Clandestine Circle

Chapter One

The ship sailed into Sanction Harbor on the morning tide, her sails billowing in the hot breath of the coming summer day. She was a three-masted merchantman, wide-hulled and shallow-drafted, flying the flag of Palanthas, and from a distance, there seemed nothing wrong.

The pilot, at his station at the mouth of the harbor, signaled the ship to lower her sail and wait for his approach, but the vessel glided serenely onward, totally ignoring his order. The pilot grumbled an oath and reached for his farseeing glass. He’d get the name of the ship and report her captain to the harbormaster for that insubordination. But when he trained the glass on the decks of the strange ship, his mouth fell open and his weathered skin lightened several shades.

“Cabel!” he yelled to his assistant. “Signal the harbormaster. We’ve got a runaway!”

The young man named Cabel hurried up the ladder of a high wooden tower that overlooked the teeming harbor.

From a wooden box that held a number of signal flags, he drew one made of red and yellow fabric, one so seldom used it was still creased and brightly colored. Quickly he ran it up the signal pole.

His master came puffing up the ladder to join him, and together they stared across the water toward the distant tower near the piers where the harbormaster’s apprentices received and acknowledged messages. Almost immediately a matching red and yellow flag bloomed on the far tower and a horn signaled a warning to all ships in the harbor.

“What’s wrong with that ship, sir?” Cabel asked breathlessly. “I’ve never had to run up that flag before.”

The pilot grimaced. He was an old, experienced seaman, but the ‘runaway’ or ‘ship out of control’ was a flag he had rarely seen either. “There’s no one on deck I could see,” he said gruffly. “No one at all.”

Cabel’s eyebrows rose. “A ghost ship?”

The pilot stifled a shiver at the mention of a ghost. Like many seamen, he was superstitious and firmly believed in omens and portents. “Can’t say who’s sailing her, but she’s real enough,” he replied. “Maybe the ship lost its anchor or slipped its cable. Maybe they’re all belowdecks dead-drunk.”

“With their sails out?” Cabel asked, his tone dubious.

The pilot grunted a noncommittal response. He raised the glass to his eye again to watch the strange ship cruise blindly into the bustling harbor. “A ghost ship is a bad omen, boy,” he muttered. “A bad omen. So don’t go talking about it again.”

The red and yellow flag on the harbormaster’s tower was visible to everyone in the harbor, but not everyone knew what it meant. The horn signal, though, blared from one end of the busy docks to the other, and those who heard the warning blasts paused at their work and glanced anxiously at the sky or out toward the harbor entrance.

Sanction was a city constantly alert to danger, and her citizens rarely took warnings complacently. But there were no dragons in the sky winging in to attack, no fleet of black ships at the harbor’s mouth lining up to fire a barrage. There was only one lone vessel sailing silently toward the docks. Only those who recognized the danger flag craned to get a glimpse of the runaway and, if possible, get out of its way.

Pushed by the morning wind, the ship cruised by a cluster of small fishing boats, two pleasure craft, and a large war galleon being outfitted for the city’s harbor defenses. An ore freighter, already under sail, eased out of her way. The crew of one galley floating at anchor managed to haul on the anchor chain and pull the stern of their boat out of harm’s way. They stared openmouthed as the lifeless ship slipped by their own with inches to spare.

As the Palanthian ship slid closer to the docks, the breeze in her sails dropped and the canvas sheets collapsed to slap against their masts like limp laundry. The merchantman’s course slowed but became erratic as it approached the crowded docks.

All around, heads turned to watch the ship, and those close to her held their breaths. The first impact came with a loud thud and a splintering, grinding noise as the ship side-swiped another large merchantman. She began to slow, then a gust of wind caught her sails in its clasp and sent her rushing forward directly toward the long southern pier and an Abanasian trading vessel tied alongside to unload its cargo of cattle and sheep.

The crew of the trader, Whydah, gaped at the ship bearing down on them and scattered wildly just as the runaway rammed into the broad midsection of the trader, with a crash of splintering wood. The ship’s bell clanged crazily. The impact jarred both vessels and raised a cacophony of bellows from the terrified livestock.

“Look out!” someone yelled just as the bowsprit and the foremast of the runaway crashed to the decks, bringing down yards of canvas and a tangle of ropes and shattered spars.

“Great galloping sea dragons!” roared the Abanasian captain. “What in the name of Chaos do they think they’re doing? Come on, you lot, get over there and teach them some manners.”

His crew climbed swiftly to their feet, grabbed the nearest truncheon or cutlass, and swarmed over the debris of mast and sail onto the offending merchantman. Once on board, they paused and stared around at the lifeless deck in surprise. It was hard to vent anger on people who weren’t to be found. Slowly they spread out to investigate.

The first mate made his way cautiously toward the upper aft deck and the ship’s wheel. Something large lay in the shadow at the base of the big wheel, something that didn’t look right. A bundle of laundry or bedding perhaps.

“Sir!” called one of his sailors from near a large hatch that led down to the crew’s quarters. “Over here!”

The first mate hesitated, then switched around to see what the man had found. He hadn’t gone more than five paces before the stench hit him. He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and fought the desire to gag. His sailor looked green. Pale as the sheets, the two men lifted the hatch and peered downward.

The first mate glimpsed a row of supine bodies, all hideously dead, before he knocked the sailor’s hand away and slammed the hatch shut. The sounds of retching behind him told him his own man had succumbed to the stench of rot and death, and he had to swallow hard to stifle the nausea in his gut. He wiped his streaming forehead. By the gods, it was hot.

“What about the rest of them?” he shouted.

“There are bodies over here,” replied another sailor from the doorway into the galley and captain’s quarters. “The officers and the cabin boy!”

“And here!”

“Over here, too,” other voices responded from other parts of the ship.

“Rolfe,” bellowed the captain to his first mate. “What’s going on over there? Where is the crew?”

Rolfe scratched the back of his balding head as he looked around at the wrecked merchantman. “They seem to be dead, Captain.”

There was a stunned pause, then, “All of them?”

“So far, sir.”

“I think there’s one still alive up here,” shouted one of the sailors. He waved from the aft deck and bent over the pile of clothes Rolfe had noticed earlier by the wheel. The first mate hurried up the ladder to the deck to see for himself.

A man lay by the ship’s wheel where he had collapsed, perhaps after a last desperate effort to steer his ship to safety. His skin was a ghastly yellow, like ancient vellum pulled tight over the bones of his long frame. Livid blotches of red and purple, like bruising, mottled his face, neck, and arms. Dried blood caked his nostrils and ears, and more blood oozed from his mouth and the corners of his sunken eyes. Bloody vomit stained his clothes.

It seemed impossible that this wreck of a man could still be alive, but Rolfe and his companion leaned closer and saw the faint flutter of the man’s chest. Their eyes lifted and met with a mutual look of fear.

“Is this some sort of plague?” asked the sailor nervously.

The first mate shook his head. “Not one I’ve heard of, but the absent gods only know what has spawned since their departure. We need a healer.” He rose to his feet, propelled by a sudden decision. “All of you,” he shouted to his crew, “off the ship, now!”

Relieved to get away from the death ship, the crewmen hurried back to their vessel and reported to the captain. Rolfe hesitated, torn between his desire to get off this frightening death ship and his compassion for the sick man. After a moment of indecision, he left the sick man where he lay and went in search of water and something to make him more comfortable. To his surprise, the water barrels on deck were dry. No amount of compassion would drag him into those lower decks to look for water, so he returned to his own ship to fetch a bottle.

The captain met him on the deck of the Whydah. “The harbormaster’s coming. Is it that had?”

The look on his first mate’s face was all the answer he needed.

Meanwhile a crowd had gathered on the pier to view the accident and lend a helping hand if needed. Humans, dwarves, minotaurs, a few gnomes and elves, and a swarm of wide-eyed kender waited in loudly talking groups to see what would happen next. Their shouted comments and chattering conversations combined with the lowing of the distressed cattle and the general ruckus of the docks to make a steady din of noise.

A wave of movement through the crowd caught the eyes of the captain and the first mate. They saw the tall, slender figure of the harbormaster approaching down the long stretch of the pier, followed by a contingent of the City Guard in their scarlet uniforms. The onlookers parted before them.

The first mate waited patiently while the harbormaster greeted the captain of the Whydah and briefly surveyed the damage. Carrying a flask of water, Rolfe escorted the harbormaster over the ruin of the mast and sails and onto the Palanthian merchantman. The City Guards stayed at the dock to keep the crowds off the ships.

Shaking his head in dismay, the harbormaster climbed the ladder to the aft deck and knelt by the sick man. “Is this how you found him?” he asked the waiting sailor.

Rolfe nodded without reply.

The harbormaster’s piercing eyes filled with sadness when he tilted the dying man’s head just enough to recognize his face. “I know this man. Captain Southack. One of the best.”

Rolfe was not surprised. He knew, everyone knew, the harbormaster of Sanction, and the harbormaster made it his business to become familiar with every ship and captain that plied the waters of Sanction Bay. He was a half-elf who, many years ago, before the Chaos War, had worked in the harbor as a slave under the Dark Knights of Takhisis. Now a member of Hogan Bight’s government, he was free and master of his domain.

Together the two men gently rolled the captain onto his back, lifted his head, and trickled a few drops of water down the man’s throat. The effect was instantaneous and shocking. A violent tremor shook the captain’s body and wrenched his bloody eyes open. No intelligent awareness remained in his dark gaze, only the fevered terror of madness.

A gasping, raw scream tore from his throat. “Go away!” Fresh blood oozed from his mouth. “Don’t touch me!” he shrieked, thrashing away from them.

Rolfe dropped the flask and scrambled away as if punched, his face creased with fear.

The harbormaster placed his hands on the captain’s shoulders and tried to ease him back.

The sick man would have none of it. “No. No, no, no. Don’t touch me,” he screamed again. Blood dripped from every orifice, turning his blotched face into a hideous death mask. “Poison… death… everywhere,” he panted, his eyes wild. “Stay away!”

“There’s something sensible,” Rolfe muttered under his breath. He wanted to bolt back to the Whydah, to get away from this terrifying apparition, but his pride would not let him leave the harbormaster alone.

All at once the captain’s voice fell silent. A second tremor shook through his ravaged body and left him limp and deathly still, his mouth open, his face slack.

The first mate looked at the harbormaster as he checked the captain’s pulse. “Is he gone?” A nod answered his question. Fearfully he wiped the captain’s blood off his hands. “Gods beyond, did they all die like this? What is wrong with these men?”

The half-elf stood up, his expression grim. “Do not disturb anything on this ship. I will send a healer to investigate this strange malady.”

Rolfe stood, relieved to be able to turn this tragedy over to someone else. “What about our ship?” he inquired worriedly. “We’ve got to get those cattle off, and Gilean only knows what damage has been done belowdecks.”

The harbormaster nodded his understanding. “Go ahead and unload your cargo and do any necessary repairs. The dry dock is available at the moment if you need it. We’ll check this ship and move it as soon as possible.” Leaving the dead man beneath a shroud of canvas, he strode to the damaged rail and passed on his instructions to the captain of the Whydah. Then he called to the City Guards’ leader. “Sergeant, send word of this accident to Lord Bight. He may want to investigate this himself.”

The leader of the patrol saluted smartly. He snapped an order to his patrol, and a slim, attractive woman with short-cropped red hair stepped out of rank. “Lynn, you have a horse stabled nearby. Take the harbormaster’s message to Lord Bight. He’s in the eastern fortifications, surveying the lava dike. Find him, then report back to me.”

The woman masked her pleasure of the unexpected task behind a stiff salute and a deadpan expression. Lynn of Gateway, a sell-sword, ruffian, and newly trained member of Sanction’s City Guard, would not show much enthusiasm for saddling her horse and riding all over Sanction to find the governor, Lord Hogan Bight, after a long, hot night of walking patrol through the tavern alleys of Sanction’s waterfront and harbor district. But as soon as she turned her back on the sergeant and marched up the long wharf toward town, Lynn relaxed her stiff facial mask and allowed herself to smile. Meeting Lord Bight was something she had wanted to do for a very long time. Filled with anticipation, she broke into a jog toward the stables where she boarded her horse.