Richard Byers - The Reaver

Anton stopped in front of a door decorated with a picture of a golden helmet topped with a crimson plume. Or at least, the colors might have started out as vividly yellow and red. Now, the paint was so faded and flaking that it was difficult to be certain.

The pirate said, “Wait here. Keep your hood up and don’t talk to anyone. Understand?”

“You’re going inside?”

“To procure our transportation.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“It’s better if you stay put.” Anton squeezed Stedd’s shoulder, then turned and opened the door. Voices murmured from the dimness beyond until the Turmishan slipped inside and closed the door behind him. After that, there was nothing to hear but the rain drumming on rooftops and cobblestones.

Stedd took shelter under a pawnbroker’s eaves and leaned against a grimy brick wall. While trying not to be obvious about it, he watched the visitors to the various shops, the pedestrians who simply traversed the narrow street on the way to someplace else, and a skinny black cat that kept coming near, perhaps in the hope of a handout, but scrambled away whenever he bent down to pet it.

It passed the time until four men, all clad in shades of blue and green, turned down the street.

Stedd could tell they weren’t waveservants. They weren’t wearing vestments, just outfits thrown together from random garments approximating the proper color. Nor were the tridents they carried the consecrated weapons of the church of Umberlee. Rather, they were pitchforks or implements for fishing. Still, the foursome looked more dangerous than the common worshipers who contented themselves with a shark-tooth pendant or some other simple token of devotion, and such being the case, maybe they were on the lookout for Lathander’s boy prophet.

Swallowing away a sudden dryness in his mouth, Stedd told himself that couldn’t be the case, or they’d be rushing him already. Then it occurred to him that at a distance, on a disreputable street where children didn’t belong, they might take him for a grownup halfling instead of what he was.

Unfortunately, he doubted they’d remain confused if they saw him up close. Trying not to look like he was in a hurry, and praying there was nothing in the way he moved that would give him away, he ambled to the door with the crumbling painting and pulled it open.

As he’d suspected, the space on the other side was a tavern, with kegs and jugs on the sagging shelves behind the bar and outlines of human figures drawn on the walls. The gashes left by throwing knives mottled the targets like sores, especially in the vicinities of the hearts and eyes.

The room smelled of beer, smoke, and a sweaty crowd packed in tight, although that last stink was a sort of ghost of last night’s carousing. At the moment, only a handful of glum-looking, possibly hungover folk sat drinking at the mismatched tables. Intent on their own solitary thoughts or desultory conversations, none paid any attention to Stedd. If they noticed him at all, maybe they too thought he was a halfling.

Good. But he felt like a cornered animal until enough time passed that it was clear Umberlee’s followers weren’t going to follow him inside.

Once he judged he’d given them enough time to prowl on by, he wondered if he should go back outside. But even the tavernkeeper, a barrel-chested fellow with pouchy, bloodshot eyes who looked as morose and withdrawn as his patrons, didn’t seem interested in demanding that the newcomer buy a drink; he was busy pouring himself a cupful of clear spirits. So perhaps, Anton’s instructions notwithstanding, Stedd was better off biding where he was.

Thinking of the pirate made Stedd wonder where he was. Then he noticed a curtain that evidently shielded some sort of secondary room or alcove. It seemed likely Anton was on the other side conferring with his contact.

Stedd decided to take a seat close enough to the curtain to eavesdrop. After his brush with the Bitch Queen’s bravos, it might settle his jangled nerves to verify that he actually did know where his protector was and that arrangements for the boat were proceeding as they ought. With luck, he’d be able to tell when the palaver was drawing to a close and be back on the street before it did, and then Anton would never know he’d disobeyed him.

Making sure the legs didn’t scrape on the planks beneath the sawdust on the floor, Stedd pulled out a chair. He caught Anton’s voice: “… these years working together, you know I’m good for it.”

“Times are hard,” replied someone who sounded like a talking bullfrog.

“Surely not for a gang with ties to Jaundamicar Bleth,” Anton said.

In a colder tone, the bullfrog said, “We don’t talk about that.”

“Sorry. I was just looking for a way to remind you you’re not dealing with a simpleton.”

“Neither are you. Do you think it hasn’t even occurred to me to wonder why you need a boat? Where’s the Iron Jest ?”

“Busy elsewhere with a chore that’s none of your concern.”

“All right. Fair enough. And I suppose that in light of our years of friendship, you can settle up after. The voyage will just cost a little more that way: one thousand gold in lions, nobles, or a mix.”

“One thousand doesn’t strike me as a notably friendly sum.”

“To sneak Anton Marivaldi safely to his destination despite all the port officials, navy men, and rival pirates who live for the chance to lay hands on him? You’re right, that’s not friendship, more like a brother’s love.”

“Fine, my gold-grubbing brother. I agree.”

“Understand, that’s payment due as soon as the voyage is over. You might think you can just scarper off and leave the captain holding out his hand like a fool. From what I know of you, you might even get away with it. But ask yourself if you want to be at feud with the Fire Knives forever after.”

“I already said I agree. What captain are we speaking of?”

“Do you know Helstag Deepdale?”

Anton snorted. “I know he doesn’t take that worm-eaten tub of his out of sight of shore. I believe it’s the only intelligent decision he ever made.”

“He’ll make the crossing to Pirate Isle if I tell him to.”

Stedd felt shocked, like someone had unexpectedly slapped him in the face.

But maybe things were really all right. Maybe Anton had only told the bullfrog he intended to go to Pirate Isle because that was what the other man would expect.

No. No matter how hard Stedd tried, he couldn’t make himself believe that. As a reaver, Anton ranged all around the Sea of Fallen Stars, so why would he need to claim that he was headed for Pirate Isle to avert some sort of suspicion? And why would he reject Helstag Deepdale’s coaster if his objective was Sapra? Stedd was scarcely an expert on the geography of the region, but the Moonstars had taught him enough to know that a person could reach Turmish by hugging the southern shore. In fact, that was pretty much the only way to do it if one actually wanted to avoid sailing close to the pirate stronghold.

Once again, Stedd remembered Anton killing Questele and her brothers-in-arms, then threatening to murder the captive villagers, and felt grinding shame at his own idiocy for ever trusting him. That feeling, though, immediately gave way to a stab of panic. He had to get away from the pirate, and this moment was likely his only chance.

He rose and hurried toward the door. His departure finally evoked a halfhearted “Hey!” from the tavernkeeper, but he ignored the call and kept going.

No ruffians with tridents were lying in wait on the street. That was a minor relief, but where was Stedd supposed to go in a city full of strangers, any one of whom, out of greed, piety, or fear, might see fit to hand him over to the agents of Umberlee? Perhaps if he found a safe place to pray, Lathander would help him figure it out, but for now, he needed to keep putting distance between Anton and himself.