Corsair (5 page)

He tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks. “The Sokol tradeyard’s not far off now. Allow me to see you home.”

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

Rhovann Disarnnyl detested his human guise. He was mortified by the .K^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 of his 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 fail 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 Hulmasters 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 Hulmasters 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 Hulmasters 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.