The bay was calm that morning. A light breeze ruffled the water into little wavelets and tickled the dolphins that sported in the swell. Ever so gently Ulin and Notwen swung the Second Thoughts around to point her bow out to open water, fired the boiler, and started the paddlewheel turning. The boat started slowly and gradually gained momentum as she left the island behind. Notwen was very careful not to repeat his mistake of the day before. He found their location on his map and carefully plotted a course that would take them northwest toward the nearest land, then west along the coast to the cove where the settlement they sought was located. Ulin pottered with the steam engine, devising experiments in his head that dealt with steam, temperatures, and pressures.
Neither one of them noticed the pale form that slid out of the rocks on the island and dived into the water, nor did they see that same form glide through the water behind the boat all the long way to the northern shore of Blood Bay.
If Flotsam bore a resemblance to a heap of debris washed ashore after a storm, Dead Pirate’s Cove looked like a ship’s graveyard. The cove itself was a difficult place to find, for its narrow entrance was protected on the east by a high ridge of barren hills and on the west by a saltmarsh that clogged the mouth of a narrow sluggish river. In more prosperous years, pirates had used the river and its marshy delta as a hide-out and had left remnants of their passing: a few old shacks on the dunes north of the marsh, an abandoned longboat, the burned ruins of a galley, its blackened ribs still poking though the sand. It wasn’t until Captain Grimborne Reever arrived, however, that the cove earned its accepted name.
Legend told of Captain Reever’s magnificent treasure and how he hid it in chests ensorceled with spells and buried it somewhere in the cove. It was no sooner buried than he poisoned his entire crew and left their bodies as guardians for his fabulous prize. Unfortunately for Captain Reever, the dead pirates resented their captain’s greed and bloody-minded selfishness, and their spirits harried him until, in a fit of madness, he drove his ship aground on the mud flats and ran screaming onto his sword. After that people still came to Dead Pirate’s Cove to hide or escape, but more came to hunt for the treasure. A few old pirates, seeing the way the wind was blowing after the arrival of Malystryx, took their ships to the cove, hauled them ashore near Captain Reever’s abandoned craft, and formed their own small settlement. It was rough, it was crude, but it was theirs. Others joined them, and in time the settlement became a village of sorts with its own collection of taverns, gaming houses, shops, and houses built out of pieces of old ships, mud and reed, or whatever was handy. If anyone ever found the captain’s treasure, they never confessed, for their lives would not be worth a bucket of warm spit. The red dragon had spies everywhere and would know of the find before the first piece of steel or the first gem reached the light of day. Of course, that knowledge did not stop people from hoping-or looking on moonlit nights.
A few small boats and an old caravel were anchored in the cove when Ulin and Notwen arrived late that night. They maneuvered the Second Thoughts past the sandbars and the anchored craft and took her to the sole pier that extended out from the marshy shore into the water from a boardwalk worn gray by time and salt spray.
The strange noises emanating from the steam engine drew a small crowd from the boardwalk and the shacks that lined the cove’s so-called waterfront. The spectators held torches and lanterns and made vociferous comments on the noise, the steam, the smoke, the reliability, and the appearance of the little craft.
Notwen blithely ignored them. While Ulin jumped to the dock and tied the boat fast, the gnome shut down the boiler, released the steam, and banked the fire.
“Suffering seahorses!” a gruff old man shouted from the boardwalk. “What do you call that thing?” He limped down to the dock, his lantern swinging beside his wooden leg.
Notwen stepped out of the cabin and drew himself up to his full height of three and a half feet. “It is a fire-powered hot box and boiler with a steam-driven rod and gears that convert vertical motion to horizontal motion through a system of shafts and cogs that turn a paddlewheel, making sails obsolete.”
The old man on the dock stared down at him. “Forget I asked.” He turned to Ulin, hoping for briefer answers. “This is my dock. You have to pay to tie up here.” Ulin gave him the response he wanted by pulling out his coin bag and paying the full amount without a quibble. The old man cheered up enough to recommend an inn when Ulin queried. “The Loathly Dragon,” he grunted. “It’s the only inn in this mud hole.”
Ulin, with Notwen close behind, followed the old man along the dock and up a slight incline to the boardwalk. The crowd, unable to see very much in the darkness, quickly broke up and went off to their previous pursuits. With a gnarled finger, the old man pointed the way to the inn then quickly ducked into his hut and slammed the door. Ulin immediately understood why people did not linger in the open in this place. The proximity to the marsh made the settlement a prime lure for mosquitoes and biters of every kind. Smoking torches burned along the paths and at the edges of the village, but nothing seemed to slow the clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed everywhere.
Ulin squinted and fanned his face as he hurried toward the inn. There were no roads laid out in this haphazard community and no real planning. Paths followed the layout of the buildings and branched off in every direction. Sidewalks had been built over the muddy places and here and there a rope bridge stretched across the open spaces between the old ships or the few two-story buildings. There were few lights to attract insects, and all the doors were closed. Those windows that were open to catch the light wind were screened with layers of cheesecloth or netting.
At the edge of the settlement, Ulin saw the Loathly Dragon perched on a foundation of old pilings. It was a squat, solid building made of thick stucco and mud bricks to withstand storms and heavy winds. Shutters covered the windows, and a wide porch stretched across the front. Someone with a sense of humor had painted the face of a large red dragon on the white stucco around the door to give the impression that guests entering the door were walking into the mouth of a dragon.
He and Notwen entered the inn, closing the door behind them. Customers in the busy common room barely paused to study them before they went back to their drinking and entertainment. The innkeeper came to offer his services. Yes, he had one room left, his best. He asked a ridiculous price, but Ulin was too tired to haggle. He needed sleep, and he wanted to be up early to begin their search for Kethril. He paid for the room, two nights in advance, and asked for a tankard of ale to be sent to their room. Notwen asked for cider. Smiling at such generosity, the innkeeper escorted them to the room personally and delivered not only the drinks but thick, hearty sandwiches as well. The two travelers partook of their meal, crawled under the mosquito netting on the bed, and fell into a deep, well-earned sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
You slimy sack of rotten squid squeezings!”
“Squid squeezings? Squid squeezings!”
Lucy heard the words repeated in rising tones of rage. She hurried faster along the sidewalk. This was the second time in one day she had been forced to go to this particular gambling house to quell a disturbance. It was getting tiresome. She pushed open the swinging doors and marched inside, her face a mask of displeasure. To her silent gratification, the shouting in the crowded room suddenly stopped. Only the two quarrelers did not seem to notice her presence. They fought with fists and feet in a scrabbling pile on the floor. Lucy strode forward and wrenched the two fishermen apart. She had learned in her brief tenure as sheriff that common sense, fairness, firmness, and an unbreachable façade of self-confidence were the best measures to deal with the denizens of Flotsam. If she slipped with the slightest hint of self-abasement, they would chew her up and spit her out for fish bait. Once again her attitude paid off, for the two men looked up at her wide-eyed and made no more attempts to smash each other’s heads on the floor.