David Weber - Oath of Swords

The northern hradani tribes knew little more about the Purple Lords than the Purple Lords knew about them, but even they had heard of Bortalik Bay, and Zarantha and Tothas had told him far more. Bortalik was the undisputed queen of the southern coast and determined to remain so. The enormous bay was not simply a superb natural anchorage; it also controlled the entire delta of the mighty Spear River and, with it, all trade that moved up the Spear or any of its tributaries. It was an advantage the Purple Lords used ruthlessly, and the power it gave them was obvious as Bahzell looked out upon their city.

He shook himself after a moment and turned his eyes away from the city walls and back out over the bay, searching for what he needed. Not too small, he thought, but not too big, either, and well away from the docks. Surely, among all that shipping, there must be-

His eyes settled on a single vessel, and he rubbed his chin. The twin-masted schooner was further from shore than he’d hoped, but aside from that it seemed perfect. The anchor light on its foredeck burned like a lonely star, for there was nothing else within a hundred yards of it, and even in the uncertain moonlight it looked low, sleek, and fast. Best of all, it was little larger than one of Kilthan’s riverboats, which suggested a reasonably small crew.

He studied it a moment longer, then nodded once.

There was no surf within the confines of the sheltered bay, but water washed and surged rhythmically as Bahzell laid aside his baldric and unbuckled his weapon harness. He’d left his arbalest and scale mail with Brandark, for he’d known this moment was coming, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he methodically stripped to the skin. He belted his dagger and a fat, jingling purse back about his naked waist, then laid his sheathed sword atop his discarded boots and clothing with a final pat he hoped looked less dubious than it felt. Part of him wanted to ask Tomanāk if this whole notion was truly a good idea, but the rest of him dug in stubborn toes and refused the temptation. A man couldn’t just go about asking “May I?” every time he had to make a decision, he told himself. Of course, he was relying heavily on what Tomanāk had told him about his sword, but even so-

He snorted and shook himself, ears half-flattened in amusement. Either it worked, or it didn’t, and standing here thinking of excuses to delay the inevitable wouldn’t change the final outcome! He grinned crookedly at the thought and waded out into the bay.

The bottom dropped off more sharply than he’d expected. It was going to be a longer swim than he’d planned, but a broken, drifting spar bumped up against him, as if to compensate, and he seized it gratefully. He was no fish, and the spar’s added buoyancy was welcome as he kicked his way across the bay. There was enough noise in the night to hide most sounds, yet there was no point taking chances, and he tried-not entirely successfully-to avoid splashes. It was a long, tiring swim; the bay was colder than he’d anticipated when he was only wading through the surf; and he was acutely aware that he was a land animal. He sensed the empty water between him and the bottom, how easily it could suck him under, and found himself thinking about sharks. Or octopuses-they ate people, too, didn’t they? And even if they didn’t, the gods only knew what else might be hiding just under the water, circling him, waiting . . . .

He pushed the thought firmly away. People swam in the sea all the time, and they’d hardly do that if something pounced on anyone who tried! Of course, that didn’t mean nothing ever pounced, and-

He looked up and inhaled in deep, heartfelt relief as he saw his destination close ahead. He kicked more strongly, and his ears twitched in amusement at his own eagerness to reach it. For all he knew, that vessel’s entire crew had seen him coming and was lined up behind the bulwark to knock him on the head, but it didn’t matter. The company of his thoughts on the swim out left him impatient to confront them even so.

He reached the schooner’s side and swam along it as quietly as he could. It was flush-decked, with a low sheer and a freeboard of no more than six or seven feet, yet that was high enough to make things difficult for a man in the water. He was confident that he could lunge high enough to get his fingers over the rail, but not without an appalling amount of noise, and he continued forward until he reached the flared bow. The bowsprit was a long, graceful lance, reaching out above his head, but the anchor cable plunged into the water beside him, and he laid a hand on the thick hawser. He craned his neck, peering up to where it curved over the anchor bits. It looked far more promising than trying to heave himself bodily over the side, and he nodded in satisfaction and shoved the broken spar away.

He got a grip on the hawser and hauled himself cautiously up it. A cathead thrust out above him, and he hooked an elbow around it, then curled his body up to get his knees over it. He crouched there a moment, catching his breath, listening to the trickling splash as water dribbled back into the bay from his skin, then shoved his head cautiously over the rail.

There was no one in sight, but he heard a fiddle and what sounded like an accordion, and what he’d thought was just an anchor light was also the gleam of light from the scuttles of a low, midships deckhouse. More light glowed from an open companion, and his ears flattened at the realization that some, at least, of the crew was awake. He had no special desire to harm anyone if he could help it, but they wouldn’t have any way of knowing he sought peaceable conversation, now would they? That was why he’d hoped to surprise them asleep in their berths, but it seemed he was going to have to do things the hard way.

He sighed and stood, balancing on the cathead, then stepped across to the deck. His bare feet made no sound, and he started towards the companion. If he could come down it and block access to the deck, then-

“Here, now! What’re you doing creeping about my ship?”

The sharp, crisp voice was behind him, and he spun like a cat, one hand going to his dagger.

“Ah, now! None of that!” the voice said even more sharply, and Bahzell swallowed an oath. There had been men on deck; he simply hadn’t seen them because they were so small they’d been hidden behind the deckhouse. Now five halflings stood facing him, and each of them held a drawn shortsword as if he knew what to do with it.

He stepped back against the rail, taking his hand carefully from his dagger, and his eyes narrowed. He’d seen several halflings since leaving Navahk, but none as big as these fellows. They might be little more than half his own height, but they were a good foot or more taller than the only other ones he’d met, and there was nothing hesitant about them. They seemed confident of their ability to deal with him, and the one who’d spoken cocked his head, then spat over the side.

“Ha!” The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’ve picked the wrong ship tonight, friend,” the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. “I think we’ll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it.”

“Now, now. Let’s not be doing anything hasty,” Bahzell rumbled back.

“Oh, we won’t be hasty, friend!” The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. “But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp.”

“And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all,” Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.