Corsair (35 page)

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.

15 Marpenoth, The Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

Geran opened his eyes to darkness and cold water. His head ached, his left wrist and right knee throbbed, and when he tried to roll over, a sharp jolt in the middle of his back made him hiss in pain. Slowly he pushed himself upright, careful not to wrench his back again. All he could make out was a pale shadow over his head—most likely the hall in the ruined ace above. Rubble shifted under him as he moved, and he slipped deeper into the cold water that apparently half flooded the cellar. It wasn’t deep, no more than a foot or so, but he was lucky he hadn’t wound up with his face in the water after striking his head. He might have drowned.

“I’ve had better days,” he muttered to himself. He snorted at his own dark humor and paid the price when pain seared his back again. He winced and looked around the ruined chamber. Where in the world was he again? What was he doing here?

“Sulasspryn,” he murmured aloud. “I’m in Sulasspryn.” Seadrake was anchored out in the bay. Hamil, Sarth, and a score of armsmen were somewhere down by the pirate Moonshark on the beach—or at least that was where he’d last seen them. If the light in the room above was any indication, night had fallen in the streets above. That meant he’d been unconscious at least five or six hours, and possibly much more. Gingerly he reached up to feel his skull and discovered a big knot and some crusted blood high on the left side of his forehead. All things considered, this was in fact shaping up as one of the worst days he’d had in a very long time.

He sat up carefully, picking himself up out of the cold water and seating himself on the mound of rubble. He still couldn’t see much of his surroundings, but he decided against showing any light just yet. If there was

anything in here he needed to worry about, it would’ve had hours to do with him as it liked while he was unconscious. Instead he tried to piece together his situation. Surely Hamil and Sarth knew he was missing—if in fact they, or anyone else, had survived the fight on the beach. Obviously, they hadn’t found him yet. Either no one had been able to come looking for him, or they had no idea where he was. Both possibilities suggested that it was up to him to find his way back to the rest of the landing party, or to Seadrake if the landing party was no longer ashore. “Or to Hulburg if Seadrake has to put to sea,” he added to himself. He didn’t relish the idea of a thirty-mile walk home.

He looked around for the satchel with the starry compass. It was nowhere nearby. He scowled in the darkness and kneeled to feel around in the cold, foul water of the cellar, ignoring the aches and pains of his injuries. The compass was the whole reason they’d come to this accursed ruin—he couldn’t leave without it, not if he had any hope of rescuing Mirya and her daughter from Kamoth and Sergen! He splashed around for several minutes in the shadows before he remembered that he’d lost the satchel during his midair struggle with the gargoyle that had tried to carry him off. The compass was somewhere outside, lying wherever he’d dropped it unless something or someone had picked it up.

“Damn the luck!” he swore. Geran stood and kicked at the water, earning himself another jolt of pain from his knee. He had to find the compass before he did anything else, gargoyles or no gargoyles.

The first order of business was escaping from this cellar. Now he needed a little light. He reached down and found a small stone in the mound of rubble below the collapsed floor, and murmured the Elvish words of a light spell over the stone. A bright blue-white radiance sprang up from its surface; Geran tucked it deep into his palm and closed his hand over it, so that only a small, blue glimmer showed from between his fingers. After all, he didn’t want to give away his location to everyone nearby. By the stone’s occulted light, he studied the subterranean chamber into which he’d fallen. It was a large hall with a dozen or more thick columns, the ceiling a good twenty feet or more overhead. An old slide had ruined the far end of the chamber, leaving a wall of rubble. Some sort of temple? Geran guessed. Or perhaps a trophy room or banquet hall? It seemed strange that any of those things might be located in a cellar, but maybe the ancient catastrophe that had destroyed Sulasspryn had caused some sort of collapse here.

The only stairs he could see were choked with rubble, so Geran held up his light and studied the hole in the ceiling through which he’d fallen. He certainly couldn’t climb back up that way, not with his bad wrist and bad knee. But he didn’t necessarily have to climb. He picked out a spot in the room above, gathered his concentration, and spoke a single arcane syI lable: “Seiroch! “

The teleport spell whisked him through an instant of icy blackness, and then he was in the chamber above. He missed his footing, stumbled, and fell, wrenching his knee again—he hadn’t been able to see exactly where he was going to appear from the chamber below, and he’d picked a spot where the wreckage of old furniture littered the ground. Rain drummed down in the street outside, and scores of leaks in the roof of the old palace or temple allowed steady streams of rainwater to pour inside. That must have been the source of the water standing in the cellar below, he realized. Quickly he covered up his light again, leaving just a tiny glimmer peeking between his fingers as he stood and hobbled to the archway to peer up and down the street.

It seemed abandoned, but it was hard to be certain; the night was black, cold rain fell in sheets on the old cobblestones and broken tiles, and the wind blew in short, stiff gusts that rustled the trees and rushed through the wiry grass growing up between the ancient walls. A whole flock of gargoyles could have been standing in the street thirty yards away, and Geran wouldn’t have known it. He decided to risk a little more light, and let more of the illumination show from the stone he held. Sulasspryn in its day had been much like old Hulburg, a small city huddled around a good harbor on the north shore of the Moonsea. Most of the old buildings were made of well-dressed stone, with slate tiles for roofing and broad avenues of mortared flagstones. Unlike Hulburg, it had never been rebuilt after its collapse; no one had ever come to clear the streets of rubble, cannibalize stone from old buildings, or build atop the ruins. If the Hulmasters had never resettled in Hulburg, this is what Hulburg would have looked like, Geran thought.

He limped across the street to the place where the gargoyle had dropped him, and found the cedar tree he’d fallen through. He searched beneath its boughs for a long time, shivering in the cold and the wet, and found nothing. He allowed the light to shine brighter still and peered into the branches, wondering if the satchel had been caught somewhere higher up,

but it was not there either. “Think, Geran,” he growled. “Where did you drop it?”

He tried to recall those last dizzy moments of the fight by the beach. The gargoyle had seized him in its talons, struggling to carry him aloft. He remembered the bluffs overlooking the harbor passing under his feet in a wild whirl, then the first few buildings by the edge, looking down and seeing the satchel fall toward the ruins below. The gargoyle had kept flying inland, toward the ruined citadel in the heart of the city, carrying him along. If he had to guess, the satchel was somewhere between the edge of the bluff and the place where he’d fallen, probably not more than a hundred yards from where he stood.

Closing his eyes, he whispered the words of a minor charm intended to reveal the presence of magic nearby. He felt nothing, but that didn’t surprise him. He would have to be close to the starry compass in order to detect its enchantment in that way. Unfortunately, he had no other method for locating the compass besides groping through the rain and darkness in the hopes that he might physically stumble over it. The best thing to do would be to retrace the gargoyle’s dizzying flight over the ruins as best he could, stopping frequently to repeat the minor divination. But even that would be nearly impossible, because he wasn’t sure exactly which way he’d come before, and even if he were, he couldn’t cut directly over the intervening ground. He’d have to find avenues that led back in the way he wanted to go without diverting him too far from the gargoyle’s path.

“Or would it be wiser to remain here and wait for a rescue party?” he muttered to himself. He had no idea if Seadrake was still in Sulasspryn’s harbor or not. He didn’t think they would have left without him, but if the monsters had driven them off, Hamil and Sarth might have had no choice but to flee. They’d seen him carried off by the gargoyle, after all; they might very well assume that he was dead. Geran sighed. It was all too likely that he was stranded in Sulasspryn, alone and injured. In which case, the sooner he recovered the compass and made his way out of the ruins, the better off he’d be. He set out cautiously in the direction he guessed was most likely to lead him toward the place where he thought he’d dropped the compass.