“And you could have skewered me neatly, as you have at least two others this day, as I counted the coin,” replied Ivor, tucking the pouch into the front of his breeches. “There. Let that scarred siren look for it there.”
Gareth nodded. “Equal shares?”
Ivor glanced at the bracelet still squirming on Gareth’s palm. “All save that thing, which you’re welcome to. It gives me the shivers as bad as Helgre.”
The bracelet stretched and coiled. Gareth heard the heavy scrape of a boot at the hatch above, and the living metal paused, as if it heard, too. Then, so fast he barely registered it was happening, the bracelet elongated, becoming little thicker than a wire, and darted under his cuff and up his sleeve like a grass snake. It was a startling and strange sensation, the cool smoothness of the metal and the three small bumps that were the gemstones winding up his arms, across the crook of his elbow, around his shoulder.
Around his neck.
Startled, Ivor cursed. Gareth grabbed at the metal snaking around his neck, praying he could rip it away before it choked him. The weird, bolt-casting creature would have the last laugh here, he thought.
But instead of wrapping tight around his windpipe and cutting off his air, as he expected, it lay loose like a necklace.
Cautiously he felt it between his fingers. It was a necklace. The smoothly forged metal had become small flat links, inset at even lengths with the garnets, just long enough to lie out of sight beneath his jerkin.
Ivor’s eyes were wide, his mouth open. Gareth shushed him as they were hailed from above and the silhouette of a head appeared in the square of light of the hatch above.
“Hoy! Are you gentlemen planning on joining the rest of us soon, or will you malinger all day?” It was the unmistakable voice of Ping, friendly and joking on the surface, with a deadly edge beneath.
“We’ve been dealing with a holdout,” called back Ivor. “And the ladder was damaged in the process. We’ll need a rope to get out.”
Ping called back over his shoulder for someone to bring a rope.
“Anything worth saving down there?” he said, turning back. Gareth stifled a cynical grin at the again-innocuous words, the trap set underneath.
“You’d better come see,” he called in turn. “Bags of coin, and boxes worth searching.”
A rope snaked down, and Ping descended it quickly. Blinking in the darkness, he called to the heads clustered above for a witchlight. It was swiftly tossed down, and he held the blue glowball up high, surveying the bags Ivor had thoughtfully piled together, the singed and shattered steps, and the strange, tattooed body. Under his breath he muttered something in his native tongue.
“Go up and help with the cargo, and then rest. You’ve earned it.” He laid his hand on Gareth’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. Gareth steeled himself not to flinch. He nodded, aware of the tickle of the small metal links against his chest. Ping carried no weapon, but tiny scarlet specks were scattered thickly over his cuff.
He swallowed away a sudden surge of nausea that had nothing to do with the wound on his forehead. He wished he’d thought to shut the creature’s eyes before Ping arrived. Now there’d be a bustle of unloading loot and other unsavory, urgent business, and he’d have no other time to do it.
“I’ll have some of the others help you haul this stuff over to the Orcsblood,” said Ping. “We can dump the rest of the bodies down here before we scuttle her.”
Ping’s eyes gleamed as he looked over the bags and wooden boxes with their port seals, indifferent to the dead body sprawled in front of him or to the carnage above.
Gareth followed Ivor up the rope, swearing to himself that as far as it lay in his power, no Jadaren would ever turn to piracy again.
Something seared over Fandour’s flesh, just for an instant, like a thread of white-hot fire. He flinched and concentrated, trying to follow the fading sensation as a dog would follow the scent of a rabbit gone to ground.
Somewhere on that distant plane his sundered avatar stirred. The Rhythanko artifact, in which an essential piece of himself was forged, link by link and jewel by jewel, was no longer shielded by the gith.
The scent was lost on the winds and current between the planes, and Fandour subsided into himself, inside the walls of his ancient prison. His avatar had forgotten him and no longer sought reunion.
But Fandour knew he had a chance of finding it now. Now it was loose in Faerun, that strange plane.
Chapter Two
THE MULMASTER DOCKS
1460 DR-THE YEAR OF THE MALACHITE SHADOWS
Gareth’s cramped fingers slipped on the slick wood, found a crack between two boards, and grasped it. The rotted wood crumbled, and his fingers lost their grip for the last time. He scrabbled desperately as he slid down the rough lip of the dock, hearing the water churn over the black rocks far below. Somewhere far below them their boat bobbed, dangerously near the sharp edges of those jagged boulders, tied to a barnacle-encrusted pier. The thin chain around his neck flexed slightly, as if realizing how close they were to falling. Gareth prayed it wouldn’t decide to cling on tight and strangle him in the process.
He cursed their turn of luck. It had gone well enough so far. Din and Barneb, assigned to second watch, had been happy to share in the strong wine he and Ivor had brought to break the tedium of the night hours, and in the musky vintage the guards hadn’t tasted the mild drug Ivor had slipped into the second bottle. Once Din and Barneb fell into a deep sleep, Gareth and Ivor had secured them against the side of the ship to prevent them from rolling around on deck, called the half hour themselves, and turned the glass. Gareth and Ivor were set to take third watch, so there was a good chance no one would come by to find the post abandoned.
They scuttled down the side of the Orcsblood undetected, cut the small boat free, and made for the distant, tarnished lights of Mulmaster as fast and silently as they could. They were both strong rowers. There was only one pair of oars secured in the boat, and one of them took over the chore of rowing the instant the other faltered, so although they were weary and sore when they reached the ring of anchored craft that bordered the town harbor, they made good time.
They glided between the ships, hung with green and yellow witchlight that reflected in the quiet water. Some of the craft were dead quiet, and sometimes a low conversation or the calling of the watch came to them on the gentle breeze from the decks high above. Ivor paddled, avoiding splashing, and Gareth took the tiller, straining to avoid coming too near to any craft. No one hailed them or warned them off, but they both knew that sharp eyes were following them at every moment.
Allies of Ping would betray them to the pirate. Enemies of Ping would hunt them down as suspected pirates. There was no help for them here.
Past the inner circle of craft they saw the docks of Mulmaster, with their red glass lanterns hanging from their piers. Here and there a figure stood on the planking, silhouetted by the soft yellow glow of the town’s lights behind them.
Ivor lifted the oars, drops of water reflecting the light of the dock lanterns and falling like rubies into the dark water. Gareth pointed at the shadowy pillars of the piers of one of the docks that loomed, dark and abandoned, over a barrier of sharp rocks that the low tide exposed. The only illumination came from the light of the fat crescent moon shining on the choppy water and a dim green swirl as some sea creature occasionally came close to the surface.
Ivor nodded silently in agreement. It would be better to creep into Mulmaster unperceived than to risk a challenge at the more populated dock.