Richard Byers - The Reaver

“It is,” he said, “but not in the way you think. I’ve decided to catch the false prophet personally, and it’s your good luck that I’ve chosen your ship to do it. Once we take the boy to Pirate Isle, the temple will pay you the promised bounty.”

Naraxes nodded. “We’ll help.”

Evendur sneered. “I hope you didn’t think I was asking .”

“No, Captain! Of course not!”

“Good. Now come about. We’re looking for a Thayan galley, and I plan to catch her in the straits.”

Naraxes turned to relay the commands. Strolling toward the bow, enjoying the way the crewmen tried to cringe from him without being obvious about it, Evendur began a first inspection of his new ship. It felt good to have a deck rolling under his boots again, and better still to be on the hunt for a prize.

Anton woke up cold, wet, and stiff. More promisingly, though, he also woke to the smell of cooking. He opened his eyes, and for an instant was surprised to find himself aboard a vessel considerably smaller than the Iron Jest . Then he remembered capturing Stedd and all that had followed, including the flight from Westgate with Falrinn and Wydda the wizard.

Well, no doubt he’d have ample opportunity to find out. At the moment, she was in the bow, and he was lying under the low shelter amidships that had manifestly done an unsatisfactory job of keeping the rain from blowing in on him. He crawled out and headed for the stern to attend to one of the cruder requirements of nature as far away from her as possible.

Still a gentleman, he thought with sour self-derision. Father would be proud.

Falrinn was in the stern adjusting the tiller, which attached to greasy brass gears that, he claimed, allowed him to do so with exactitude. He made similar boasts about the unconventional arrangements of pulleys, ratchets, and such he’d incorporated into the rigging. Anton remained skeptical that all the various contrivances would do a knowledgeable human mariner any good, but on previous voyages, he’d seen how they allowed one small gnome to trim sail and pilot the boat with ease and efficiency.

As Anton buttoned up his breeches, Falrinn proffered a spyglass. The human accepted it with the care such a valuable tool deserved.

“The wizard says we’re looking for a galley,” Falrinn said. “But she doesn’t know what style of galley, the port or realm the ship calls home, or even exactly where it’s heading.”

Anton grinned. “You’d almost think she doesn’t trust us.”

He ducked back under the shelter to scoop some breakfast-eggs scrambled with chopped fish-from the frying pan on the little wrought iron stove. He wolfed them down and then, feeling more vital and alert, headed into the bow. The mage gave him a nod.

The exertions of the previous night had left her looking bedraggled and weary, with dark smudges under bloodshot eyes. But except for that, her skin was smooth and creamy, a little rosier atop the high cheekbones, and the eyes were a vivid green. Anton realized for the first time that she was comely.

“You know,” he said, “from one secretive soul to another, there really isn’t much point in not telling Falrinn and me exactly what vessel we’re chasing. We’re going to sight her from far away.” He showed the wizard the spyglass. “That first look will tell us a great deal about her, and the gnome will turn our boat around if he doesn’t like what he sees.”

The mage frowned. “Don’t you think I’d tell you more if I could? I want to catch up with my fellow Lathanderians quickly. But my … superior only hired the galley a short time ago. I never got around to learning much about her. Nor did he choose to tell me exactly where he planned to take Stedd. He truly is a ‘secretive soul,’ and he must have thought it safer for me not to know.”

Anton smiled. “Nonsense. You’re the kind of person who never stops observing and discovering, especially information that bears on your own well-being. You’d ferret out the details of your lord’s plans whether he wanted you to have them or not.”

The wizard hesitated. “You give me too much credit.” She lifted her hand to flick stray strands of brown hair off her cheek, and her sleeve slid partway down her forearm. In so doing, it exposed marks on her forearm. They looked faded, but Anton discerned that was because they were actually peeking through a layer of pigment she’d spread on top of them.

The sight of the tattoos made him take reflexive note of the location of his weapons. He only had his dagger and skinny hidden boot blade on his person; he’d left the saber under the shelter. He considered, too, the feasibility of simply lunging at her and shoving her over the side. Yet he realized he was no more inclined to kill her now than he had been on the street in Westgate.

“Actually,” he said, “I didn’t give you enough credit. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that you might be one of the wicked tattooed wizards of Thay.” He gestured to indicate the exposed sigils.

She gave a start and peered at the telltale marks. He could all but hear her thoughts as she quickly considered whether she could possibly convince him that the arcane symbols weren’t what he believed them to be. Then, grimacing, she said, “The Black Hand take it, this stain is supposed to be waterproof!”

“Take it from a sailor,” Anton replied, “nothing is truly waterproof over the long haul. And we’ve had a very wet night and morning.”

“Well, at least I can stop wearing this nasty thing.” She pushed her cowl back, pulled her brown wig off, and gave the shaven scalp beneath a vigorous scratching. A hint of stubble grayed the ivory skin of her scalp.

Somewhat to Anton’s surprise, baldness didn’t mar the mage’s looks. Rather, it made her exotic, like the occasional sea elf women he’d encountered over the years, though he suspected the latter would have mightily resented the comparison.

When she finished scratching, she said, “But you have to understand-”

“Please,” Anton said, “allow me. You and your master are virtuous Thayans, expatriate because you can’t bear your native land’s depravities. You only disguise your nationality to avert prejudice, and you truly do mean to help Stedd. It could scarcely sound more plausible, and naturally I believe it all implicitly.”

A grudging smile tugged at the corners of the wizard’s generous mouth. “As I fervently believe the halfling really did hire you, one of the most infamous reavers from Suzail to Escalant, to help whisk a little boy to safety.”

Anton grinned. “It sounds like neither one of us is able to lie to the other anymore.”

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.”

“Fair enough. But in this interlude of relative candor, will you favor me with your real name? I doubt it’s Wydda. That’s not Thayan.”

“It’s Umara Ankhlab.”

“Well met, Umara.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. She had the soft skin of someone who’d never performed manual labor, but her grip was firm. “I assume you and your leader-”

“Kymas Nahpret.”

“-you and Kymas are actually hoping to collect the bounty on Stedd the same as I was.”

Umara frowned. “You’re wrong there. Kymas and I are in service to Szass Tam. The Lich King tasked us to find Chosen and fetch them back to Thay.”

“And Stedd’s a ‘Chosen’? He doesn’t call himself that, or at least he didn’t while we were traveling together.”

“But he is. The champion of reborn Lathander, as Evendur Highcastle is the hand of Umberlee.” She sighed. “With each, I employed a talisman to be sure.”

“If you knew all that, it might have been more sporting of you to go after the undead pirate lord instead of the wandering farm boy.”