Richard Baker - Corsair

“Kerth, have my carriage brought up immediately,” Sergen told his bodyguard. “We’ve got company coming. Have your men lock up here.”

In a matter of minutes Sergen and Kerth clattered away from the Five Crowns storehouses in a swift black carriage, driving back up to the hillside where Sergen’s villa overlooked the harbor. The guttering streetlamps painted the murk hanging over the city a dull red-orange color, but as the carriage climbed, the thick stink lessened perceptibly. Soon enough the carriage clattered past the comfortable houses of the wealthy, each surrounded by its own wall, and some guarded by watchmen with pikes. Near the top of the hill they reached Sergen’s estate and turned into the long, gated driveway. “Order the servants to their quarters, and douse the streetlamps,” Sergen told Kerth. “I’ll be waiting in the study.”

“I understand, m’lord,” the mercenary said.

The carriage stopped by the manor’s door. Sergen allowed his footman to open the carriage door for him. As he climbed the steps to the manor’s foyer, a valet took his cloak and the doorman held the door for him. He might not have a noble title, but he certainly could afford the trappings of nobility. While Kerth spoke with the servants and saw to the arrangements outside, Sergen headed back to his study, a large room with broad windows overlooking the harbor. He drew the curtains closed and then poured himself a glass of good dwarven brandy from a service he kept near his desk. Taking a seat by the room’s fireplace, he listened to the faint sounds of the household staff receding and watched as one by one the lights were turned down low outside. His visitor valued discretion, after all.

Sergen waited no more than a quarter hour in the dark study before he heard footsteps in the hallway outside. He set down his brandy and stood as Kerth opened the door to admit a tall, cloaked figure. The armsman looked at Sergen; Sergen nodded to him, and Kerth stepped outside and closed the door, leaving him alone with his visitor. The man undid the fastenings of his heavy cloak and tossed it carelessly onto the nearest sofa. “This is a fine house, my boy,” he said. “But living here is making you soft, mark my words.”

“It’s all for show,” Sergen answered. “Hello, Father.” He stepped forward for a quick embrace and a hearty thump on the back. Kamoth Kastelmar was a lean, well-weathered man of fifty-five years, a little taller than his son. A gray-streaked beard of black framed his square face, and his eyes smoldered beneath craggy brows. He wore a knee-length black coat with gold embroidery at the cuff and collar, and a fine saber rode at his hip in a scabbard of Turmishan leather. Once upon a time he’d been the scion of a minor noble family of Hillsfar, but he’d put his home behind him at an early age, seeking better opportunities. Fifteen years ago Kamoth married Terena Hulmaster, the sister of the harmach, and brought Sergen-his son by his first wife, a woman Sergen hardly remembered-to Griffonwatch to live with Terena’s family. But Kamoth was a restless man, an ambitious man, and he soon began to plot against his brother-in-law, Harmach Grigor. When those plots were uncovered, Kamoth had been forced to flee Hulburg and seek his fortune elsewhere. He’d left Sergen to be raised by the family of his stepmother. Sergen had hated him for that for a long time, but Kamoth was his father for better or worse. Beyond the shadow of a doubt he’d taught Sergen everything he’d needed to know about how to look out for himself.

Kamoth thumped his back one more time and stepped back. “I don’t suppose you have something worth drinking in here?” he asked.

Sergen nodded at the brandy service. “Good dwarven brandy.”

The older lord snorted. “Well, perhaps living soft has its advantages.” He poured himself a tall glass and actually took a moment to inhale the aroma. “Did that fat little halfling get my cargo to your storehouse?”

“He did, although it was only three-and-a-half wagons’ worth,” Sergen replied. “Was that all of it?”

“I lost almost a third of the cargo after I beached the Sokol ship,” Kamoth said. He scowled fiercely. “Some madman spied out my landing and crept down after dark to set fire to my prize. What’s more, he cut the Sokol lass free of her bonds and fought his way out of my camp while my lads were busy fighting the fire. Killed two men and crippled another.”

Sergen grimaced. “Your madman was named Geran Hulmaster.”

“Geran? He was the one that fired my prize?” Kamoth turned away with a muttered oath. He glared into the fireplace for a long moment before he composed himself and turned back to Sergen. “All right, then. How did you find out about Geran’s little visit to my encampment?”

“Geran told his uncle about it the hour he returned to Hulburg. Grigor called the Harmach’s Council together to discuss the matter, and my ally on the council heard Geran’s story for himself. He keeps me informed of the council’s business; I heard the tale several days ago.”

Kamoth looked past Sergen, his eyes fixed on old memories. “Bernov’s son,” he murmured. “I saw him from a distance before he fled the beach, fighting his way past my lads. I thought he seemed familiar, and now I know why.” He shook his head and seated himself in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “Nine years now that Bernov Hulmaster’s been dead, and his wanderfooted son shows up to ruin the best part of a prize I took with my own two hands. Damn that man! Even from the grave he’s finding ways to hinder me.”

“The fire ruined that much of the Sokol cargo?”

“No, not that-the lass. She was a splendid sight, my boy. I had designs upon her, I did.”

Sergen grimaced. Kamoth was a man of violent appetites. When he said he had designs on a woman, those designs often ended in the most heinous sort of murder. It was one of the reasons his father had never bothered to establish himself in civilized society again after fleeing Hulburg years ago; his proclivities would have soon enough earned him a death sentence in all but the most lawless of settings. Sergen considered himself a pragmatic, unsentimental man, and he did not shy from the idea of taking what he wanted, but he’d never been able to understand the demonic urges that moved Kamoth. At its best Kamoth’s cruelty was simply wasteful. At its worst it was the very soul of wickedness, something so spiteful and nihilistic that even Sergen shrank from it. “I’m sure she was,” he temporized.

“How in the world did Geran know to lie in wait for me on that deserted shore?” Kamoth mused aloud. “I didn’t know myself where I’d put in until I saw the cove and decided it would serve.”

“Sheer accident. According to what my man on the council heard, Geran was off visiting his mother in Thentia. He was on his way home to Hulburg when he stumbled across your camp. A day or two to either side, and he never would have seen you.”

“By all the misfortunes of Beshaba. What did I do to deserve that?”

If ill fortune followed the guilty, Sergen thought, then his father had certainly earned his share and more. He decided not to voice that sentiment. He hesitated for a moment, then he said, “I’m afraid there is something more to Geran’s involvement. The Harmach’s Council ordered Geran to fit out a warship to deal with Kraken Queen . Geran is likely at sea by now, searching for you.”

“By all nine of the screaming Hells!” Kamoth leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “Warship? What warship?”

“Apparently the Verunas left a serviceable caravel named Seadrake behind when they abandoned the city. They’ve got a large detachment of Shieldsworn and mercenaries aboard.” Sergen smiled. “They believe it will be easier to track you to your lair than to patrol the sea lanes near Hulburg, awaiting the next attack.”