“Is that enough to deal with Kraken Queen?”
Geran allowed himself a predatory grin. “Oh, yes. If I can find her, I can finish her. It’s just a matter of tracking her down.”
“Good hunting, then.” Nimessa stepped close and brushed her lips to Geran’s cheek. “I must be going. I still have much to put in order in our tradeyard.” Then she drew back, nodded to Hamil, and made her way back down the gangway to her waiting armsmen and carriage. The driver tapped his reins, and the carriage rolled away.
Geran gazed after the coach. Absently he lifted his hand to his cheek.
“I think that young woman is fond of you,” Hamil remarked. “I suppose it’s understandable. You have an unfair advantage, since you gallantly saved her from a fate worse than death. Damn the luck!”
The swordmage shook his head. “I don’t know. Even if you’re right, well, how many times can I rescue her from pirates?”
Hamil rolled his eyes. “Trust me, Geran. It’s a good start.”
Geran tried to put Nimessa Sokol out of his mind. He looked over at the carpenters engaged with the work on the mainmast. The stepping of the mast was almost finished, but it would take hours to rig the stays, the braces, and the heavy tackle for the sails. “There isn’t much more we can do here. I need to check on the provisioning order at Erstenwold’s.”
“A fine suggestion,” Hamil said. They paused to speak with Worthel, the ship’s first mate-a wiry Red Sail shipmaster of middle years from Tantras, one of a dozen Red Sails who’d volunteered to sail under the harmach’s banner. After advising him to keep an eye open for Galehand, Geran and Hamil left him to oversee the rest of the mast repairs and headed down the gangplank to the crowded wharves of Hulburg.
Compared to some of the other cities on the Moonsea, Hulburg was small and rustic. Laborers from a variety of foreign lands almost outnumbered the native Hulburgans. As they walked north up Plank Street, Geran and Hamil passed dwarves in their heavy boots and iron hauberks, Melvauntians and Thentians in the doublets and squared caps that were the fashion in those cities, and all sorts of clerks and scribes and armsmen in the colors of the various merchant companies who had concessions in Hulburg. In the ten years Geran had been away in the southern lands, Hulburg had filled up and overflowed. Even after five months he was still getting used to the sights and sounds of this bustling, broad-shouldered trade-town that had mysteriously replaced the sleepy little town of his youth.
They passed several groups of foreign laborers standing around on corners or waiting by storefronts-waiting for work, or so Geran guessed. People came to Hulburg from all over the Moonsea to seek their fortunes, since the timber camps and mines of the foothills offered a chance to earn a wage. They were poor, desperate men, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with tattered cloaks and threadbare clothing. Some had spent their whole lives drifting from one city to another, wandering Faerun in search of some place to call home.
When they crossed Cart Street, Geran noticed a commotion to his right. A band of a dozen dirty men in ragged cloaks marched down the center of the street, pushing other passersby aside. Most carried cudgels or short staves, with knives or short swords thrust through their belts. Their left hands were wrapped in gray strips of cloth with a broad, sooty smear across the back of the hand. Townsfolk muttered and glared at them as they shoved through the crowds, but the ruffians paid them no mind.
Geran tapped Hamil’s shoulder to get his attention. “Cinderfists,” he said in low voice. “I don’t think I’ve seen them in the mercantile district before. What are they doing here?”
“Looking for trouble, as far as I can tell,” Hamil answered. He looked around. “Just as well there aren’t any Moonshields nearby. I think we’d have front-row seats for a riot.”
The two paused and watched the gang members pass. Most of the other people in the street hurried on by, avoiding the eyes of the Cinderfists and steering well clear of their path. Geran stood his ground, which earned him a few hostile glares from the ruffians. But he and Hamil were both well armed, and their clothes marked them as men of high station; the Cinderfists either knew who Geran was, or weren’t quite so bold as to accost gentlemen in the middle of Hulburg’s trade district. Geran met the eyes of one Cinderfist, a tall, lank-haired fellow with bad teeth and a sallow cast. The man snorted as if amused by Geran’s attention and muttered something to his comrades as he sauntered past. Several snickered.
I don’t like the look of the tall one, Hamil said silently. I’ve got half a mind to teach him some manners.
“Leave him be for now,” Geran answered. “They’re not breaking any law of the harmach’s-not yet, at least.”
A technicality, Hamil answered. But he smiled pleasantly at the ruffians and allowed them to continue on their way. The gray-cloaked men wandered on down Cart Street, leaving the two companions behind.
“You’d think a dozen fellows like that ought to have some trade to practice in the middle of the day,” Geran said.
Hamil nodded. “The Verunas employed hundreds. When the House pulled out of Hulburg, they just left their woodcutters and miners and drivers and the rest to fend for themselves. No wonder some of them have fallen in with the Cinderfist gang.”
“What choice did the harmach have? He couldn’t let House Veruna stay after they helped Sergen in the attempt to unseat him.”
“No, he couldn’t,” Hamil admitted. “Your uncle did what Darsi Veruna forced him to do. But until some more trade costers or merchant Houses take over Veruna camps, those Cinderfists won’t have anything to do other than stand around on street corners and trouble passersby.”
“That isn’t so easy as it seems. Nimessa told me that House Veruna threatened retaliation against any other Moonsea companies that buy up their former rights.” Geran fell silent, thinking over the Cinderfist situation. His friend was right about the unintended consequences of House Veruna’s exile, but there was more to it than that. He’d also heard stories of Cinderfists threatening or beating other foreigners in search of work, pushing them to either join their movement or leave Hulburg and search for prospects elsewhere. A thought struck him, and he looked down at Hamil. “Have the Verunas threatened the Red Sails anywhere?”
“Us?” Hamil shook his head. “No, I would’ve told you if I’d heard anything like that. You’re a stakeholder, after all. But if you want my guess, I’d say that the Verunas have already assumed we’re no friends of theirs.”
“True enough.” Geran clapped Hamil on the shoulder. They walked on another half block and came to the sign for Erstenwold’s Provisioners, which hung above a large, somewhat ramshackle old wooden building. Several clerks and customers counted, haggled, or carried goods in and out of the store. Business had been good for the Erstenwold store in the months since House Veruna’s banishment from Hulmaster. No one was extorting native Hulburgan establishments anymore; the wary truce between the large foreign merchant companies and native Hulburgan establishments was holding. Only now there was the Cinderfist situation to complicate matters, Geran reminded himself.
Geran and Hamil took the steps up to the old wooden porch and pushed their way into the store proper. A long wooden counter ran the length of the room on the right side, with a familiar clutter of stocked shelves and various pieces of tack and harness hanging on the walls. The uneven floorboards were worn to a glossy polish by decades of foot traffic, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight slanting through the windows. Geran had always liked the place; the old wood, the fresh leather, and the pipeleaf all blended into a rich, comfortable aroma. “Mirya?” he called.