Richard Baker - Corsair

I believe he’s telling the truth , Hamil said to him.

Geran knew that the talent of the ghostwise for speaking mind-to-mind didn’t allow Hamil to read the thoughts of others, but it did mean that the halfling had a better sense for truthfulness than most. I think so too , he answered Hamil. To Harask he said, “If I find that you’ve lied to me, I will come back for you.” He jerked his head toward Sarth. “My friend the sorcerer here will invert you with his magic. You’ll walk on your tongue and carry your eyes on your arse, so you’d better hope that we find what we’re looking for in Zhentil Keep.”

Sarth gave Geran a startled look, but Harask didn’t see it; he was cringing. “I’ve told you what I know!” he said.

The swordmage looked at his companions and nodded toward the door. They filed into the fogbound street outside. None of the men who’d fled the storehouse were in the vicinity; Sarth’s magic had well and truly put them to flight.

“So it’s off to Zhentil Keep, then?” Hamil asked in a low voice.

“So it seems,” Geran answered. A shrill whistle rang through the night, piercing the fog. Apparently some of the ruffians had run straight for the Watch to report dangerous sorcery on the loose. Geran winced then exchanged looks with Sarth and Hamil. “Let’s be on our way. I think we’ve worn out our welcome in Mulmaster.”

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

A foul night,” Sergen Hulmaster muttered. From the gate of the Five Crown Coster’s tradeyard, he frowned at the murk gathering around the streetlamps outside. He detested the evening fog of Melvaunt. On days when the brisk western wind failed, the stink of the city’s smelters and cookfires and sewers covered the town like a great foul blanket. He’d been careful to purchase a villa that overlooked the city from the heights of the headland west of the harbor-a neighborhood that was distinctly upwind of the town itself, at least most of the time-but his storehouses were located in the heart of the commercial districts, and it seemed that if the air started to grow still and foul, it always started here.

“Is everything well, m’lord?” asked his chief armsman Kerth. The sellsword hovered close by Sergen. Magical tattoos covered the man’s brow, part of the elaborate enchantments that made him absolutely incapable of turning against his master. The precaution had cost Sergen a fortune, but he had too many enemies to worry about the loyalty of his bodyguards. They were well compensated for agreeing to undergo the necessary rituals.

“Well enough, so long as one doesn’t mind smelling like the harbor for the rest of the evening,” Sergen answered. He was a fastidious man, and he took great care in maintaining his wardrobe. Tonight he wore a lavender tabard over a shirt of black silk, with a broad belt and high boots of expensive Sembian leather. A wide-brimmed hat with a rakish tilt matched his tabard. He was just about to retreat inside the dubious comforts of his storehouse when he heard the muffled clip-clop of hooves on slick cobblestones and the creaking of wooden wheels.

“Wagons coming, m’lord,” Kerth said.

Sergen smiled in a distinctly predatory fashion, pleased that his late vigil would be rewarded after all. “About time. Kerth, turn out your men to lend a hand. Quick and quiet now!”

“As you wish, m’lord,” the armsman Kerth answered. He raised a knuckle to his scarred forehead and turned to rasp orders to the other guards waiting nearby. Sergen stood aside from the doorway as his armsmen unbarred the gate leading into the narrow alleyway between his storehouses and hurried out to guide several large wagons inside. This was not the sort of work he liked to give his highly paid guards, but he was certain of their loyalty. Unfortunately the small army of clerks, scribes, and porters who worked in the Five Crowns tradeyard during the customary hours of business was not under any sort of magical compulsion to serve with unquestioned loyalty. Oh, some of them were trustworthy enough, but Sergen knew that clerks and porters tended to gossip with their colleagues in other trading houses when the day was done. When he caught Five Crowns men making that mistake, he punished them severely, but it was impossible to stop all such talk. Better to keep the night’s work to those he could trust to keep it to themselves.

Sergen unlocked a door leading to a rarely used storeroom. “In here,” he told his men. The drivers of the wagons weren’t in his employ, but they knew better than to ask questions or look too closely at the cargo they were hired to carry. They set their brakes and climbed down to undo the ties that held each wagon’s canvas cover in place. Beneath the canvas, the wagons were laden with heavy crates, casks, barrels, and chests. Each had been seared with the black mark of the Five Crowns brand, conveniently covering the former owners’ marks. Over the next tenday or so, Sergen would arrange to dispose of the stolen cargo a few parcels at a time, which would turn a tidy little profit for his merchant company.

It irked him that he had to attend to such details, but that was the nature of his circumstances. As much as he affected the habits of the nobility, he was simply one more merchant in Melvaunt, and his fortune was not so substantial or secure that he could leave it in the hands of underlings. A few months ago he’d entertained dreams of making himself lord over Hulburg, but his so-called family had somehow survived his carefully planned acquisition of power, largely through the interference of his thrice-damned stepcousin, Geran Hulmaster. Instead of ruling from the throne of Griffonwatch, he was reduced to skulking about in dark storehouses in the middle of the night, with spellbound sellswords the only minions he could trust.

Kerth interrupted his brooding. “That’s all of it, m’lord,” the tattooed swordsman said. “The wagonmaster’s asking after his coin.”

“He is, is he?” Sergen answered. He looked into the storeroom, studying the merchandise with a practiced eye. He’d been expecting at least another wagonful or two, but apparently it wasn’t coming tonight. With a shrug, he closed and locked the storeroom. “Very well, then. Bring him in to my office.”

While Kerth went to fetch the wagonmaster, Sergen unlocked his office and counted out the gold coins of Melvaunt-anvils, they were called-from his strongbox. By the time he finished his swordsman was back, standing at the side of a portly halfling dressed in a thick, quilted tunic. The halfling doffed his cap and bobbed his head. “Good evenin’, m’lord,” he said. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“I suppose. Were you seen?”

“Not by the shore, m’lord. No one was about; I think the fog drove most folk indoors tonight. We made the usual arrangements at the city gate, and had no trouble.”

“I was expecting more merchandise.”

The driver nodded. “The man who met us said you would be, m’lord. He gave me this to give to you.” He handed Sergen a small envelope sealed with a blank daub of wax.

Sergen took the letter, broke the seal, and read it. It was short and to the point: “We must meet. Expect me at two bells. Take the usual precautions. -K.” Sergen tugged at his goatee, wondering what new development this signaled. Well, he would find out soon enough. It was already an hour past midnight-one bell, as they said in Melvaunt-so he needed to conclude his business and return home. “Your payment,” he said, handing the halfling a small pouch. “I’ve counted out ten anvils since your load was lighter than I’d been led to believe.”

The wagon driver winced, but he did not complain. It was hard but fair, and he knew that he’d get no more from Sergen this evening. “Thank you, m’lord,” he said. He bowed and withdrew.