Robert Salvatore: The Pirate King

Robillard sighed, and up above, Deudermont and Maimun heard a quick chant and the sizzle of magical release as Arabeth spirited away.

The implications of her revelations—rumors made true before Deudermont’s very ears—hung silently in the air between Deudermont and Maimun.

“I don’t serve Arklem Greeth, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Maimun said. “But then, I am no pirate.”

“Indeed,” replied an obviously unconvinced Deudermont.

“As a soldier is no murderer,” said Maimun.

“Soldiers can be murderers,” Deudermont deadpanned.

“So can lords and ladies, high captains and archmages, pirates and pirate hunters alike.”

“You forgot peasants,” said Deudermont. “And chickens. Chickens can kill, I’ve been told.”

Maimun tipped his fingers against his forehead in salute and surrender.

“Retch’s escape?” Deudermont asked, and Maimun moved to the back of the cabin. He fumbled about a small set of shelves there, moving trinkets and statues and books alike, until finally he smiled and tugged a hidden lever.

The wall pulled open, revealing an empty shaft.

“An escape boat,” Maimun reasoned, and Deudermont started for the door.

“If he knew it was Sea Sprite pursuing him, he is long gone,” Maimun said, and Deudermont stopped. “Retch is no fool, nor is he loyal enough to follow his ship and crew to the depths. He no doubt recognized that it was Sea Sprite chasing him, and relieved himself of his command quietly and quickly. These escape boats are clever things; some submerge for many hours and are possessed of magical propulsion that can return them to a designed point of recall. You can take pride, though, for the escape boats are often referred to as ‘Deuderboats.’”

Deudermont’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s something, at least,” Maimun offered.

Deudermont’s handsome face soured and he headed through the door.

“You won’t catch him,” Maimun called after him. The young man—bard, pirate, captain—sighed and chuckled helplessly, knowing full well that Retch was likely already back in Luskan, and knowing the ways of Kensidan, his employer, he wondered if the notorious pirate wasn’t already being compensated for sacrificing his ship.

Arabeth had come out there for a reason, to have that conversation with Robillard within earshot of Captain Deudermont. It all started to come together for clever Maimun. Kensidan was soon to be a high captain, and the ambitious warlord was working hard to change the very definition of that title.

Despite his deep resentment, Maimun found himself glancing at the door through which Deudermont had exited. Despite his falling out with his former captain, he felt uneasy about the prospect of this too-noble man being used as a pawn.

And Arabeth Raurym had just seen to that.

“She was a good ship—best I ever had,” Argus Retch protested.

“Best of a bad lot, then,” Kensidan replied. He sat—he was always sitting, it seemed—before the blustering, gaudy pirate, his dark and somber clothing so in contrast to Argus Retch’s display of mismatched colors.

“Salt in your throat, ye damned Crow!” Retch cursed. “And lost me a good crew, too!”

“Most of your crew never left Luskan. You used a band of wharf-rats and a few of your own you wished to be rid of. Captain Retch, don’t play me for a fool.”

“W-well…well,” Retch stammered. “Well, good enough, then! But still a crew, and still workin’ for me. And I lost Folly! Don’t you forget that.”

“Why would I forget that which I ordered? And why would I forget that for which you were compensated?”

“Compensated?” the pirate blustered.

Kensidan looked at Retch’s hip, where the bag of gold hung.

“Gold’s all well and fine,” Retch said, “but I need a ship, and I’m not for finding one with any ease. Who’d sell to Argus Retch, knowing that Deudermont got his last and is after him?”

“In good time,” said Kensidan. “Spend your gold on delicacies. Patience. Patience.”

“I’m a man of the sea!”

Kensidan shifted in his seat, planting one elbow on the arm of the chair, forearm up. He pointed his index finger and rested his temple against it, staring at Retch pensively, and with obvious annoyance. “I can put you back to sea this very day.”

“Good!”

“I doubt you’ll think so.”

The deadpan clued Retch in to Kensidan’s true meaning. Rumors had been filtering around Luskan that several of Kensidan’s enemies had been dropped into the deep waters outside the harbor.

“Well, I can be a bit patient, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Kensidan echoed. “And it will be well worth your time, I assure you.”

“You’ll get me a good ship?”

Kensidan gave a little chuckle. “Would Sea Sprite suffice?”

Argus Retch’s bloodshot eyes popped open wide and the man seemed to simply freeze in place. He stayed like that for a very long time—so long that Kensidan simply looked past him to several of Rethnor’s lieutenants who stood against the walls of the room.

“I’m sure it will,” Kensidan said, and the men laughed. To Retch, he added, “Go and play,” and he waved the man away.

As Retch exited through one door, Suljack came in through another.

“Do you think that wise?” the high captain asked.

The Crow shrugged and smirked as if it hardly mattered.

“You intend to give him Sea Sprite?”

“We’re a long way from having Sea Sprite.”

“Agreed,” said Suljack. “But you just promised…”

“Nothing at all,” said Kensidan. “I asked if he thought Sea Sprite would suffice, nothing more.”

“Not to his ears.”

Kensidan chuckled as he reached over the side of his seat to retrieve his glass of whiskey, along with a bag of potent leaves and shoots. He downed the drink in one gulp and brought the leaves up below his nose, inhaling deeply of their powerful aroma.

“He’ll brag,” Suljack warned.

“With Deudermont looking for him? He’ll hide.”

Suljack’s shake of his head revealed his doubts, but Kensidan brought his herbs up beneath his nose again and seemed not to care.

Seemed not to care because he didn’t. His plans were flowing exactly as he had predicted.

“Nyphithys is in the east?”

Kensidan merely chuckled.

T he large moonstone hanging around Catti-brie’s neck glowed suddenly and fiercely, and she brought a hand up to clench it.

“Devils,” said Drizzt Do’Urden. “So Marchion Elastul’s emissary wasn’t lying.”

“Telled ye as much,” said the dwarf Torgar Hammerstriker, who had been of Elastul’s court only a few short years before. “Elastul’s a shooting pain in a dwarf’s arse, but he’s not so much the liar, and he’s wanting the trade. Always the trade.”

“Been more than five years since we went through Mirabar on our road that bringed us home,” King Bruenor Battlehammer added. “Elastul lost a lot to our passing, and his nobles ain’t been happy with him for a long time. He’s reachin’ out to us.”

“And to him,” Drizzt added, nodding down in the direction of Obould, master of the newly formed Kingdom of Many-Arrows.

“The world’s gone Gutbuster,” Bruenor muttered, a phrase referring to his wildest guardsmen and which Bruenor had aptly appropriated as a synonym for “crazy.”

“Better world, then,” Thibbledorf Pwent, leader of said guardsmen, was quick to respond.

“When we’re done with this, ye’re going back to Mirabar,” Bruenor said to Torgar. Torgar’s eyes widened and he blanched at the notion. “As me own emissary. Elastul done good and we’re needing to tell him he done good. And not one’s better for telling him that than Torgar Hammerstriker.”