“Yet somehow, some gods-yours, or mine, or some who care not what shape of body a soul inhabits-granted my wish. This night, I do not think there is a more content being on Krynn than I.”
Waydol stood up and rested a massive hand on Darin’s forehead, then rumpled his hair. “Go down and sleep well, Heir. I think it is best that I keep a vigil tonight, before we talk of whether Aurhinius is an honorable foe or not.”
Darin saw there was no disputing or cajoling Waydol, so he went down to his hut and wrapped himself in stone-warmed furs. He expected another restless night, but it was as if Waydol’s touch had been the sleeping spell from Sirbones. Darin slept without dreams until the sun was well above the horizon.
* * * * *
In Istar, the Conclave of Wizards met once more beneath the Tower of High Sorcery, without accomplishing much. Tarothin was absent, which everyone expected and no one remarked on.
Rubina was also absent, which no one had expected, and on which more than a few people did remark, even at length.
Also in Istar, the kingpriest met with a certain priest who served Zeboim the Sea Queen. At least the man was said to be a priest, and not a renegade mage.
The man spoke wisely and well, but not even the kingpriest, let alone those who ushered the man to and from the kingpriest’s chambers, could look unmoved on the visitor’s mask.
It was made in the shape of a gigantic turtle’s head, the beak studded with barbed fangs. To be sure, the Sea Queen took the form of a giant turtle when she moved through the waters, but when she did, she brought evil and destruction.
Also, whatever shone in the eyeholes of the mask, it was not wholly the priest’s own eyes.
* * * * *
Clouds had swept across most of the sky, effacing Lunitari and most of the stars, when Pirvan and his companions came out of Jemar’s warehouse. Tarothin remained behind, promising to join them in the morning after visiting certain friends from the towers.
The harborfront streets were narrow and ill-lit at the best of times, and not improved by the darkness the clouds had spread across Istar. Pirvan took his bearings from the masthead lights of ships tied along the wharves, then turned on to a street that proclaimed itself Glad Girls’ Lane. This close to the harbor, Pirvan suspected that he knew when and why the girls were glad.
They were three streets up from the water, and only two streets from the better-lighted avenues, when Pirvan held up a hand to halt the band. Then he cocked his head, seeking to pick human sounds from the rising wind.
“I think we’re being followed,” he whispered. “Grow eyes in the backs of your heads, and be ready to run at my command. But don’t be separated.”
Their men-at-arms and Haimya nodded. After a moment, so did Grimsoar One-Eye and his two sailors from Sea Leopard. The hesitation made Pirvan uneasy. Treachery in Grimsoar was unthinkable-or was it? Every man had his price, and with the stakes as high as they were someone might have been able to put forward-
The darkness came alive, but it was the darkness ahead of them.
That and silence gave the attackers surprise at the outset, and they did not waste it. One man-at-arms died with his throat gaping, and the second gurgled with steel between his ribs. But he did not die before his own blade flew clear and thrust up under his killer’s chin, to drive onward into the brain.
This left the two sailors, one with a purse from Jemar, as well as Grimsoar, Pirvan, and Haimya, fighting against at least thrice their numbers. Grimsoar cut down the odds somewhat by chopping down one attacker with a sideways cut that nearly severed the man at the waist. Then he slowed a second man by kicking him in the knee and opening his cheek with a dagger.
Pirvan thrust low to find his dagger point grating on armor under the ragged workingman’s clothes, then brought his knee up into his opponent’s groin. That doubled him over, bringing his head down far enough that Pirvan could slam the hilt of his sword across the back of the man’s neck. The knight leaped back as the man fell, twisting in midair so that he landed with his back against a solid wall.
One sailor was slowed by the weight of the purse, but his reach was long enough and his arm strong enough that he kept himself safe for a while without changing position. Then an attacker worked around behind him and raised a short sword to thrust the sailor through, but Haimya saw the man even before Pirvan, and she was closer.
She was a thing of beauty and terror alike as she made a thrust at full stretch, driving the point of her sword into the base of the attacker’s skull. Even in the darkness, Pirvan saw life go out of the man’s eyes-and also a fallen attacker roll over and grip Haimya’s ankles.
Caught off balance, she staggered, and another man came at her with two daggers, getting inside her guard before Pirvan could even open his mouth for a warning. But the sailor stamped down hard on the clutching hands, and as they released their grip Haimya flung herself to one side, cushioning her fall on the man who’d thrown her off balance.
The sailor’s sword ended the second man’s threat to Haimya.
Then Pirvan’s mouth went dry, as running feet thudded from the direction of the harbor. He turned, knowing that the wall at his back would buy him only time and hoping Haimya would fight close enough to him for a last word or two, if they could not hope for a touch-
A man only slightly smaller than Grimsoar One-Eye loomed in the alley, a sword in hand and a steel cap on his head. His sailor’s beard was plaited with two yellow ribbons. Behind him a dozen more men, all in sailor’s garb, all well armed, crowded forward.
Grimsoar embraced the newcomers’ leader. “Well, Kurulus, if you ever want a place with Jemar-”
Pirvan stared. Kurulus had been Mate of the Tops aboard Golden Cup, the ship that had carried the companions of the quest to Crater Gulf most of the way to their destination. His reward from House Encuintras for a stout fighting arm and sound seamanship had been his own command.
“I’ve my own ship, Grimsoar, and you know that Jemar lets no one start save as a mate. Now let’s see if we’ve trapped the right set of rats.”
“Would somebody please explain-?” Haimya began.
Grimsoar put a finger to her lips, and nearly had it bitten off for his pains. “Later,” he rumbled, and Pirvan nodded. He did not know what the sailors might be about, but it was seldom that a knight was not allowed to defend himself from those who sought his life. A mystery, yes, but not likely a matter for a Judgment of Honor.
Half the newcomers were standing guard. The other half were helping Grimsoar and Kurulus turn over the bodies and examine them. Pirvan counted ten dead, including a couple of men whose wounds did not at first look that deadly.
A sharp hiss that turned into a whistle made all heads turn. Grimsoar was holding up a body with one hand. With the other, he’d torn open the man’s tunic. Mail showed under, and also a dark spot in the man’s exposed armpit.
“Pirvan, Haimya, you need to see this,” Grimsoar said.
The knight and his lady knelt by the body. By lantern light, the dark spot in the dead man’s armpit turned out to be a tattoo of a crown, a stylized one gruesomely different from the emblem of the Solamnic Knights of the Crown. A circle surrounded it; a closer look showed it to be a representation of one of the woven cords that senior clerics wore around their foreheads on ceremonial occasions.
Senior clerics and, so it was said, the kingpriest.
Pirvan stared at the crown-in-a-circlet tattoo, and knew that one of the uglier rumors about the kingpriests of Istar had just revealed itself as the truth.
“Did you set a trap for footpads, or was catching the Servants of Silence part of your plan?” Pirvan whispered to Grimsoar.
“I swear we were only after the Vlyby brothers and their runners,” Grimsoar said. He seemed to be talking as much to himself and Kurulus as to Pirvan. “I should have realized that you and Haimya might draw different fish.”