“Ah, Mica. You’re still here. The governor would like to talk to you.”
The dwarf inclined his head to them both and walked to join Lord Bight at the end of the pier, where he and his officers waited for the rowers.
Commander Durne looked at Linsha, then took a closer look. “You have straw in your hair and a cut on your neck that wasn’t there earlier.” He grinned. “Did the cat put up a fight?”
To her surprise, Linsha suddenly became very self-conscious of her dirty, smelly clothes and her grimy face and intensely aware of how close Commander Durne was standing to her. She clutched the cat and the logbook close to her, like a shield, and sidled a step away. Fortunately the cat was perfectly comfortable where she was and made no effort to squirm away. A purr rumbled contentedly from her furry throat.
“Ah, no,” Linsha said quickly to hide her discomfort. “The dwarf ambushed me in the cargo hold.”
“Mica?” said Durne, surprised.
“He thought I was a looter.”
“I didn’t think he had it in him. He’s usually too fussy about his appearance to bother attacking people.”
Linsha heard no derision in his words, only an observation. “He said he’s the healer to the Governor’s Court.”
“Yes. He’s very good. He read the previous healer’s report and insisted on examining the Whydah for himself.”
“Have any of the healers recognized this illness?” Linsha asked.
Durne crossed his arms and stared out into the darkness of the harbor. “No,” he said briefly.
They lapsed into silence and stood together, gazing into the night. The darkness was velvety black, heavy with heat and haze. The moon had not risen yet, and little could be seen beyond the scattered lights on ships and pleasure craft anchored beyond the piers. There was still no hint of wind, and the water rested quietly under a gentle swell.
“Good night to burn a ship,” Linsha said softly.
They heard the splash of approaching oars, and two large towboats appeared out of the night. Quickly and efficiently, ropes from the Whydah’s bow were attached to the sterns of the two boats while the plank was drawn aside and the freighter’s moorings were cast off. A chanter on the foremost towboat began a slow, rhythmic song, and the oars on both boats bit deep into the water. The Whydah began to move.
Lord Bight and his bodyguards, the City Guards, Mica, and Linsha watched without speaking as the doomed vessel began her slow journey to the funeral pyre. They watched her glide slowly into the darkness until she was little more than a vague shape against the distant lights, then she vanished completely. Minutes ticked by.
In Linsha’s arms, the ship’s cat lifted her head and pricked her ears. A yellow light flared far away in the inky blackness, followed by a second burst. Two lights, like tiny dancing flames, faded, then brightened and spread into two glowing balls. Suddenly there was a muffled explosion, and the two lights soared into one furious column of flame that consumed the ship and cremated the dead in one last glowing conflagration that could be seen from all sides of the harbor and as far as the city walls.
When the flames at last began to die, a loud, sonorous horn blew a farewell call from the harbormaster’s tower. A boat anchored in the harbor responded by ringing its bell, and in moments people on every craft in the bay were ringing bells or blowing horns to pay their last respects to the harbormaster and the other dead. The sounds mingled into a long, wild dirge that carried the grief and fear of a city high into the night sky, where the gods no longer dwelt to hear.
When at last the horns and bells fell silent and the flames died down into the water, Lord Bight passed a hand over his eyes and turned away, his face stony. He gestured to his men to follow. Subdued, the Governor’s Guards took their places and began the walk back up the pier toward shore.
Linsha, with the cat and the ship’s log still in her arms, walked behind Commander Durne. The dwarf, Mica, stalked beside the lord governor. As the troop approached the boardwalk at the end of the pier, Linsha became aware of a large crowd of people blocking the way. It was a mixed bunch, drawn mostly from the taverns, gaming houses, and sheds along the harbor, men and women, a few minotaurs, a draconian or two, some rambunctious barbarians, and the ever-present kender, who were drawn to crowds like flies to cider. They were quiet at first, but as the lord governor approached, they started shouting questions to draw his attention. Behind them, a few City Guards shifted nervously and waited with the horses while another thin line of guards was all that stood between the press of people and the governor.
He slowed as he approached them, drew to his full height, and swept them with a raking regard.
“Lord Bight, what’s happening?” shouted several at once.
“Why are you taking people away?” a woman cried.
“We’ve heard hundreds have died. They say the illness is a curse!”
Another angry voice shouted, “How many more ships will you burn?”
More people joined the throng, sailors and merchants, pickpockets and servants. Their voices rose, confused and angry, and muddled together until there was only a babble of noise that assaulted the ears and made no sense.
Commander Durne and Captain Dewald, without apparent concern, sent soldiers to bolster the line of the City Guard and to surround the governor.
Lord Bight climbed onto a pile of crates and raised his arms to the crowd to ask for silence. Gradually, with much squabbling and muttering, the onlookers grew quiet.
Using a loud voice and succinct words, the lord governor answered the questions fairly and fittingly and explained the disaster as best he could over a renewed barrage of more questions, comments, and drunken heckling.
Linsha watched, impressed by Lord Bight’s unending patience. He seemed to radiate calm in his voice and in every movement of his body, and his words were chosen to comfort as well as inform. The noisy crowd slowly subsided under the hypnotic quality of his deep, even tones. So powerful was the effort he exerted to sway the mob that no one who stood within hearing remained unmoved by the enchantment of his voice.
Linsha and the guards were so intent on watching Lord Bight, they didn’t notice a gang of boisterous youths who had joined the crowd late and were hovering along the fringes, laughing drunkenly and whispering conspiratorially among themselves while they passed several large bottles of ale around.
A stocky man, clothed in a nondescript tunic and leggings, eased into their midst and handed them a jug of dwarven spirits. A smirk and a laugh crossed his face as he whispered something to their leader, a gangly fisherman’s son. The boy choked with mirth as at a joke and leaned over to tell his friends. In the middle of their guffaws, the stranger slipped away into the shadows of a dark alley.
The boys passed the jug around a few more times for courage, then one by one they picked up small items from the ground, the wharf, or nearby piles of cargo and eased their way toward the front of the crowd.
The fisherman’s son took the last swallow from one of the bottles of ale. “Help, we’re under attack!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, and he hurled the bottle in the general direction of Lord Bight’s guards. His friends threw their ammunition, and a virtual rain of bottles, rocks, bale hooks, and broken boards fell among the guards.
Several guards fell, bleeding and dazed. The rest drew their weapons with shouts of fury.
The crowd gasped like people startled out of a dream. They saw the fallen warriors, the drawn swords, and pandemonium broke loose.