Along the riverbanks above the first of the bridges, a dismal little town of sorts had grown up in the city ruins. Although the looming stone buildings here were still mostly abandoned, the lower floors of a dozen or so in the immediate area had evidently been reoccupied. Lanterns hanging from posts outside marked the locations of taverns, festhalls, boardinghouses, provisioners, fences, armorers, sailmakers, and others who did business with the sort of brigands and pirates who lurked in the ruins. Despite the late hour, dozens of men-and a few women-loitered out in the street, staggered drunkenly from one place to the next, or simply lay sprawled on the cobblestones wherever they’d fallen asleep or passed out. More than a few seemed to be half-orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, and other such creatures, but the humans seemed to pay them no special attention.
“We’ll try the taverns first and keep our ears open,” Geran said. “Let’s get the mood of the place before we start asking dangerous questions.”
They headed for the first taphouse they saw. A crude signboard hung above the door, showing the image of two busty mermaids. Directly under the sign a gray-bearded sailor slumbered in the street. Geran stepped over him and pushed open the door. Inside, raucous sailors crowded a small room that looked like it might once have been a well-off merchant’s parlor. Simple tables and benches replaced all of the old furnishings, and an overturned skiff served as the unlikely bar. In one corner, a man in a patched cape strummed at a lute, but no one was paying him much attention. They were watching a contest of knife throwing, with the target hanging close by the door. As Geran ducked through the door, a small dagger thunked into the wood not far from his face. Drunken sailors and their rented lovers roared with laughter as he flinched aside.
“I think you’ve found what you’re looking for,” Hamil said. “What a charming place.”
Geran gave the knife thrower a hard look and made his way over to the bar. Hamil and Sarth followed, while the game resumed behind them. The barkeep was a balding dwarf with a striking scar across his mouth that notched his beard. He looked up at Geran with a yellow-toothed grin. “Dun’t think I’ve seen ye before,” he said. “Are ye lads from the Impilturian merchant lying on t’other side o’ the river?”
Geran was momentarily tempted to say yes just to satisfy the fellow’s curiosity, but of course he had no idea whether any of the other crewmen were in the room. He decided that it would be best to say as little as possible. “No, we’re new in town. What do you have to drink?”
“I’ve got a keg of Hillsfar’s own Moonsea Stout tapped, and I’ll draw ye a mug for half a silver talent. Or I could find ye a bottle of southern wine, though that’ll cost ye dear. It’s hard to come by.”
“The stout, then,” Geran told him. He fished two silver coins out of the purse at his belt and handed mugs to Sarth and Hamil. His companions found stools fashioned from old barrels sawn in half around a battered old capstan salvaged from some wreck or another, and settled in to nurse their ale and observe the crowd. Geran lingered to speak with the barkeep, and motioned for him to stay a moment.
“What more are ye wantin’?” the dwarf asked.
“The warship out in the river. Who is she?”
“That would be Moonshark.”
“Is she a Black Moon ship?”
“Why, are ye lookin’ for a billet?”
“We might be.” Geran shrugged and glanced at the patrons of the taphouse. “Are any of these fellows Moonshark crewmen?”
“Dun’t think so,” the dwarf answered. He took up a rag and started wiping down the bar; Geran decided to leave him to his work instead of pressing the question. He joined Hamil and Sarth at their table.
They drank a round, listening to the people around them. Geran and Hamil made a point of keeping up an animated discussion about various taverns in the cities of the Vast, providing Sarth with the opportunity to study their neighbors surreptitiously. The tavern-goers included seamen from the ships hidden in Zhentil Keep’s ruined harbor, sellswords on hard times, and brigands and outlaws who preferred the company of others of their kind.
After half an hour, Geran leaned in to speak to Sarth and Hamil. “I think we’ve heard everything we’re going to,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find some of Moonshark’s crewmen on the street. We might find one that’s talkative when drunk.”
“A good idea,” Sarth agreed. The three of them drained their mugs then filed out into the dark street outside. The hour was growing late, but there was little sign of it in the pirate den. The faint strains of music still echoed across the water, broken by the occasional sound of breaking glass or a shouted oath. They headed upriver, toward the next island of lanternlight they could make out.
A door on their right burst open, and a party of boisterous men flooded out into the street. Geran halted to let them pass, but one of the men-actually a bandy-legged half-orc with one tusk at the corner of his mouth-turned and met his eyes. A dark scowl came over the half-orc’s features. “Now what d’you think you’re lookin’ at, you goat-buggering bastard?” he demanded.
Geran bit back a retort and nodded down the street with more friendliness than he felt. “Just on my way to the next taproom. Don’t mind me.”
“I’ll mind whatever I decide to mind,” the half-orc growled. The fellow’s companions-five of them-moved to surround Geran and his comrades. They were a dirty, ill-favored lot, dressed in ill-fitting leather and armed with cutlasses or cudgels at their belts. At least a couple of them seemed unsteady on their feet, more than a little in their cups, but the sallow half-orc was unfortunately not one of them. “I don’t think I’ve seen you lot ’round here before. You ain’t in any crew I know. That means you’re mine.”
It seems we’ve seen this more than once, Hamil remarked. The halfling shifted a half step behind Geran, hiding his hands from view.
Geran glanced over his shoulder at Sarth and gave the tiefling a subtle shake of the head. “No magic,” he mumbled under his breath. Sarth scowled, but he nodded. It would be hard to masquerade as common sellswords if thunderclaps and blasts of fire erupted in the street. Then he looked back at the half-orc glaring at him. He doubted it would work, but he had to try. “We’ve got no cause to quarrel,” he said. “We’ll go our way, and you can go yours.”
The half-orc spat something in Orcish and swept out his cutlass. Geran had no idea what he’d said, but as far as he could tell negotiations were at an end, and he drew his own cutlass an instant later-nearly sticking the blade in the scabbard because the shape and weight were different from the fine elven steel he was accustomed to. The other brigands followed suit; the sound of steel rasping on leather filled the air, followed an instant later by the ring of steel on steel. Geran blocked the half-orc’s first vicious cut by passing it over his head then stepped close to smash the heavy handguard into the side of the half-orc’s head. The half-orc staggered back, and Geran immediately turned and leaped at the man to his right. They hacked at each other for three quick passes of steel, then Geran slashed the cutlass out of his hand with a nasty cut to the forearm. The cutlass dropped to the cobblestones with a shrill ring, and when the brigand doubled over holding his arm, Geran surged forward and planted a boot in the center of the man’s belt. With a strong shove of his leg, he sent the wounded brigand stumbling over the side of the quay and into the water.
Sarth blocked the cudgel of the man attacking him with a two-foot iron baton-actually his magical rod, disguised by his illusion magic. Then the tiefling bludgeoned his foe to the ground with a rain of blows to the head and shoulders. Meanwhile Hamil efficiently hamstrung the swordsman moving in to attack Sarth from the side, and kicked the man unconscious when he fell to the cobblestones. “Behind you!” he called to Geran.