Diran's vision had cleared to the point where he could make out the feral smile of his new owner.
"I'm counting on it."
"… hear me, Diran?"
"Hmm?" The priest looked at Yvka as if just realizing she was present. "Sorry. I was just thinking about the first time I met Cathmore. My parents were fishers, and one day out on the Lhazaar, we were attacked by raiders. They killed my mother and father, but they let me live, not because they couldn't bring themselves to slay a child, but because they could make a profit on me. They sold me to a slaver who specialized in procuring children, and I ended up for sale in a secret slave market in Karrnath. It was Cathmore who bought me."
"What did Cathmore want with you?" Tresslar asked.
"Aldarik Cathmore is an assassin. He's also Emon Gorsedd's half-brother. They were partners-or at least, they were back then. Cathmore's job was to find new students for Emon's academy in Atur. Quite often these students were purchased from slavers, but sometimes they were simply abducted or in rare cases adopted after one of Emon's operatives killed the rest of their family. Cathmore did more than just find students for Emon, though. He also taught the new recruits, introducing them to life in the Brotherhood of the Blade."
"Then what's he doing in the Principalities?" Ghaji asked.
For that was the news that Yvka had come to deliver: the Shadow Network had learned that a man called Aldarik Cathmore had passed through Perhata several weeks ago, accompanied by an orc and a kalashtar. They'd purchased numerous supplies in Perhata, and the orc still made an occasional supply run, but as for Cathmore, no one-not a single operative in the entire Network-had any inkling of why the man was in the area or what he was doing.
"I can help a bit with the why," Diran said. "Cathmore and Emon had a falling out when I was still a child. Neither of them agreed on the best way to run the academy. Emon believed in keeping his organization small, lean, and mobile, while Cathmore wanted to expand the Brotherhood. Business was good during the final years of the Last War, and Cathmore hoped to establish his own academy elsewhere in Khorvaire. When Emon refused to support him financially, Cathmore tried to have him killed. After he failed, Emon gave his half-brother a choice: leave or die. Cathmore left." Diran paused, remembering. Then he pushed the memories aside and turned to Yvka. "What I don't understand is how you knew of my connection to Cathmore."
Yvka smiled. "I make it my business to know. I probably know things about you that you don't know yourself."
"Do you think Cathmore's running an assassins' academy here in Perhata?" Ghaji asked.
'It's possible. He's had twenty years to set himself up in business, and since Emon operates out of Karrnath, perhaps Cathmore decided to carve out his own territory here in the Principalities." Diran smiled grimly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he did so as a way of getting back at me, at least in part. He knew I hailed from here. Perhaps he even had hopes of luring me back."
"Why would he want to do that?" Hinto asked. "Because I'm the one who stopped him from killing Emon Gorsedd."
Eneas staggered down the street, but he had no trouble remaining on his feet. Like most Lhazaarites, he'd spent his lifetime on the deck of one sailing vessel or another, and he actually felt more at home on dry land when he was drunk. The way the world spun around him and the ground dipped and rolled beneath his feet felt not only natural but comforting, and Eneas could use some comfort right now. Not because of his run-in with the thrice-damned Coldhearts or the man in black with the steel-gray eyes-Eneas wasn't one to back down from a fight-especially when he'd swallowed a bit too much ale. Even so, though the man in black had interfered and sent him on his way, Eneas wasn't so drunk that he didn't realize the man had done him a favor. What bothered Eneas right now was what waited for him at the docks. That was the real reason he'd been drinking so heavily throughout the day.
The sun had already dipped below the Hoarfrost Mountains to the west, and night was settling over Perhata. Shadows lengthened, thickened, and deepened, like chill dark waters slowly seeping through the streets. The wind blowing in off the Gulf of Ingjald cut into Eneas's skin like tiny slivers of ice, and though he was a Lhazaarite born and bred, and cold normally didn't bother him overmuch, he shivered. He was a free-hire merchant, which meant that he'd haul any cargo for the right price and no questions asked. He owned a small sailing craft called the Boundless, and his boat-and the freedom she represented-meant more to him than anything in this life. Even so, he considered turning around, walking away from the docks, heading inland, and never returning to the sea or his beloved boat.
The shadows were omnipresent now, and though purple tinged the sky, it was beginning to edge toward black. Eneas used to love the night, used to love being out on the Lhazaar, sail billowing in the wind as he charted his course by gazing up at the canopy of stars above, but he didn't like the night anymore. He doubted he ever would again.
He reached the main docks of Perhata. There were private docks elsewhere, of course, but these were the ones where most residents and visitors moored their craft. This was also where the fishmarkets were located, as well as taverns so seedy they made the common room of the King Prawn look like the most elegant Sharn teahouse. Normally Eneas patronized these taverns-the ale was lousy, but there was always a rowdy good time to be had, along with an invigorating fight or two. Today, however, he hadn't been able to stand the thought of remaining close to the docks, so he'd been forced to go further into the city in search of refreshment. He wouldn't be returning now if he hadn't needed to. No, been compelled to.
He reached up, pulled down the collar of his tunic, and scratched at a pair of small bite marks positioned along the thick blood vessel between shoulder and neck. The marks itched and throbbed, but no amount of scratching provided relief. Eneas wondered if he'd ever know relief again.
By the time he'd walked down the dock to the slip where he'd moored the Boundless, full night had descended. At least he wouldn't keep his passenger waiting. Perhaps she'd release him out of appreciation for his promptness. Unfortunately, he feared she had other plans for him.
Fog was rolling in off the Lhazaar, and though everbright lanterns stationed at periodic intervals lit the dock, their softly glowing light did little to penetrate the mist. If anything, they only made visibility worse by coloring the fog an eerie, sour green, but Eneas didn't need to see to find his boat. He could feel it, or rather he felt her, calling to him, impatient for his return. He reached the slip where his vessel was moored. The Boundless wasn't anything speciaclass="underline" one mast, small hold, even smaller cabin. The boat had a few minor touches added by a shipwright who was also an artificer, but nothing extraordinary-spells to make the mast stronger, the hull barnacle-resistant, the sail less prone to tears, that sort of thing. The Boundless was hardly an elemental galleon or a shard-racer, Eneas knew, but he loved the old boat as fiercely as he'd ever loved anything in his life. All he wanted now was to get rid of the creature that lay within her hold and have the Boundless all to himself again.
Eneas jumped onto the deck with a surprising grace that belied both his heavy frame and drunken state. The fog was moving in so fast now that he could barely see more than a foot in front of his face as he moved toward the hull, but he was on the Boundless and could find his way around her with both eyes put out if he had to. The fog seemed to cling unnaturally to his body, forming a slimy cold film on his flesh that set him to shivering. He opened the hatch and still trembling-though perhaps not entirely from the fog's chill now-he climbed down the short ladder into the hold.