Robert Salvatore - The Pirate King

“Sea Sprite ’s captain is a true hero of the people,” Kensidan replied. “Perhaps the only hero for the people of Luskan, who have no one to speak for them in the halls of power.”

Suljack smirked at the insult, reminding himself that if it were a barb aimed at him then logic aimed it at Kensidan’s own father as well.

“Deudermont is unbending in principle, and therein lies our opportunity,” Kensidan explained. “He is no friend of the brotherhood, surely.”

“The best war is a proxy war, I suppose,” said Suljack.

“No,” Kensidan corrected, “the best war is a proxy war when no one knows the true power behind it.”

Suljack chuckled at that, and wasn’t about to disagree. His laughter remained tempered, however, by the reality that was Kensidan the Crow. His partner, his ally…a man he dared not trust.

A man from whom he could not, could never, escape.

“Suljack knows enough, but not too much?” Rethnor asked when Kensidan joined him a short while later.

Kensidan spent a few moments studying his father before nodding his assent. How old Rethnor looked these days, with his pallid skin sagging below his eyes and down his cheeks, leaving great flopping jowls. He had thinned considerably in the last year or so, and his skin, so leathery from years at sea, had little resilience left. He walked stiff-legged and bolt upright, for his back had locked securely in place. And when he talked, he sounded as if he had his mouth stuffed with fabric, his voice muffled and weak.

“Enough to throw himself on my sword,” Kensidan replied, “but he will not.”

“You trust him?”

Kensidan nodded. “He and I want the same thing. We have no desire to serve under the thumb of Arklem Greeth.”

“As I have, you mean,” Rethnor retorted, but Kensidan was shaking his head even as the old man spoke the words.

“You put in place everything upon which I now build,” he said. “Without your long reach, I wouldn’t dare move against Greeth.”

“Suljack appreciates this, as well?”

“Like a starving man viewing a feast at a distant table. He wants a seat at that table. Neither of us will feast without the other.”

“You’re watching him closely, then.”

“Yes.”

Rethnor gave a wheezing laugh.

“And Suljack is too stupid to betray me in a manner that I couldn’t anticipate,” Kensidan added, and Rethnor’s laugh became a quick scowl.

“Kurth is the one to watch, not Suljack,” said Kensidan.

Rethnor considered the words for a few moments, then nodded his agreement. High Captain Kurth, out there on Closeguard Island and so close to the Hosttower, was possibly the strongest of the five high captains, and surely the only one who could stand one-to-one against Ship Rethnor. And Kurth was so very clever, whereas, Rethnor had to admit, his friend Suljack often had to be led to the trough with a carrot.

“Your brother is in Mirabar?” Rethnor asked.

Kensidan nodded. “Fate has been kind to us.”

“No,” Rethnor corrected. “Arklem Greeth has erred. His Mistresses of the South Tower and North Tower both hold vested interests in his planned infiltration and domination of their homeland, interests that are diametrically opposed. Arklem Greeth is too prideful and cocksure to recognize the insecurity of his position—I doubt he understands Arabeth Raurym’s anger.”

“She is aboard Thrice Lucky , seeking Sea Sprite.”

“And Lord Brambleberry awaits Deudermont at Waterdeep,” Rethnor stated, nodding in approval.

Kensidan the Crow allowed a rare smile to crease his emotionless facade. He quickly suppressed it, though, reminding himself of the dangers of pride. Surely, Kensidan had much to be proud of. He was a juggler with many balls in the air, seamlessly and surely spinning their orbits. He was two steps ahead of Arklem Greeth in the east, and facilitating unwitting allies in the south. His considerable investments—bags of gold—had been well spent.

“The Arcane Brotherhood must fail in the east,” Rethnor remarked.

“Maximum pain and exposure,” Kensidan agreed.

“And beware Overwizard Shadowmantle,” the old high captain warned, referring to the moon elf, Valindra, Mistress of the North Tower. “She will become incensed if Greeth is set back in his plans for dominion over the Silver Marches, a place she loathes.”

“And she will blame Overwizard Arabeth Raurym of the South Tower, daughter of Marchion Elastul, for who stands to lose as much as Arabeth by Arklem Greeth’s power grab?”

Rethnor started to talk, but he just looked upon his son, flashed a smile of complete confidence, and nodded. The boy understood it, all of it.

He had overlooked nothing.

“The Arcane Brotherhood must fail in the east,” he said again, only to savor the words.

“I will not disappoint you,” the Crow promised.

A million, million changes—uncountable changes! — every day, every heartbeat of every day. That is the nature of things, of the world, with every decision a crossroad, every drop of rain an instrument both of destruction and creation, every animal hunting and every animal eaten changing the present just a bit.

On a larger level, it’s hardly and rarely noticeable, but those multitude of pieces that comprise every image are not constants, nor, necessarily, are constant in the way we view them.

My friends and I are not the norm for the folk of Faerûn. We have traveled half the world, for me both under and above. Most people will never see the wider world outside of their town, or even the more distant parts of the cities of their births. Theirs is a small and familiar existence, a place of comfort and routine, parochial in their church, selective in their lifelong friends.

I could not suffer such an existence. Boredom builds like smothering walls, and the tiny changes of everyday existence would never cut large enough windows in those opaque barriers.

Of my companions, I think Regis could most accept such a life, so long as the food was plentiful and not bland and he was given some manner of contact with the goings-on of the wider world outside. I have often wondered how many hours a halfling might lie on the same spot on the shore of the same lake with the same un-baited line tied to his toe.

Has Wulfgar moved back to a similar existence? Has he shrunk his world, recoiling from the harder truths of reality? It’s possible for him, with his deep emotional scars, but never would it be possible for Catti-brie to go with him to such a life of steadfast routine. Of that I’m most certain. The wanderlust grips her as it grips me, forcing us along the road—even apart along our sepa rate roads, and confident in the love we share and the eventual reunions.

And Bruenor, as I witness daily, battles the smallness of his existence with growls and grumbles. He is the king of Mithral Hall, with riches untold at his fingertips. His every wish can be granted by a host of subjects loyal to him unto death. He accepts the responsibilities of his lineage, and fits that throne well, but it galls him every day as surely as if he was tied to his kingly seat. He has often found and will often find again excuses to get himself out of the hall on some mission or other, whatever the danger.

He knows, as Catti-brie and I know, that stasis is boredom and boredom is a wee piece of death itself.

For we measure our lives by the changes, by the moments of the unusual. Perhaps that manifests itself in the first glimpse of a new city, or the first breath of air on a tall mountain, a swim in a river cold from the melt or a frenzied battle in the shadows of Kelvin’s Cairn. The unusual experiences are those that create the memories, and a tenday of memories is more life than a year of routine. I remember my first sail aboard Sea Sprite, for example, as keenly as my first kiss from Catti-brie, and though that journey lasted mere tendays in a life more than three-quarters of the way through a century, the memories of that voyage play out more vividly than some of the years I spent in House Do’Urden, trapped in the routine of a drow boy’s repetitive duties.