

“This is our one chance to get off the ship, and it’s death for you to stay. Do you understand that?”

Stedd took a long, audible breath. “Yes. And the Morninglord will look out for us.”

“I’m looking out for us. Follow my lead and we have a chance. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Anton still had his bearings and thus experienced no difficulty guiding his charge to the ladder. “Wait here until I signal for you to come up,” he whispered. “Then do it quietly.”

Anton then climbed high enough to crack the hatch open and peek out. Nobody waited on the other side to shout an alarm or jab a spear in his face, so he scuttled on out into the cold, clattering rain, crouched down behind the main mast and the shrouds supporting it, and took a better look around.

He’d inferred from the absolute blackness in the hold that night had fallen, and it wasn’t all that much brighter in the open air. The ever-present cloud cover blocked moon- and starlight even more thoroughly than it did sunshine. Still, he could make out enough to decide that his optimistic assumptions had been correct. Except for a helmsman on the quarterdeck and the lookout in the fighting top halfway up the foremast, the weary and decimated pirates were resting below deck.

For a heartbeat, he wondered if it might be possible to catch them all by surprise and somehow coerce them into putting him back in command. Then he snorted at his own foolishness and turned his thoughts to the practical question of how to escape the ship.

He had no way of determining the caravel’s precise position but assumed it had traveled too far for him and Stedd to swim ashore. Even in the unlikely event that he could make it, a child never would. They’d fare better in one of the ship’s boats, but he could see no way to launch one without somebody noticing. Unless, that was, no one on deck was in a state to notice anything.

Head bowed and shoulders hunched, he shuffled astern and climbed the companionway to the quarterdeck. When he did, he saw that the current helmsman was One-Ear Grim, a stooped, grizzled fellow whose nickname was something of an exaggeration. He’d lost only the top half of his left ear when someone bit it off in a tavern brawl.

Likely tired of standing alone in the rainy night, One-Ear Grim gave the newcomer a sour look. Then his eyes snapped open wide as he registered who’d joined him at his post. He sucked in a breath and snatched for the cutlass hanging under his cloak.

Anton rushed the other pirate and thrust the narrow-bladed knife into his throat. One-Ear Grim stiffened with his warning cry unvoiced and his weapon only halfway clear of the scabbard. Anton stabbed him twice more, and then the helmsman’s legs buckled and dumped him on the deck.

Anton peered down the length of the caravel. As best he could judge, the lookout was still gazing out over the bow, not back at the stern, and hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

Anton appropriated One-Ear Grim’s mantle, cutlass, dirk, coins, and baubles and manhandled the dead man’s body over the rail. Then, still trying to look like he was in no hurry, he returned to the hatch, lifted it, and beckoned.

Stedd swallowed and gave a jerky nod. Despite the powerful magic he’d worked earlier, at the moment he looked like a scared little boy, not anyone’s idea of the agent of a deity. But he climbed the ladder without needing to be coaxed.

Anton pulled the child close and wrapped one wing of his stolen cloak around him to conceal him. “Now we go astern.”

“What?” Stedd asked.

“Up into the back of the ship.”

The jolly boat hung from davits. Anton discarded the tarp that covered it, helped Stedd clamber in, and swung himself in after him. He then untied a pair of knots and let out the lines they’d secured. It was ordinarily a two-man job, but he managed to lower the small craft without simply dropping it into the sea.

Impelled by the moaning wind, the dark mass of the Iron Jest quickly receded from the jolly boat. Stedd watched it for a moment, then gave Anton a grin. “We did it!”

“Not yet,” Anton replied. He lifted an oar from the bottom of the boat and set it in a rowlock. “Now comes the hard part. I row, and when the boat starts to fill up with rain, you bail.”

As the night wore on, Anton discovered exactly how hard the hard part was. His back, shoulders, and arms ached. His hands blistered, and then the blisters broke. But, breath rasping, teeth gritted, he kept hauling on the sweeps, and when a trace of dawn filtered through the clouds on the eastern horizon, the light revealed a stretch of shoreline.

He smiled. But his satisfaction gave way to dismay when he saw that Stedd had set his bailing bucket back in the bottom of the boat and was staring at the eastern sky, whispering.

Anton was no priest, but like most people, he understood that folk with a connection to a supernatural power renewed their abilities through prayer and meditation. Judging from appearances, Stedd was doing that now.

If not for the boy’s magic, Anton would still be lying broken and bound in the belly of his former ship, but that didn’t mean it would be wise to allow Stedd further access to his talents. A prisoner who lacked the ability to cast spells was apt to prove less troublesome than one who could.

Yet it was also true that since fleeing the caravel, Stedd had seemed increasingly at ease in Anton’s presence. Perhaps it was because a frightened child needed someone to trust, despite excellent reasons to the contrary. At any rate, if Stedd failed to grasp that his fundamental circumstances hadn’t changed, perhaps it would behoove his sole remaining captor to keep him confused as long as possible. That too might make him easier to manage.

If that was the tack Anton intended to take, he needed an excuse for interrupting Stedd’s prayers. He thought for a moment then barked, “Keep bailing!”

Startled, the boy jerked around to face him. “I’m supposed to pray at sunrise. And you take little rests every once in a while.”

“I forgot you’re a landlubber. Otherwise, you’d realize the boat’s sprung a leak. We need one last long, hard push or we’ll sink before we make it ashore.”

Stedd looked down at his feet. Fortunately, with the rain constantly replacing the water he scooped out, it certainly looked as if the clinker-built hull might be leaking, and with a resolute scowl, he grabbed the pail again.

Stifling a grin, Anton took a fresh hold on the oars.

Not long after dawn gave way to morning, the jolly boat ran aground several paces away from a strip of mud and weeds, and the two fugitives waded the rest of the way ashore. Anton was poised to grab the boy if he tried to run, but there was no need. Stedd just looked around with a dazed expression that suggested he couldn’t believe they’d actually reached land. Or that he was too exhausted to think or do anything more at all.

If it was the latter, Anton could sympathize, but he mustn’t allow himself to slip into a similar condition. He scanned the gray, heaving sea and then the desolate shore with its windblown grasses and scrub pines slumped and dripping beneath the weight of the rain. To his relief, no threats were in sight. Not yet.

“Rest,” he said. “On the ground, if you like, although if you’re like me, those benches gave you your fill of sitting. Just don’t fall asleep. In a little while, we need to look for food and shelter.”

Stedd peered back, and Anton was struck again by how blue the captive’s eyes were even on another dismal day. “Good,” said the boy at length, “I’m hungry. But then what?”

“You mean, what am I going to do with you?”

“Well … yes.”

“You know I’m a pirate,” Anton said, “and I meant to collect the bounty on your head. But I give you my word, that was before you saved my life.”

Stedd smiled. “The Morninglord told me to.”

“So I could help you escape, I imagine. Anyway, you and I are comrades now-shipmates, thanks to our noble vessel beached yonder in the surf-and shipmates don’t betray one another.”

As soon as the words left Anton’s mouth, he remembered that Stedd had only recently witnessed multiple demonstrations to the contrary. But likely punchy with fatigue, the boy gave every indication of taking the ludicrous statement seriously.

“Then will you go on helping me?” Stedd asked. “Can you help me go where I need to?”

“Where’s that?”

“Sapra.”

Inwardly, Anton winced. As a notorious reaver, he had nooses and worse awaiting him all around the Sea of Fallen Stars, and seldom did he permit the threat of them to deter him from plying his trade. But for the most part, he steered clear of his homeland; folk there recalled him with a special hatred.

Fortunately, he had no actual reason to take Stedd all the way to Sapra or anyplace else in Turmish. But he might as well say he would. Because then the boy would willingly accompany him on a trek east.

East made sense because Teziir lay in the opposite direction, and the city-state’s patrols would still be on the lookout for sea raiders. Besides, if Anton failed to procure a ship or sailboat capable of reaching Pirate Isle before he came to Westgate, he could surely find one there. Westgate was a major port, and like any outlaw worthy of the name, he had contacts among its thieves’ guilds and criminal fraternities.

“Yes,” he lied, “I’ll take you to Sapra. After all that’s happened, I owe it to you.”

Umara tapped on a hatch carved with a scene of a Thayan fleet vanquishing an anonymous enemy armada. She wondered how long ago the naval victory had happened or if, in fact, it had ever truly happened at all. As she and Evendur Highcastle had discussed, Thay, for all its might, had never been much of a naval power, and its history was less than replete with glorious triumphs at sea.

“Come in, my friend,” Kymas called.

She did and immediately had to detour around a folding screen positioned to block out every trace of sunshine. Even the sad, wan excuse for daylight currently sifting down amid the rain could sear a vampire’s skin like flame.

Someone had secured the storm covers so the portholes couldn’t admit any light, either, and only the greenish glow of cool magical fire illuminated the cabin, but that sufficed to reveal the clutter. Kymas hadn’t required the displaced captain to remove his possessions before bringing in his own. A rack of staves stood shoved up against a suit of half plate on a stand like the bars of a torture cell; a spindly, jointed figure resembling an unstrung marionette made of black and scarlet metal sprawled across the lid of a sea chest; and volumes of arcane lore were jammed into the little bookshelf alongside rutters and a manual of naval regulations.

Tall, slender, and so pale that the viridian light turned him green as well, Kymas sat gazing at the end of his arm. There was no hand sticking out of the voluminous crimson sleeve of his robe, just wisps of vapor.

Umara had watched her master practice the trick a hundred times but still didn’t see the point. What use would it ever be for Kymas to turn a portion of his body to mist while keeping the rest solid? Perhaps it was simply a pastime for idle moments.

He smiled at Umara, and the fog congealed into long, tattooed fingers and a thumb. “Have we left the harbor?” he asked.

“Yes,” Umara said, “and the captain says no other ship followed us.” From what she understood, it wasn’t unknown for the marauders of Pirate Isle to cheerfully conduct business with outsiders who risked dropping anchor there, then attack them when they sought to depart.

“I doubted anyone would,” the vampire replied, “given that we’re supposedly carrying Captain Highcastle’s answer to our lord and master. Still, it’s helpful to be sure. It frees us to focus on the business at hand.”

“We’ll need to focus,” Umara said.

Kymas arched an eyebrow, or rather, the smooth bit of alabaster skin where an eyebrow would be if, at some point during his mortal life, a barber hadn’t permanently removed it. “That sounded grim. I trust you aren’t having second thoughts about the plan that your own audacity made possible. Because I agree it’s a better bet than trying to abduct the Chosen of Umberlee.”

“That doesn’t mean it will be easy. The church of Umberlee is already hunting for this Stedd Whitehorn. So are scores of pirates and, I’m sure, other knaves who hope to sell him to Evendur. Somehow, we need to find the boy ahead of all of them.”

“And so we will. Watch and learn.”

The undead mage snapped his fingers, and, clinking, the faceless black-and-red metal construct reared up from the lid of the sea chest. It then leaped to the top of a small table and proceeded to clear it, jumping to the floor with one item, setting it down, then springing back up for another.

Meanwhile, Kymas extricated a rutter from the bookshelf. He flipped through the first several pages, then put the book down on the table open to a chart showing the Inner Sea in its entirety.

“Now,” he said, drawing a silver lancet from one of the many pockets in his ornately embroidered wizard’s robe, “I need just a drop or two of mortal essence.”

Inwardly, Umara flinched, but only inwardly. She gave him her left hand, and he pricked the tip of her middle finger. Nearly black in the greenish light, a bead of blood welled out.

Inhaling deeply-smelling the dollop of liquid life he’d just released from Umara’s veins-Kymas stared at the bead long enough to give his lieutenant a pang of apprehension. Finally, however, he moved her hand over the open book and squeezed her finger below the tiny puncture. Drops of blood pattered down onto the map, and then he let her go.

Pinching with the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, Umara applied pressure to stanch the bleeding. All right, she told herself, it’s over, and you’re fine. Now do what he told you: watch and learn.

Kymas fixed his steel-gray eyes on the rutter and placed his hands just in front of and to either side of his face. It was a posture that always reminded Umara of a draft horse wearing blinders, but it was actually called the Window, and it was used for spying out that which was hidden.

Kymas then growled and hissed an incantation in the tongue of Thanatos, the Belly of Death, the layer of the Abyss where Orcus, Prince of the Undead, held sway. Now that liches, ghosts, and their ilk controlled the councils of the Red Wizards, the language had come into fashion for many sorts of magic, and Umara had perforce mastered it even though simply listening to it made her lightheaded and queasy.

It had an effect on Kymas, too. His upper canines lengthened, and his eyes became chatoyant, flashing in the emerald light like mirrors.

As his recitation continued, he invoked Orcus and the demon prince’s vassals Glyphimbor, Sleepless, and Doresain the Ghoul King. He called on Kiaransalee and Velsharoon as well, extinct powers whose names nonetheless still exerted pressure on the fabric of All. Meanwhile, the sprinkled spatters of blood crawled toward one another like slugs.

As their paths converged, they fused together into a single writhing blob, which ultimately reared up in the form of a tiny humpbacked imp with stunted wings. The miniscule demon cast this way and that like a hound trying to pick up a scent, then scuttled across the map to the western stretch of the southern shore. There, it pointed repeatedly, jabbing with a clawed finger.

Kymas smiled. “The Black Lord is smiling on us. It won’t take too long to reach that stretch of coast.”

The blood imp looked up at its captor and gave a little cry like the cheep of a chick. There were no words in it, but no experienced mage would have needed them to understand what the creature wanted. It had done its summoner’s bidding and now wished to return to the underworld.

“Later,” Kymas told it, “when I have the child in my hands.”

The captive spirit howled-which still sounded more like cheeping than anything else-and shook its fist. The vampire put an abrupt end to its tantrum by flipping the rutter shut and squashing it inside.

“Even spirits as lowly as this one will test you,” Kymas said. “Never tolerate their impudence. Or defiance from any underling, come to think of it.”

“Thank you for giving me the benefit of your wisdom,” Umara said. “I’ll tell the captain where we need to go.”

“In a moment,” the vampire replied. “First, I need your help with something else.” He held out his hand, and her heart started thumping because it was clear what he wanted.

She felt a witless urge to remind him he had a ship full of servants he could use to slake his thirst but knew it would do no good. She was the mortal whose blood he’d seen and smelled with the vileness of the Abyss reverberating through his mind, and she was the one he craved.

She steeled herself with the certainty that he wouldn’t kill her. Even in the grip of his thirst, he had a wizard’s self-control, and she was useful. Nor would he transform her into a thing like himself. In his eyes, she hadn’t earned it yet. Then she tugged her cloak and robe away from her throat and went into his embrace. There was nothing else she could do.

“I knew the trick had worked,” Anton continued, “when I heard a great scraping and grinding, the Sembian ship lurched to a sudden stop, and her crew went staggering across the deck. Some even tumbled over the rail. As I’d hoped, the fact that they drew a finger length more than we did made all the difference. They had to stay hung up on those rocks and watch the Iron Jest sail away into the night.”

Stedd grinned. “Tell another story.”

“I can’t think of any more,” Anton lied. When he’d decided to play the part of the boy’s friend as opposed to his captor, it hadn’t occurred to him that the role would involve providing entertainment.

In fairness, he could scarcely blame the lad for seeking some distraction from the misery of trudging mile after wet, hungry, weary mile. Look as they might, they could find nothing growing wild that looked edible, nor even a forsaken cottage or shepherd’s lean- to to provide a respite from the cold, stinging rain. The only structures that came into view were offshore, where the thatched rooftops of drowned villages resisted, for a little while longer, the shoving and dragging of the surf.

But curse it, Anton wasn’t some wandering busker, and he was miserable, too. Too miserable to chatter endlessly for a child’s amusement.

Stepping around a mud puddle, Stedd said, “Then what about things that happened to other pirates? There are a lot of you, aren’t there?”

“I thought you were supposed to be holy,” Anton growled. “Are you even allowed to enjoy tales of cutthroats preying on innocent folk?”

Stedd blinked. “I … I’ve liked tales of pirates and outlaws ever since I was little. Since long before Lathander spoke to me. Do you think it’s bad?”

Anton reminded himself that he was trying to keep the child calm and cooperative, not upset him. “No, there’s no harm in it. I doubt a few stories will twist you out of true.” He smiled a crooked smile. “When I was your age, I relished tales of the brave heroes of the Turmishan navy hunting down fiendish pirates, so plainly, their influence was minimal.”

Stedd mulled that over for several paces. Then he said, “Tell one of those stories.”

Anton scowled. “Curse it, lad,” he began, and then saw the boy had stopped listening to him.

That was because the landscape ahead had snagged his attention. Anton knew little about farming. He’d spent his childhood in Alaghon, the capital of Turmish, and his adult life at sea. But now that Stedd had drawn his attention to it, even he could see a difference between the terrain they’d covered since coming ashore and what lay before them.

The marshy fields at their backs were either abandoned or had never known cultivation in the first place. Up ahead, somebody was still trying to grow barley and peas, even though the combination of meager sunlight and relentless, battering rain made both crops look anemic.

“Good eye,” Anton said. “Someone still lives hereabouts. Farther along this very trail, I imagine.” He drew his new cutlass an inch to make sure it was loose in the scabbard, then slid it back. The curved brass guard clicked against the mouth of the sheath.

Stedd frowned. “Why did you do that?”

“I have some coin, and I’ll buy food and a cloak for you if the folk up ahead will sell them. But I’ve heard reports of people hoarding food who won’t part with it at any price.”

The boy frowned. “We can’t just steal it.”

Clearly, Stedd was in little danger of growing up to be a pirate. “Aren’t you an important person?” Anton asked. “Don’t I need to get you to Sapra, no matter what it takes?”

“It … it doesn’t work like that. I’m not special, just my work is, and anyway, you can’t walk the wrong path and get to the right place.”

“Whatever that means. Look, I’m not an idiot. I’d prefer not to have to take on the task of terrorizing an entire hamlet all by myself. Why don’t we just walk on and see what we see?”

The boy nodded. “All right.”

As they advanced, the village gradually took shape amid the rain. The rising waters of the Inner Sea had nearly encroached on its northern edge, and a few small boats were beached there, but nothing capable of weathering serious storms, eluding the Iron Jest, and reaching Pirate Isle. If the locals had ever possessed a proper fishing vessel, they’d lost it in the upheavals of the last few years.

Closer still, and Anton caught the clamor of raised voices. Though it was difficult to make out words amid the hiss of the rain, he didn’t think he and Stedd were the cause of the excitement. So far, he could see no sign that anyone had spotted their approach. Still, he made sure the boy prophet walked behind him, lest he lose Evendur Highcastle’s bounty to a nervous peasant’s sling stone or javelin.

The noise subsided to a degree before Anton peeked warily around the corner of a house and found its source. Maybe that was because the gaunt, white-haired woman slumped in the grips of two strong men had screamed pleas and vilifications until her voice gave out. Now she simply watched with tears steaming down her wrinkled face as a line of her neighbors carried a stool, a spinning wheel, garments, a wilted-looking cabbage, and some ceramic jars that likely held preserved or pickled foodstuffs out of her cottage. An Umberlant priest armed with a trident and wrapped in a blue-green mantle patterned to resemble fish scale watched the despoliation, too, but his square, middle-aged face with its wide mouth and fringe of beard wore a smirk of satisfaction.

Anton’s mouth watered at the sight of the food, but the presence of the waveservant interested him even more. Had the cleric heard about Stedd? Did he know that the new leader of the church of Umberlee wanted him?

Unfortunately, it was possible that even a priest in this obscure little settlement knew about every aspect of the situation, the bounty included, and would be happy to claim every copper of it for himself. After being betrayed once, Anton was reluctant to seek help from anyone else who might do the same. He needed to find his own way back to Immurk’s Hold and deliver Stedd to Evendur Highcastle with his own two hands.

He wondered if the waveservant would recognize the lad on sight. Maybe, their hunger notwithstanding, it would be wiser to withdraw and-

Stedd rendered such deliberations moot by darting around Anton and out into the open. “Stop!” he cried, his child’s voice shrill.