Corsair

THREE

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

Rhovann Disarnnyl detested his human guise. He was mortified by the unkindnesses of age, the heaviness of his sagging features, the rough whiskers on his face, and the wiry, gray hair on his chest and arms. Elves suffered none of those indignities, and in his natural shape Rhovann was a fine example ofhis graceful race. He consoled himself with the thought that his disguise was only a magical glamour he could end any time he chose with a few arcane words. But the difficulty was that crafting a persona as carefully thought out as Lastannor-middle-aged, balding, with a meticulously squared beard of iron gray and a coarse, dusky, complexion-required hours of painstaking work. The trouble of re-creating his disguise was a strong incentive to endure his altered appearance as long as he could. And there was always the risk that he’d overlook some small detail like the exact shape of the nose or whether the rounded ears lay flat by the skull or stuck out like cup handles, a detail that some observant enemy might notice. Fortunately he’d had the foresight to make Lastannor as close to his own natural height and build as possible, so that he would have one less opportunity to err. No human could really match the slender athleticism of a moon elf, but Rhovann avoided trouble there simply by shaping Lastannor’s build as gaunt and by making a point of moving with a sort of exaggerated lethargy to conceal the lightness of his step.

He was nothing if not attentive to details.

“You have a sour look to you today, Lastannor,” said Lord Maroth Marstel. The Hulburgan and his House mage rode in the human noble’s carriage, rolling through the streets of Hulburg toward the castle of the Hulmasters. Marstel peered suspiciously at Rhovann with weak eyes in a red, heavy-featured face. He was a thick-bodied, white-jowled man of sixty-five years or so, with a thick mane of hair and a broad white mustache that was yellowed at the edges by his ridiculous habit of pipe-smoking. The old lord wore a scarlet tunic embroidered with his family coat of arms, which featured a leaping stag amid a whole field of gold embellishments. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Rhovann lied, feigning a friendly grimace. “Something disagrees with me, my lord.” Of course, it was Marstel himself Rhovann found disagreeable. The man possessed a truly spectacular combination of loud bluster, oxlike wit, and ill-informed opinion. He seemed to crash through his days like a wagon rolling down a steep hill, completely insensitive to the damage he caused. If Rhovann hadn’t given himself the task of elevating the man’s fortunes, he might have looked on the whole affair with some small amusement. As matters stood, Rhovann had spent several months now soothing feathers Marstel ruffled every time he opened his mouth, and safeguarding the buffoon who sat in the carriage next to him from even greater disasters.

“You’re a scrawny fellow, and you hardly eat at all,” Marstel observed. “I can’t imagine why your stomach should trouble you. I think it’s a lack of exercise and fresh air. And not enough wine. Two good goblets a day would serve you well.” The white-haired lord nodded to himself, satisfied that he had diagnosed the problem. “Yes, that must be it. You should come hunting with me tomorrow. It’s always a good, vigorous day.”

Rhovann sighed. “I am afraid I have business to look after, my lord. But you should go ahead without me. As you say, the outings are good for you.” Marstel’s idea of a vigorous day of hunting was to be driven up to some wild field and seated in a comfortable chair while his servants did their best to drive game in his general direction. The old lord would spend the day getting drunk and loosing quarrels at anything that moved. While one might naturally assume that Marstel rarely hit anything, the man was a far better shot than he had a right to be, and he often collected a fair assortment of game. He also occasionally feathered one of his own dogs or beaters, especially late in the day after he was well in his cups. Fortunately Hulburg had no shortage of poor foreigners anxious to earn a few coins any way they could.

“Suit yourself, then,” Marstel said with a sniff.

Rhovann sighed. Now the old fool was going to be sore at him. Only a month or two more, he told himself. Endure this ox-brained fool just a little longer, and through him the fall of the Hulmasters will be encompassed. He flexed the cold metal of his silver hand-veiled under the illusion of human flesh and bone-and thought of Geran Hulmaster’s destruction. To slay Geran for the injuries he’d inflicted would be simple justice. What Rhovann craved was vengeance. No, before Geran Hulmaster died, Rhovann meant for his enemy to see all that he loved torn away from him. Only then would the scales lie in balance between the two of them. For that worthy end, a few months of tedious and unpleasant work were a trifle.

The carriage came to the causeway leading up to the castle of the Hulmasters and climbed up the roadway. In a few moments they rolled into the cobblestone courtyard inside Griffonwatch’s front gate and halted. Liveried footmen hopped down from the carriage’s running boards to open the door and set wooden steps for the passengers. Rhovann climbed out and settled into the shuffling gait that was almost second nature to him now; Marstel followed him. Several other coaches were already gathered in the courtyard, and another rolled in just behind Marstel’s carriage.

He leaned close to Marstel and gripped the old lord’s arm in his hand. Silently he brought the enchantments that bound the two of them together to the forefront of his mind and bent the power of his will on their invisible connection. “Speak only as I have instructed you,” he whispered into Marstel’s ear. “If you do not know how to answer a question, stay silent and give an appearance of careful thought. I will tell you what to say.”

The old man murmured in protest and tried to resist the enchantment’s power, but his will was no match for Rhovann’s. The wizard crushed his brief resistance without even breaking stride. Marstel stared ahead and nodded. “I understand.”

They entered the castle’s great hall, which was already arranged for the meeting of the Harmach’s Council. A horseshoe-shaped table with nine chairs had been set up in the center of the drafty old hall, facing a low dais with a large, high-backed chair for the ruler of Hulburg. Rhovann steered Marstel toward the old lord’s seat then sat beside him. In his guise as Lastannor, Rhovann himself held the post of Master Mage of Hulburg; the former Master Mage, Ebain Ravenscar, had resigned his post shortly after House Veruna’s expulsion from Hulburg and returned to his home in Mulmaster. Marstel, on Rhovann’s right, was head of the town’s Merchant Council, as well as one of Hulburg’s few native “lords”-although Rhovann found Lord Maroth Marstel’s claim to nobility dubious at best.

Most of the other councilors were already present; Rhovann studied each surreptitiously. He did not believe that his magical domination of Marstel or his own human guise were detectable by anything less than a thorough study by one skilled in the arcane arts, as long as he made sure that Marstel continued to act in character. But the consequences of being caught in his game might be severe. He paid the closest attention to Kara Hulmaster, who sat directly across the horseshoe from him. She held the seat reserved for the Captain of the Shieldsworn, commander of Hulburg’s tiny army. Kara worried Rhovann greatly. Despite her youth she was quite perceptive. Kara carried a spellscar in the form of a serpentlike sigil on her left forearm and possessed eyes of an eerie, luminous, azure hue. In many lands the spellscarred were looked on with distrust and resentment, but no one in Hulburg doubted Kara’s loyalty or skill. She was a Hulmaster and by all accounts a very formidable warrior, the hero of the Battle of Lendon’s Dike. Rhovann could never entirely convince himself that she did not see more than she let on with her spellscarred eyes, and he did not care for that feeling at all.

“The harmach!” called one of the Shieldsworn guards in the room. All of the councilors dutifully rose to their feet and waited while Harmach Grigor Hulmaster, leaning on his cane, made his way down the grand staircase of the hall and took his seat in the large chair on the dais.

Geran Hulmaster walked beside his uncle, dressed in a quilted doublet of gray and white. It did not escape Rhovann’s attention that the sword with the mithral rose on its pommel rode at Geran’s hip. His right wrist ached with a hot white pain; flesh and bone remembered the sharp bite of that sword.

Rhovann clenched his fists beneath the table. To have been maimed by the human swordmage was one thing. After all, if he’d had it in his power, Rhovann would have done the same thing to Geran during that fateful duel in Myth Drannor. But the offense that truly galled Rhovann was the fact that Geran’s exile from the City of Song had led to his own. The exquisite Alliere had not turned her heart to him, as she should have once the upstart human adventurer had been dealt with. And the Coronal’s Guard had found reason to pry into his arcane studies after his duel with Geran. They’d discovered books and ritual materials they considered unseemly for a mage of Myth Drannor. Spurned by the woman he desired, chastised for studying dark arts, Rhovann had lost more than his hand to Geran Hulmaster’s blade. And he meant to settle that account before the year was out.

Rhovann realized that he was glaring at Geran and quickly looked away. Geran had no reason to fear Lastannor, the Master Mage of Hulburg and wizard to House Marstel, but if he noticed that Lastannor glared hatefully at him, he would be a fool not to wonder why. Instead Rhovann shifted his gaze to the harmach. Grigor was a balding man of seventy-five, with weak eyes and frail health. With some care he seated himself and leaned his cane against the side of his chair. As he sat, the councilors followed suit.

“Welcome, my friends,” Grigor said. “You may proceed.” Geran Hulmaster walked over to one of the benches along the side of the hall and sat down alongside the scribes and clerks who were in attendance.

Deren Ilkur nodded and struck a small gavel to the table. “The Harmach’s Council is met,” he said. He was the Keeper of Duties, the nominal head of the council since he directly represented the harmach. Ilkur was a newcomer to the Harmach’s Council and had held his seat for only two months, since that post had formerly belonged to Sergen Hulmaster. A common-born Hulburgan who ran his countinghouse with unflinching honesty, Ilkur was a short, black-bearded man who wore a gold chain of office over his heart. “First on the agenda, the construction of the city wall,” he began.

Rhovann leaned back in his seat and waited while Ilkur efficiently ran through the various affairs of interest to the council. Most of the business was routine, and he paid little attention. In half an hour they covered brief reports about the state of the Tower’s treasury, the replacement of Shieldsworn killed or crippled during the Bloodskull war, the continuing disposition of House Veruna assets, and the growing disorder between gangs of common-born Hulburgans and the poor foreigners who seemed to collect in the town’s neglected districts. He sat up and listened more carefully to that last report; Kara Hulmaster described how several brawls had turned lethal in the last few tendays. “I frankly don’t know if I have enough Shieldsworn to keep the peace,” she added. “By my count the Cinderfists might number as many as a hundred men, and I’d wager they could turn out two or three times that number if they put a call out to all the foreigners in the Tailings or out on the Eastpoint.”

“Something must be done, Lady Kara,” said Burkel Tresterfin. A farmer of old Hulburgan stock and a captain of the Spearmeet, he was also new to the council. “Cinderfists tried to burn down the Troll and Tankard the other day! The common folk of Hulburg are at the end of their patience. If you don’t act soon, the Moonshields will take matters into their own hands. It’ll be a bloody riot.”

“Enough,” Harmach Grigor said. “We certainly can’t allow matters to go that far. Kara, find me someone who can speak for these Cinderfists, and I’ll promise to hear him out. If they will forswear rioting and violence, perhaps we can find some way to answer their grievances.” He pressed a hand to his forehead and leaned back in his seat. “We have other matters that we must discuss today. Master Ilkur, my nephew has news for the council.”

The Keeper of Duties bowed slightly. “As you wish, my lord harmach. Lord Geran, the floor is yours.”

Geran stood and walked around the table to stand in the open end of the horseshoe, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked around the table, brow creased as if he were trying to decide where to start. Then he said, “I’m afraid that other troubles are on our doorstep, good sirs. Three days ago, while riding home from Thentia, I came across a pirate vessel that had captured a Sokol ship. They were drawn up in a cove a few miles east of the ruins at Gazzeth. The pirates were plundering the Sokol cargo. They’d already dealt with all the crew and passengers, save one.” He went on to tell a tale of spying on the pirates, giving details of the pirate ship and her crew and then matter-of-factly describing his rescue of a daughter of the Sokols out from under the noses of her captors. “I can only guess that they’re lying in wait along our trade routes,” he finished. “Any ship sailing to or from Hulburg is in danger.”

“A grim tale indeed,” said Theron Nimstar. He was the city’s High Magistrate, an old servant of the harmach with a stout body, heavy jowls, and a keen mind. “You are to be commended for saving Lady Sokol. That was a bold stroke.”

Most likely the pirates were all dead drunk by that point, Rhovann thought. He knew he shouldn’t underestimate Geran Hulmaster’s talents, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if a dolt like Maroth Marstel couldn’t have saved the girl in those circumstances. Well, it was no matter. Rhovann had heard the rumors within hours of Geran’s return, so he’d expected this report for two days now, and he was ready to reply. Keeping his gaze directed toward the swordmage, Rhovann concentrated on Maroth Marstel, sitting next to him. Now, Marstel, he said silently. Speak.

“I’ve something to say,” Maroth Marstel rumbled.

Ilkur nodded to Marstel. “The floor is yours, my lord.”

The old lord rose slowly to his feet. “Piracy in our waters is intolerable! The Merchant Council demands action to protect our trade against the depredations of pirates. The Sokol ship makes five lost in the last three months. We are being ruined by these murderous attacks! The lost cargoes are bad enough, but need I remind the council that dozens-no, scores-of our sailors have been slaughtered mercilessly?” Marstel banged his meaty fist on the table, warming up to his customary volume. In truth, he needed little coaching from Rhovann in bombast; all the elf mage had had to do was throw the old fool an issue to fire his imagination. “We’re pouring a fortune into city walls to deter an enemy that we have already defeated, while we are being pillaged on the high seas! I know of three merchant companies that cannot afford to lose one more cargo. They’ll be ruined in the next attack-and if our merchant companies fail, then they’ll no longer pay the harmach to cut his timber, they’ll no longer pay the good folk of Hulburg for their work, and they’ll no longer sell their wares in our streets! Disaster sails toward us, my lords and ladies, with cutlasses dripping blood and corpses in its wake, and yet we have done nothing! So when does the harmach intend to take action?”

Ilkur did not answer immediately, nor did anyone else. Perhaps they weren’t sure if Marstel had meant the last question to be rhetorical or not. Rhovann hid a smile. The last bit about cutlasses and corpses was pure Marstel bombast; the old man had been caught up in his own topic, as Rhovann had expected he might be.

Harmach Grigor sighed and looked at the old noble. “Lord Marstel, what would you have us do?”

“Sweep these corsairs from the Moonsea, and secure our livelihood!”

“In case it escaped my lord’s attention, I do not command a navy,” Grigor answered.

“Then you must begin outfitting warships immediately. The Merchant Council insists on nothing less.”

“Navies are expensive,” Wulreth Keltor objected. He was the Keeper of Keys, the official who looked after the harmach’s treasury. Rhovann found him a sour and querulous old man. “We cannot simply wish one into existence, Lord Marstel!”

“Nevertheless, if the harmach will not see to the safety of our commerce, then the Merchant Council will take steps to do so under its own authority,” said Marstel. “It is a matter of self-defense!”

Grigor’s eyes narrowed. Clearly he recognized the danger to his authority implicit in Marstel’s threat. Only a few months ago he’d almost been unseated by the Merchant Council under the leadership of his treacherous nephew Sergen. “You are welcome to arm your ships as you like and crew them with whatever guards you can afford,” he said. “But you have no authority to act in my place, Marstel. I am charged with the defense of this realm, not you.”

“I hesitate to suggest it,” Deren Ilkur said, “but is there some arrangement that can be made? Bribing the pirates to let our ships pass unmolested might be less costly than outfitting warships to deter them.”

“That leaves a bad taste in my mouth,” Geran Hulmaster said. The swordmage shook his head. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but those arrangements have a way of growing more expensive over time. And you’d still lose ships every so often, because you can’t bribe every pirate on the Moonsea.”

“If bribery isn’t an option, then how can we best defend our sea trade?” Burkel Tresterfin asked. “Can we guard the merchant coster ships with detachments of Shieldsworn? Or do we do as Lord Marstel suggests and build warships?”

“We don’t have Shieldsworn enough to man every ship sailing from Hulburg,” Kara Hulmaster said. She leaned back in her chair, thinking. “For that matter, even if we could afford to build warships, I don’t know how we could crew them. It would take at least two or three well-armed vessels to secure the waters near Hulburg. We would need several hundred sailors and soldiers.”

“Impossible,” Wulreth Keltor said. “We haven’t the treasury.”

“So we can’t afford a navy, and we don’t believe bribery is the answer. What is left to us, then?” the magistrate Nimstar asked.

No one spoke for a long moment. Rhovann nodded to himself. Even if the Hulburgans had settled on building a navy, it would take too long and cost too much to interfere with his designs. “There are other cities on the Moonsea that maintain fleets,” he said into the silence. “Perhaps we could ask Mulmaster or Hillsfar for protection?”

“That may prove more costly than building our own fleet,” Harmach Grigor said. “If we surrender our sovereignty for the protection of a larger city, we will never recover it. I consider that the last alternative.”

Rhovann willed Marstel to silence. He’d intended to catch the harmach in exactly this predicament, forcing him to choose between embarking on an expensive and most likely impractical scheme of fleet-building or weakening his authority by begging for another city’s help. Either way the harmach opened himself to sharp criticism. The disguised elf leaned forward to speak. “In that case, my lord harmach, I must add my concerns to Lord Marstel’s. What do you intend to do?”

Grigor Hulmaster gazed at the squares of blue sky outside the great hall’s tall windows. He might have been old and frail, but he was not stupid; he could see the dilemma confronting him. “It must be a fleet, then,” he finally said. “We’ll purchase a couple of suitable hulls in Hillsfar or Melvaunt and bring them back to Hulburg for fitting out. For the crew, I suppose we’ll have to hire mercenaries.”

“Two ships may not be enough to protect our sea trade,” Kara said. “Even if you assume that each can remain at sea half the time, it’s only one ship on patrol on any given day.”

“No, I expect it is not enough, Kara. But I hope that two warships are sufficient to serve as a deterrent,” Grigor said. He looked around at the assembled council members. “I hope you all understand that the Tower must find funds for this somewhere. To begin with, I expect that rents must be raised on mining and logging concessions.”

“Proceed with care, my lord harmach,” Marstel warned. “It doesn’t matter to the Houses of the Merchant Council if they’re ruined by piracy or taxation. Ruin is ruin.”

“You demand the harmach’s protection for your shipping, but you balk at paying for the forces necessary to safeguard you?” Kara snapped. “You can’t have it both ways, Lord Marstel. Where else should the harmach obtain the funds to pay for a fleet, if not from the merchant costers that will profit by the protection a fleet offers?”

Rhovann opened his mouth to counter the Shieldsworn captain’s point, but Geran Hulmaster shook his head and turned to address his uncle. “Perhaps there is an alternative to a standing navy,” the swordmage said. “Instead of building enough warships to defend our sea trade from every possible pirate attack, we should search out the pirates’ lair and destroy them there. A single expedition of one or two ships might do as much to protect our trade in a month as a fleet of four or five ships could in years of patrols.”

“Yes, Lord Geran, but where would you start?” Deren Ilkur asked.

The swordmage shrugged. “Kraken Queen. The Moonsea isn’t that large. She can’t hide for long against a determined search. As for other pirates, we should invest in information. Spread some gold around in ports like Mulmaster or Melvaunt, hire some harbor-watchers, and we’ll know soon enough where our enemies are hiding.”

“We’ll need a ship and crew,” Kara said.

“The Merchant Council’s cargoes are at stake; they can spare some armsmen. And you can spare a few Shieldsworn, Kara. For the rest, I’d wager that we can find plenty of volunteers from the Moonshields.” Geran smiled. “As for the ship, well, House Veruna left Seadrake behind when they chose to relocate their operations to Mulmaster. She’s in need of repairs, but she could be ready to sail within a tenday.”

“You’re willing to command her, Geran?” Harmach Grigor asked.

Geran thought for a moment. “Yes, provided I get the funds I need to repair and crew the ship. I can’t promise that I’ll stop all the attacks, but if we catch a pirate or two, the rest might turn to easier prey.”

The harmach glanced over to Marstel. “Lord Marstel, does the Merchant Council find Geran’s proposal acceptable?”

Rhovann directed the old lord to strike an attitude of thoughtful deliberation while he quickly considered the question. Geran had stumbled upon a course of action that seemed reasonable and certainly did not require the harmach to beg help from another city or levy ruinous taxes against his merchants or his people. That was irksome … but, if Geran’s search proved fruitless, he would be disgraced, and the harmach could be attacked for failing to take effective action. It might be highly useful to allow Geran to chase his own tail around the Moonsea for the next few tendays. In fact, Rhovann could see to it that rumors were deliberately planted in out-of-the-way places just for the purpose of wasting Geran’s time. And he knew something about the pirates threatening Hulburg that Geran did not know. Once he considered the suggestion, it seemed that Geran had unwittingly proposed a scheme that Rhovann would have been hard-pressed to improve upon.

Realizing that Maroth Marstel had been thinking things over just a little too long, Rhovann directed the old lord to reply. “One ship is hardly a fleet, my lord harmach. But we will withhold judgment on the merits of the plan until Geran puts an end to Kraken Queen or we lose another ship to the depredations of those murderous sea wolves.”

Geran frowned, weighing the deadline Marstel had imposed on him. After all, he had no way of knowing how long he had before pirates took another Hulburgan ship. “I’ll do my best, Lord Marstel,” he said.

Deren Ilkur looked around at the assembled councilors. “Is there any other business before the council?” he asked. No one spoke up; the Keeper of Duties took his gavel and rapped it sharply on the table. “Then the Council is adjourned.”

Once again, everyone stood as Harmach Grigor rose and made his way up the stairs leading from the hall. Then half-a-dozen low conversations started as the councilors and their various advisors and assistants began filing from the hall. Rhovann watched Geran stride purposefully to the door, already speaking with Kara Hulmaster. Would it be better to help him along his way or delay him? the elf wondered. Through the Merchant Council and Maroth Marstel, he could speed his enemy’s efforts to outfit his expedition and get him out of Hulburg quickly … or he could throw obstacles in Geran’s path, keeping him mired in the effort to gather armsmen and supplies for a month or more.

If Geran sailed off with a strong detachment of Shieldsworn and Hulburgan loyalists, the harmach’s hand would be sorely weakened. That suggested several possibilities. “The sooner the better, then,” Rhovann murmured to himself.

“Eh? What did you say?” Marstel asked.

“Nothing of import, my lord,” he replied. “I think House Marstel should generously support Geran Hulmaster’s efforts to fit out his expedition. There is not a moment to lose, after all.”

Marstel nodded. “Of course! The pirates must be dealt with firmly and immediately. Delay is intolerable.”

“Just so, my lord.” Rhovann gave Geran one more long look, wondering what the fool would do if he suspected that his old rival from Myth Drannor was standing only twenty feet away, planning the success or failure of his ill-conceived venture. Then he took Marstel by the elbow and guided the Hulburgan noble to his carriage.