Corsair

TWENTY-ONE

14 Marpenoth, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

The smell of smoke still clung to Hulburg despite several days of intermittent rain. Rhovann believed it was an improvement over the customary odor of the city. He’d never cared for the cities of humankind, with their crowding, their cookfires and forge smoke, their garbage, their unwashed masses. In his more honest moments he might admit that the cool, damp air of Hulburg’s autumn was much more tolerable than, say, Mulmaster or Hillsfar in the middle of the summer-but he was not often inclined to give Hulburg the benefit of the doubt.

A shame the Black Moon hadn’t burned more of the place, he reflected as he gazed from the carriage at the street outside. Rhovann knew it ran counter to his ally Sergen’s purpose to destroy the city outright, but in his eyes it wouldn’t have done that much harm for a few blocks to be burned down. After all, each injury he inflicted on Hulburg was one more bitter draught of justice for Geran Hulmaster to savor. The wrongs Rhovann had endured at Geran’s instigation were many and great, and it might take a human lifetime to repay each one appropriately.

In the seat opposite Rhovann, Maroth Marstel frowned as they passed another burned-out building, one that had survived the Black Moon attack only to be destroyed by a fire set during rioting two days later. “We should muster a few hundred armsmen and clean out the Tailings,” the old lord muttered. “Drive those Cinderfists, those foreign criminals, out of Hulburg forever, before they ruin everything. That’s the first thing I’ll do as harmach, mark my words.”

“Everything in its own time, my lord,” Rhovann said. “First we must convince Grigor Hulmaster to step down-or force him to if he fails to see reason. After all, he is simply the wrong man for the times.”

“The wrong man for the times,” Marstel said softly. It was not his own thought, but he was so deeply under Rhovann’s dominion, he likely believed that it was.

“Do not speak of becoming harmach again. It is a secret between you and me.”

“A secret …” Marstel smiled, and his eyes took on a cunning cast. “I have a secret.”

Rhovann frowned. Maroth Marstel was not a young man, and between besotting himself with drink and a certain native lack of wits, he very well may have started along the long, confusing road that afflicted some humans as they grew old. Rhovann had used spells of compulsion and control on Marstel for months now with little concern for the innate soundness of the man’s mind. He found with no small vexation that he did not know exactly how his magic was likely to be affected by the subject’s slide into senescence-one more unpleasant characteristic of humankind seemingly designed for his personal frustration and annoyance. It might be wise for Marstel to spend more of his time out of sight of others and to adopt a pretense that the House mage Lastannor was an especially loyal, competent, and trusted subordinate who conducted most of Marstel’s business so as not to trouble the great man with needless details.

In a tenday or two that will be Sergen’s concern, not mine, Rhovann reminded himself. After all, he didn’t care what became of Hulburg after he was finished dealing with Geran. Whether Sergen succeeded in seating a puppet on the throne-such as it was in this rude little backwater-or lost control of the city as Marstel’s failing mind became apparent to all didn’t matter to him in the slightest. But just in case, Rhovann murmured the words of his domination charm and erased the childishness from Marstel’s expression.

The carriage rolled into the courtyard of the harmach’s castle, and footmen appeared to help Marstel from the coach. Judging from the other carriages in the courtyard, Rhovann guessed that they were the last to arrive. He allowed Marstel to lead the way into the castle’s great hall and trailed a step or two behind. The other members of the Harmach’s Council waited by the table, conversing with each other or studying their notes. Seated in the row behind the place reserved for Marstel as the head of the Merchant Council, the heads of the other great merchant companies in Hulburg-Sokol, Jannarsk, Double Moon, and Iron Ring-waited as well.

“Lord Marstel! Master Mage Lastannor!” the Shieldsworn guard by the door announced. The murmur of conversation in the room died away, and the various officials took their seats. Rhovann and Marstel sat down just in time to be called to their feet by Harmach Grigor’s arrival. They stood slowly, and the mage studied the ruler of Hulburg as he descended the stairs leading to the great hall. Grigor looked pale and tired, and he sat down with an audible sigh. The councilors and assembled advisors and seconds sat down as well.

Deren Ilkur, the Keeper of Duties, rapped his gavel on the table. “The Harmach’s Council is met,” he said. “With your permission, my lords and ladies, we will set aside the normal agenda and proceed directly to the urgent business of the day-the rioting and unrest in the Tailings and other poor neighborhoods.”

No one objected. Then Burkel Tresterfin cleared his throat and spoke. “I suppose I’ll speak first,” he said. “Two more buildings were burned last night. At this rate, there will be nothing left of Hulburg but ashes. What steps can we take to restore order? Can’t the Shieldsworn do something?”

“The Shieldsworn are stretched to their limit,” Kara said. Her brow was creased with a stern frown that hadn’t lifted for days. “We bore the brunt of the fighting against the Black Moon, and many of the harmach’s soldiers were killed or seriously wounded in the struggle to defend the town. The last thing we expected in the wake of the pirate raid was a full-scale revolt by the foreign laborers who have settled here in recent years. I’ve brought as many men in from the post-towers as I dare to, but until Seadrake returns with Geran’s soldiers, it’s all we can do to patrol the major thoroughfares of the town and try to keep the rioting contained in the neighborhoods east of the Winterspear.”

“Is there any news of Seadrake and Lord Geran’s pursuit of the Black Moon vessels that fled?” Theron Nimstar asked.

Kara shook her head. “None that I’ve heard, High Magistrate. We may not hear anything for many days yet.”

Rhovann chose to attack the opening Nimstar had unwittingly provided him. “So the harmach’s plan for quelling the unrest is to wait for Seadrake to return, which might be days, tendays, or never?” he asked Kara. “You have tried for days now to outwait the unrest, and it worsens every night. I think sterner measures are called for.”

“Then I need more soldiers.” Kara looked across the table to Marstel and the heads of the Merchant Council Houses behind him. “Your companies employ hundreds of sellswords. So far they’ve done nothing but guard your own storehouses and compounds. Place those armsmen under the harmach’s command for a few days, and I’ll check the Cinderfists, the Crimson Chains, and the rest of the foreign gangs. It won’t address their grievances in the long term, of course, but it should at least restore calm to the city.”

Marstel shifted in his seat. Rhovann carefully shaped the answer he intended, and willed it through the old lord’s lips. “No,” Marstel said clearly. “We will not place our guards under the harmach’s command. The time has come for the Merchant Council to take more direct action to bring an end to this chaos.”

“Direct action, Lord Marstel?” Kara asked, with a hint of suspicion in her voice. Rhovann could not really blame her for that. Marstel’s bold ideas were often stunning examples of braggadocio or folly.

“It is clear to the Merchant Council that the Tower no longer has the ability to meet this challenge,” Marstel answered. “Therefore the Merchant Council has resolved to assume responsibility for the governance, good order, and security of Hulburg. We have a list of specific demands that must be immediately enacted.”

Several of the council members started to protest, but Rhovann pushed Marstel ahead. Marstel rose to his feet and raised his voice, overriding everyone else at the table. “First, the illegal militia known as the Moonshields must be immediately banned. If we say that one gang of ruffians, vigilantes, and scofflaws is illegal in Hulburg, then all such gangs must be illegal. Since the Spearmeet is simply a thin justification for the Moonshields to meet and organize, the Spearmeet must be disarmed and disbanded as well. We can no longer accept so-called militias taking the law into their own hands!

“Second, the ill-considered ban on the Merchant Council’s employment of a Council Guard must be rescinded. The harmach refuses to safeguard our property and our rights in his domains. Very well; we intend to protect our substantial investments in Hulburg ourselves.

“Third, since the Merchant Council is obligated to see to our own security-at no small expense of our own-we renounce all existing concessions and leases with the Tower. Why should we pay the harmach ruinous royalties for no benefits other than the right to do business in Hulburg?” Marstel glowered fiercely at Grigor Hulmaster, seated above the head of the table. “If the harmach cannot protect our interests in Hulburg, we must do so ourselves.”

The chamber was still as a tomb when Marstel finished. Rhovann hid a small smile behind the ridiculous beard he wore in his guise as a Turmishan mage. Kara Hulmaster was so angry her eyes positively glowed with the tainted magic that marked her azure irises. Shieldsworn guards standing watch over the proceedings pressed their lips together tightly and glared at Marstel, well aware of how much of an insult the old buffoon had delivered to their lord.

“This is impossible!” snapped Wulreth Keltor. The old Keeper of Keys quivered with rage. “We all remember how the so-called Council Guard managed their affairs! And the concessions cannot be renegotiated!”

“I fail to see how disarming Hulburg’s law-abiding citizens and taking steps to enrich the merchant companies will help to restore order,” Deren Ilkur said. He frowned deeply behind his short, black beard. It was his task as Keeper of Duties to chair the council meetings and set the agenda, but it was clear that he couldn’t continue until the question of Marstel’s challenge had been dealt with.

For his own part, Harmach Grigor simply stared at Marstel for twenty long heartbeats, his face sagging in exhaustion. Finally Grigor gathered his strength and spoke. “And if we do not adopt these measures, Lord Marstel?” he asked in a weary voice. “What then?”

Rhovann glanced at Marstel and fixed his will on the old merchant lord. Marstel drew himself up with a pompous sniff. “Then the Merchant Council will take steps to enforce these measures ourselves. House Hulmaster has run this domain into ruin. We will not permit the Hulmasters to prevent us from saving ourselves.”

Kara Hulmaster leaped to her feet, unable to sit quietly any longer. “I have endured years of your stupidity in this chamber, Marstel, but this is intolerable! The freedom to speak your mind does not give you the authority to incite rebellion! You say that the Hulmasters have brought this town to ruin. Need I remind you that only five months ago the harmach and the Spearmeet defeated the Bloody Skull orcs not five miles from where we stand, saving your precious property-and your own worthless hide-in the process!”

“But is it not true that it was Hulburg’s appearance of weakness that invited the Bloody Skulls to attack in the first place? And the Black Moon as well?” Rhovann answered for Marstel. The mage had no idea if that was substantially true or not in the case of the orc tribe, but it was important to stake out the claim. “The Bloody Skull attack should have been sufficient warning that we can no longer afford the luxury of inaction and indecisiveness.”

More people started to speak, but Nimessa Sokol was first. “Master Ilkur, a moment ago you remarked that you did not see the relevance of the Merchant Council’s demands,” she said. “The relevance is this: If the harmach cannot restore order, the Merchant Council must. I have not been in Hulburg for very long, but my family has a substantial stake in the good governance of this realm. I wish to hear Harmach Grigor’s answer to the requirements laid before him.”

Anger flashed in the harmach’s eyes, but he kept his voice level and calm. “I will not ask the Spearmeet to disband or disarm,” he said. “Lord Marstel insists that the companies of the Merchant Council have a right to protect their lives and property. Well, so do the common citizens of Hulburg. And we saw five months ago, and again only a few nights past, the value of a large and well-armed militia.” He looked at Marstel and the merchant leaders behind him sternly. “Some allowances may be possible to meet your other concerns. But I will not give the Merchant Council the ability to enforce their own laws again. We have learned that there must be only one law in Hulburg.”

“In other words, your answer is no,” Marstel said. “We are done here, then.” The old lord hesitated, perhaps uncertain of what to do next, but Rhovann bent his will upon him again. Recovering, Marstel nodded sharply to the other merchant leaders behind him. They all stood-Nimessa Sokol with a taut frown of concern on her face-and filed out of the hall.

Rhovann waited a moment to reassure himself that the harmach’s soldiers would not attempt to detain Marstel or the others. He didn’t think it was very likely. A stronger lord, or one less concerned with the good opinion of those he governed, would not have permitted an avowed challenger to depart in peace, but Grigor Hulmaster seemed determined to avoid coercion.

After a moment, Rhovann stood as well and inclined his head to the harmach. “Forgive me, but I must go as well,” he said. “I may be Master Mage, but I am also sworn to the service of House Marstel.”

“Lastannor, you must reason with Marstel,” Harmach Grigor said. “If he flouts Hulburg’s laws, the Tower will have no choice but to enforce them. He is forcing my hand.”

“I will do what I can,” Rhovann answered. He decided that one more bit of misdirection couldn’t hurt, and added, “He is given to bold words and grand gestures, as I am sure you know. By tomorrow he may be of a different mind on the question.” He bowed again and withdrew.

On the steps outside the door, he found Nimessa Sokol attempting to confront Maroth Marstel. The young woman had her hands folded in front of her waist and spoke calmly, but her eyes blazed as she stood in front of Marstel, barring him from climbing into his coach. “You said nothing about disarming the Spearmeet before,” she said in a low voice. “I wouldn’t have agreed to support you if you’d added that to our list! The harmach can never agree to that, and you know it. Now he’ll reject our position out of hand!”

“It is a difficult time,” Marstel said in reply. “You are quite young and simply lack experience in how matters such as this are decided. Few women have much of a head for this sort of thing, you know.”

Nimessa paled in anger. Rhovann raised an eyebrow. It seemed that Marstel’s native boorishness had resurfaced at exactly the right moment to deflect the young consul of the House Sokol concession from the fact that the demands were never meant to be met by the harmach. He stepped in to mollify her before Marstel said something to anger her even more. “What Lord Marstel means is that we now have a demand we can graciously withdraw when true negotiations begin,” he said smoothly. “But that would have no value if the harmach didn’t believe that it was serious.”

The half-elf studied him for a moment. “Of course that is what Lord Marstel meant,” she said, even though her narrowed eyes and sharp tone indicated the opposite. “However, next time House Sokol must insist on being privy to any such strategy before allowing the High Master of the Merchant Council to speak for us. Your ploy may backfire on us all, with disastrous consequences.”

Rhovann forced Marstel to remain silent and bowed to the young woman. She eyed the two of them then nodded back to him and went her way. Rhovann ushered Marstel into the coach and signaled for the driver to go. They rolled out of Griffonwatch’s courtyard and descended the stone causeway winding around to the foot of the castle’s hill.

“It’ll be dark soon,” Marstel said, looking out the window. The elf mage ignored him. The old lord was quickly becoming useless, but it would be highly useful to keep a firm hand at the helm of the Merchant Council-or even in the harmach’s throne, if it came to it. With constant attention and oft-repeated spells, Rhovann could use Marstel more or less as he liked, but the elf mage hardly wanted to pass the next few months or years playing puppeteer to an old man whose mind was beginning to slip. Sooner or later it would become obvious that Marstel was no longer suited to leadership (not that he’d ever been suited, really), and all of Rhovann’s work would be for naught. No, what he needed was a sturdier, sounder, more loyal Marstel, one who could be counted on to manage affairs to Rhovann’s satisfaction without constant supervision. Unfortunately, he knew no spells that could change the sodden old boor in front of him into the man he needed.

But he did know spells that could make the man he needed.

“A simulacrum … that might do,” he mused aloud. It would be several tendays of work, but when it was done, he’d no longer need to play nursemaid to the detestable old lordling in front of him.

“Eh? What’s that you said, Lastannor?” Marstel asked.

“Nothing important.” Rhovann glanced out the window; they had arrived at the Marstel tradeyard in the heart of the harbor district. He looked back to Marstel and fixed his eyes on the old man’s. “You will return to your home, eat a modest supper, and retire for the evening. I will see to it that you are not disturbed. Sleep well.”

Marstel nodded and yawned. His chin drooped toward his chest. When the carriage stopped, Rhovann climbed out and closed the door behind him. “Take Lord Marstel home and put him to bed,” he told the footman. The fellow nodded. All of Marstel’s personal servants and guards answered to the mage they knew as Lastannor, and did more or less as he told them to, regardless of their lord’s objections. “Let no one disturb him for any reason. I will return by morning.”

“Yes, Master Lastannor,” the footman replied. He climbed back up to the carriage’s running board, and the coach trundled off into the evening drizzle.

The guards at the compound gates bowed to Rhovann as he passed between them. He ignored them, rehearsing in his mind one last time the sequence of events he’d designed for the evening. The rain continued to fall; large puddles covered the cobblestones, and a small stream had formed in the center of the Marstel compound. The elf mage ignored the steady rain and headed for the building housing the company headquarters. The day’s routine business was long over, and the place seemed deserted except for more of the Marstel armsmen. One opened the door for Rhovann and stood aside as the mage ducked through the door to get out of the damp. He made his way to Maroth Marstel’s office, which he’d appropriated for his own use.

Inside, Valdarsel was waiting for him. The Cyricist wore a plain brown hood and looked for all the world like one more driver or stoker looking for a chance to earn a living in Hulburg. “Well?” he asked. “How did it go?”

“As I expected,” Rhovann answered. “The harmach refused to accept the council’s terms. Although he indicated that he’d be willing to negotiate on some of the points, which surprises me.”

“So the Cinderfists are needed tonight?”

“They are. It shall be as we planned. Take to the streets an hour before midnight and draw out the Shieldsworn and any Spearmeet companies you can. We will take care of the rest.”

Valdarsel nodded. “So be it, then. But it would’ve been better to strike without warning. The charade of presenting the harmach with demands may only set Lord Hulmaster on his guard.”

“Whether he is on his guard or not will not matter. But it might be very important later on for the Merchant Council to be able to claim that Grigor’s intractability forced tonight’s moves. A fig leaf of legitimacy may go a long way toward convincing the townsfolk to go along with the council’s rule.” Rhovann smiled. “Well, that and immediate evidence that the council has the town’s disorder in hand.”

“Don’t worry, Lastannor. I’ll allow you to quell the mob soon enough.” Valdarsel stood up and raised his hood over his head. “Well, it seems we have much to do tonight. I must give orders for a riot, and you’ve a king to overthrow.”

“Of course.” Rhovann walked Valdarsel to the door and watched as the Cyricist hurried off into the street outside the tradeyard. Several ruffians lounging outside the gate fell in behind him-his bodyguards, or so it seemed. He did not trust Valdarsel-after all, what sort of man served a deity such as the Black Sun? — but he did trust Valdarsel to act in his own self-interest. The priest was about to become the second-most powerful man in Hulburg, free to garner riches and to reward those he deemed deserving. No doubt Valdarsel was already looking past that arrangement and planning for the hour when he’d subjugate the Merchant Council to the power of the Cinderfists instead of the other way around … but first he’d have to help the council to remove the Hulmasters from power.

“A hungry bulette on a chain,” Rhovann murmured. As long as the one holding the chain had something to feed the monster, he was safe enough.

He strode across the yard to the largest of the Marstel storehouses, this one guarded by several men in Marstel’s colors. The sellswords stood straight and touched their brows as Rhovann approached. He passed between them and let himself into the building they protected. It was half-filled with common trade goods, casks and crates of all sorts stacked in untidy rows. Rhovann moved to a spot in the middle of the floor and drew his wand from its place inside his robe. He made a simple pass in the air, and the thin outline of a hidden door appeared before him. It swung open under the touch of his magic, revealing a stairway leading down. The murmur of men’s voices fell quiet as the door opened. He descended into the room below.

In the hidden cellars beneath the Marstel storehouse, a company of hundreds of armsmen dressed for battle stood or sat, waiting. For two tendays now Rhovann had arranged for Marstel ships to quietly ferry in sellswords hired from Mulmaster and other cities, bringing the fighters in by fives and sixes and concealing them under the Marstel storehouses. Rhovann spied their captain-a big, beefy man with a mouthful of gold teeth and an iron brace fitted to one knee-and motioned the man over. “Are your men ready, Captain Bann?” he asked.

The big human nodded. “We’re armed and dressed for war, m’lord. What are your orders?”

“In an hour, a tremendous riot will strike in the heart of the harbor district. It should lure all but a handful of Shieldsworn down to deal with the fires and the looting. You are to lead the House Veruna and House Marstel soldiers to Griffonwatch and storm the castle while its garrison is absent. The House Jannarsk soldiers will seize Daggergard at the same time.”

Bann nodded. He was not a brilliant man, but he possessed a certain low cunning and a strong streak of mercilessness that made him effective as a commander of sellswords. “What of the Double Moon Coster or the Sokols?”

“I do not consider them reliable. The Iron Ring men will keep them in their own compounds until events are decided. Afterward I imagine they’ll prove pragmatic enough to come to terms with the new order of things.” And if they didn’t, well, it would not be very hard to evict them from Hulburg after the merchant Houses dealt with the harmach and his men.

“Griffonwatch may prove difficult, m’lord,” Bann said slowly. “It only takes a few men to hold a castle, and we’ve no scaling ladders or battering rams ready.”

“A small detail that I will attend to for you, Captain Bann.” Rhovann smiled coldly. Against a castle stripped of all but a handful of guards, he had no doubt that his magic could deliver the gate into the hands of Bann and his company. “Make sure you get your men to the top of the causeway swiftly once the riot begins. Leave the gate to me.”

“The harmach and his family?”

“I would prefer them taken alive. After all, there will be a new harmach in Hulburg tomorrow. It would be a shame if Grigor Hulmaster were not alive to see it.” Rhovann swept the hidden barracks room with his gaze, making sure that all the sellswords within earshot understood his wishes. He trusted servitors he created with his own hands, or minions magically compelled to do as he commanded. Common hired swords might prove corruptible or might misunderstand the orders he gave them; it was for that very reason that he grew his most capable servants in alchemical vats. Still, he knew well enough what motivated men such as Captain Bann. “Above all, do not allow any of the harmach’s family to escape. A hundred gold crowns to each man who captures a Hulmaster!”

Bann sketched a shallow bow. “M’lord is most generous,” the captain rasped.

“To a point. Do not fail me, Captain.” Rhovann held the man’s eyes for a moment and then left the sellswords to their preparations.