Mel Odom - Rising Tide

"Thank you," Laaqueel said, but she'd not prompted her voice. Such courtly manners didn't come naturally to her. She realized her behavior had to have been caused by Iakhovas's glamour.

"I have someone for you to meet as well," Maliceprow announced. "Please sit and I'll be back with him, then we can get to our meeting."

Iakhovas sat at the table all laid out with meats and cheese and wines. Laaqueel followed his lead, sitting next to the verandah railing so she couldn't be trapped against the house. She looked at the sea, judging it to be close enough to, run to.

"Relax, little malenti," Iakhovas said quietly. "You'll come to no harm here."

"What are we doing with these people?" she asked. "I didn't know you were going to be affiliating with surface dwellers."

He gazed at her with both his eyes, but she could occasionally see behind the missing one into the hollow where it had been. "Little malenti, I'll deal with anyone who can help me reach my goals. For now, that happens to be, in part, these pirates." He picked up a bit of meat and ate it. "In four tendays, I'm going to take Baldur's Gate, and these men are going to help me. When we leave that city, it will not be as Waterdeep. I will destroy everything in that city that touches the river, and a message will be sent that no one is safe. At no time, at no place."

Laaqueel heard the chill of menace in his words but she was still concerned. She didn't see how he planned on mixing the sahuagin and the pirates. Before she could ask any of the questions that were on her mind, Malice-prow returned with another man in tow.

The newcomer was a tall man dressed in a scarlet blouse tucked into charcoal gray breeches. A long sword hung at his hip, counterbalanced with three throwing knives on the opposite hip. His black hair was carefully combed, pulled back and held in place by garnet and ivory combs. Silver hoop earrings hung from each ear. His brown eyes returned her gaze with fire. The cruel turn of his features were partially disguised by the short goatee and mustache that were fastidiously trimmed, but left in plain view the tattoo on his left cheek. It depicted a sharklike creature with a black haired mane twisted in mid-strike.

"I've added another ship's captain to our roster and increased our strength," Maliceprow said with pride. "I'd like to introduce Captain Falkane, also called the Salt Wolf. His ship is Bunyip. I'm sure you've heard of it."

"Bloody Falkane," Laaqueel said, knowing the pirate for who he was.

Falkane took no offense at the use of his sobriquet. He smiled at her. "A name I've fairly won and proudly carry, wench. Make no mistake."

"Falkane," Maliceprow said, "will be joining us on the raid on Baldur's Gate, Alaric."

"Fine," Iakhovas said, "then join me in a toast." He picked up one of the wine bottles from the table and poured drinks all around. He raised his glass and waited until the others followed suit. "To the death of Baldur's Gate, by sword and by fire!"

22 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet

Jherek sat in the morning sun in the small court off the temple of Lathander that overlooked the Athkatlan docks. He felt empty, totally dispirited. The low stone wall he sat on, already soaking up the sun, felt warm. His body was still filled with aches and pains from the fight in the tavern half a tenday ago, but he didn't give much thought to them. Only some of the swelling and little of the bruising had gone away.

Sabyna, despite Captain Tynnel's words, never came to see him. Breezerunner sailed that same afternoon. The ship's mage hadn't even left a note. That dealt Jherek a harsher blow than he had expected. Her absence, and the lack of a response about his lost passage, struck a hollow resonance inside him that he'd never before experienced, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Even when he knew Breezerunner had been about to leave, he hadn't been able to try to contact Sabyna. He'd hobbled down to the dock and watched in silence as the ship had sailed away, his new stitches tight in his flesh.

Now he watched the activity at the docks with a mixture of emotions, working hard to keep them all in check. If he failed to control any one of them: pain, rage, or confusion, he was certain he'd be lost. He felt homesick and thought often of returning to Velen and facing whatever awaited him there.

Live, that you may serve.

Those words, that command, belonged to someone else. He'd convinced himself of that. Perhaps a someone he might have been had the fates not conspired against him. His birthright was the tattoo on his arm, not some ghostly voice that echoed in his head.

The deckhands labored night and day, but they weren't just loading ships, they were packing goods onto barges and wagons that would be part of the numerous caravans traveling along the Alandor River or the River Road trade way to Crimmor. From there, the barges would off-load onto more wagons for the trip up the Bitten Road between the Fangs, into the Cloud Peaks, and on to Nashkel. Then began the increasingly dangerous trip north along the Coast Way, an overland trade route that had been only seldom used since the sea trade had opened. During his days of convalescence, Jherek had learned a lot about the overland trade routes that had become so heavily trafficked of late.

News continued drifting into Athkatla about the vessels and cargoes that were lost at sea, going down to sahuagin attacks and to leviathan creatures that erupted from the ocean bottom. Few ships reportedly reached Waterdeep or came from there. The other points north along the Sword Coast were just as dangerous. Paperwork, which had been only given lip service at many of the smaller ports, had become more sternly enforced.

More and more investors were starting to put their cargo on caravans. The losses at sea were too much. The overland trips took longer and grew increasingly dangerous as well. Ores and goblins, and all too human bandits, passed information along about the caravans. Few, if any, reached their destinations unscathed.

A few cargo ships still attempted the sea trade north. Primarily ones that couldn't take the loss on the goods they'd agreed to deliver, and weren't able to find someone else to deliver it for them.

Jherek didn't like thinking about Sabyna traveling into those hostile waters, but he couldn't help himself. He'd failed her. If he hadn't gotten into the fight with Aysel, he'd have made the journey with her, could have been there to protect her.

He got frustrated with himself for thinking that one man could make such a difference. That only happened in the romances Malorrie started him reading. He heard footsteps glide softly along the stone courtyard.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

Jherek turned, finding Fostyr approaching. The priest wore the robes and vestments of Lathander, the Morninglord. Colored in bright yellow taken from a dawn morning, the robes had seen better days, and so had the temple. Lathander's beliefs weren't a prime pursuit in Amn.

"Better," Jherek answered. "Thank you for asking."

The courtyard held a small wicker table and three mismatched chairs. Berries grew along the south wall, against the small rooms where the four priests slept. Although he'd been invited in, Jherek had slept outside all five nights, wanting to be in the open and in the salt air.

The bedroll and pack that contained all of Jherek's possession was neatly packed and sitting in the corner of the courtyard. The priest's eyes flickered over them, and he sat in one of the chairs. He was a small man with skin the color of buttered rum. Only in his thirties, he kept his head shaved. His quick, dark hazel eyes surveyed Jherek.

"You've had morningfeast?" the priest asked.

"Aye."

"And your appetite, how was it?"