Ed Greenwood: The Mercenaries

"The barrel!" Belmer called to Kurthe, as he rolled upright once more. "Over him!"

The scowling Konigheimer brightened just a trifle, and caught up the rain barrel as if it was a child's toy. It was empty. One end gaped open, the rain-hood missing, as Belmer had left it. It fit down around the sitting watchman with a satisfying crash, jamming the man's sword and shield in around his arms and pinioning him securely.

"Good," Belmer said, as calmly as if he'd been surveying the weather. "Now we make for that building there."

"The Ankle Bells?" both women asked, in scornful tones.

"IVe rented a cellar there," Belmer told them. "The upper chambers are a mite too perfumed for my tastes."

"You're giving the orders, Ambassador Droon," the ugly, barrel-shaped woman replied with a shrug. "Lead on."

Belmer had laid his plans well. The Ankle Bells was perhaps the most crowded establishment in Tharkar after the Masques-and if Daggers were going to search it for eight ruffians, seen poorly through night-gloom and at a distance, they were going to have to break down a lot of barred doors, and disturb a lot of men and women who'd be rather irritated with them… and eager to demonstrate this. All of which would take time. Moreover, the damp, evil-smeUing cellars weren't likely to be the first place searched-and one of them linked with the source of the smell: a smuggling tunnel that led right out under the docks, to a waiting skiff.

Most of the seven had visited the Ankle Bells before, and knew about the false door to misdirect hurrying Daggers, and another door that was held up only by twine, ready to crash down on anyone who tried to wrench it open. All of Tharkar knew that skilled actors could be hired there, equipped with enchanted masques that mirrored the features of folk when bid to do so, to provide a harried patron of the Bells with a night's alibi. The she-pirate Sharessa had even worked at the Bells for a season, and-if she'd wanted to once more awaken memories that all too often burned in her dreams like black flames-could have told the others about the bed-canopy that crushed unwanted occupants, and the trip step on the back stairs____________________ But even her eyes widened at the password the fat man gave to the drunk slumped atop the refuse-heap-the one that called forth a dozen half-dressed "patrons" to enact an instant brawl that blocked the street behind them. She'd have sworn not more than a dozen ship captains in all Faerun knew that word-and certainly not this little stranger.

She traded looks with Kurthe, and then with Rings. The seven Sharkers were beginning to be impressed by this bustling little fat man. He seemed to have everything planned, to know exactly what he was doing, and to set about things with unbroken calm- all of which were more than the wild-tempered, brawling Blackfingers had ever done.

The cellar was as damp-and dim-as they'd expected. Broken bedsteads leaned against one wall in a tangle of riven wood, and the rest of the many-pillared room was a litter of crates, barrels, seachests, and stones fallen from the crumbling walls. Evil-smelling remnants of offerings to Umberlee-drowned rats and squirrels, floating in the seaweed-decorated bowls consecrated to the goddess-stood on plinths here and there, their presence guarding the building above against flooding and collapse. The Sharkers crowded in and leaned on several stacks of crates, facing the little man who'd spirited them out of the Masques.

He was perched on a chest well away from them, on the other side of the lone, hooded lamp that dangled from the low ceiling, festooned with spiderwebs cloaked in thick, wet dust. Dead flies the size of a child's fist hung frozen amid that gray fur.

The Sharkers shifted uneasily. The man facing them showed every evidence of being ready to sit calmly and silently watching them all night. Sharessa opened her mouth to speak; it was time to break the silence.

As often happened, the dwarf beat her to it. "Dispense with Ambassador Droon,' and give: who are you?" Rings asked abruptly, angling his nose up at the mysterious fat man like the beak of an inquisitive bird.

"Belmer," the fat little man told him flatly. "An out-lander looking to hire pirates for a single task… albeit a task that may take a season, or more."

"So," the surly Konigheimer told him, "talk. Just what task, and how much?"

The little man smiled faintly at the seven Sharkers. "To help me find-and slay-a certain someone… who's not a ruler or lord of particular fame or power."

"Ah," Kurthe said, with a thin smile of his own. "A woman."

Belmer did not quite smile in return, and said nothing.

"The pay," the barrel-shaped woman with the many-times-broken nose prompted him.

"A chest of jargoons each, now, and a fist of rubies upon discharge," the little man told them placidly. "Two fists if we're successful. More-to be negotiated-if the task takes more than this season."

There was a silent moment of disbelief, and then a ripple of derisive laughter. Jargoons were poor mens' rubies, but worth a hundred true gold each even in a bad market; a respected and successful pirate might give his crew two or three each for a year's pay. Pirates could work five decades or more and not see more than one or two rubies to call their own. Gems were the currency of choice in Tharkar because false coins were so plentiful that prices were often given in both "true coin" and "fool's coin" amounts.

The fat man sat patiently watching them until the laughter trailed off into silence.

"Just how big are these chests?" asked the gravel-voked, much-scarred veteran. "And how do we know youH hold to your end of the bargain?"

"Take the lid off the barrel behind you," Belmer replied, rising. The unlovely woman gave him a suspicious look, but the moon-faced sharper was already peering into its depths. His hand came up with a coffer, and he looked at Belmer.

The little man indicated the chest he'd been sitting on. "For the jargoons: this size and brim-full of cut, unfiawed stones. As for the bargain-" He waved at the sharper to open the coffer, and the pirate did so.

"Writs," he announced, lifting them with careful fingers.

"Contracts," the beautiful she-pirate explained to the youth beside her. "Binding us both. To be registered with the Lord of Tharkar, I presume?"

Belmer inclined his head. "Four copies of each writ-for you, for me, for the Lord, and for a Pirates' Witness of your choosing. The payments already lie in one of his vaults, spell-locked to me."

This was standard; six of the seven Sharkers had signed writs with Blackfingers-so much safely hidden but worthless paper now. Brows wrinkled, they were already reading these new writs, moving their fingers along the lines. Belmer leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and waited.

"That's a lot of coin," Kurthe rumbled, and his companions fell silent. "A great amount for one killing. Who is this woman?"

The fat little man smiled slightly again. "A woman, as you guessed," he replied, "from Waterdeep. Her name is Eidola, and I'll not divulge my reasons for desiring her demise. I need your aid twice over: I don't want to be on the scene to be recognized when she disappears-and I need you to capture her first. My hand must be the one to slay, after I am sure that the captive is the one I seek. I've been fooled about such things before." Silence fell once more.

" 'Find,' you said," Sharessa reminded him. "Where'U we look for her?"

"In Doegan," he replied. "We'll take ship together, in a vessel I've hired-before dawn. If we tarry, or if someone here refuses this mission and word of it gets around Tharkar, a later departure may prove… difficult."

"Care to tell us who'll be working against us?" Kurthe asked. "Or what port well be heading for?" "No," Belmer replied.