He sighed and stood, balancing on the cathead, then stepped across to the deck. His bare feet made no sound, and he started towards the companion. If he could come down it and block access to the deck, then-
“Here, now! What’re you doing creeping about my ship?”
The sharp, crisp voice was behind him, and he spun like a cat, one hand going to his dagger.
“Ah, now! None of that!” the voice said even more sharply, and Bahzell swallowed an oath. There had been men on deck; he simply hadn’t seen them because they were so small they’d been hidden behind the deckhouse. Now five halflings stood facing him, and each of them held a drawn shortsword as if he knew what to do with it.
He stepped back against the rail, taking his hand carefully from his dagger, and his eyes narrowed. He’d seen several halflings since leaving Navahk, but none as big as these fellows. They might be little more than half his own height, but they were a good foot or more taller than the only other ones he’d met, and there was nothing hesitant about them. They seemed confident of their ability to deal with him, and the one who’d spoken cocked his head, then spat over the side.
“Ha!” The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’ve picked the wrong ship tonight, friend,” the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. “I think we’ll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it.”
“Now, now. Let’s not be doing anything hasty,” Bahzell rumbled back.
“Oh, we won’t be hasty, friend!” The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. “But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp.”
“And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all,” Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.
“Not Marfang Island halflings.” The spokesman kept his eyes fixed on Bahzell, but his lip curled. “We can get downright nasty, so if I were you, I’d be back over that rail double quick.”
“Marfang Island, is it?” Bahzell murmured, and his ears cocked. He’d heard of Marfang Island halflings. They were said to be a breed apart from their fellows-taller, stronger, and noted for a personal courage that verged all too often on rashness. Even the Wild Wash hradani who lived across the channel from their island home had learned to treat them with cautious respect, despite their size advantage. More to the point this night, the Marfang Islanders were also the finest seamen Norfressa bred, despite their small stature, and they hated the Purple Lords with a passion for their interference with free trade.
“Aye, it is,” the halfling agreed. “And the rail’s still waiting for you,” he added pointedly.
“You’ve guts enough for five wee, tiny fellows with knives, I’ll grant that,” Bahzell said easily, and the halfling gave a crack of laughter.
“Maybe so, but there are four of us, and you’ve naught but a knife yourself, longshanks!”
“Do I now?” Bahzell murmured, and raised his empty right hand with a brief, silent prayer that he’d understood Tomanāk correctly that night in the Shipwood. The halflings stopped, suddenly wary, and he drew a deep breath.
“Come!” he bellowed, and the halflings jumped back in surprise at the sheer volume of his shout-then jumped back again, with unseemly haste, as five feet of gleaming steel snapped into existence in his hand and an empty scabbard thumped the deck at his feet.
“Well now! It did work,” Bahzell observed. He put both hands on his hilt but lowered the tip of the blade to touch the deck unthreateningly and smiled at the spokesman. “I’m thinking I’ve a bit more than a knife now, friend,” he pointed out genially, and the halfling swallowed.
“How . . . how did-?” He stopped and shook himself, then cleared his throat. “Who in Korthrala’s name are you, and what d’you want?” he demanded.
“As to that, my name is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum, and I’ve need of your ship.”
“Prince of-?” the halfling began incredulously, only to stop with a bark of laughter. “Aye, of course you’re a prince! What else could you be?” He ran his eyes back over the naked hradani and tweaked his mustache once more. Bahzell’s ears flicked in amusement at his tone, but there was no more give in his eyes than in the halfling’s, and he nodded.
“That I am, friend, and a champion of Tomanāk.” All five halflings looked at one another in disbelief, and Bahzell’s voice hardened. “I’d not be laughing at that , were I you, for I’m not in the mood.” He raised the tip of his sword slightly, and the spokesman held out a restraining hand as his fellows bristled in instant response.
“Not yet, lads,” he said, his eyes still locked with Bahzell’s. More feet scampered up the companion as his crew belowdecks realized something was happening, but neither he nor Bahzell turned their heads. They faced each other in the darkness, and then the halfling looked pointedly at Bahzell’s sword and raised an eyebrow. The Horse Stealer turned it slightly, letting the light catch the symbols of Tomanāk etched deep into the steel, and the halfling nodded and lowered his own blade.
“Well, then, Bahzell Bahnakson,” he said dryly, “my name’s Evark, and I’m master of this ship. If you need her, I’m the man you have to talk to about it, so suppose you tell me why I should waste time listening?”
“I’ve no mind to be rude,” Bahzell replied politely, “but I’m thinking this-” he twitched his sword “-might be one reason.”
“It might,” Evark allowed. “You might even be able to carve us all up into fish food with it, though I doubt Tomanāk would approve. But that would still leave you a little problem, friend-unless you’ve got a spare crew tucked away?”
Bahzell chuckled and leaned back, propping his weight on his sword.
“You’ve a way about you, Evark, indeed you do. Very well, then, if it’s a reason you’re wanting, d’you think we could be keeping our swords out of each other long enough for me to give you one?” He twitched his heavy purse so that it jingled, and added, “You’ve my word you’ll not lose by listening.”
“Oh, I suppose we might.” Evark beckoned his crewmen back and sat on the roof of the deckhouse, his own sword across his thighs, and grinned at Bahzell. “Assuming, of course, that you understand we’ll still chop you into dog meat if it’s not a reason we like.”
Brandark sat huddled in a blanket beside the piled heap of driftwood and stared morosely out to sea. The night lay in ashes about him, a hint of gray tinged the eastern horizon, and he chewed the inside of his lip.
Bahzell should have been back by now, assuming his lunatic plan had worked, and worry gnawed at the Bloody Sword. The whole idea was crazy, and he was bitterly aware why Bahzell had hatched it. He touched his bandaged leg and swore. The sheer joy of realizing it was going to heal after all had been so great he’d almost been able to forget what his continuing incapacity implied, but he could no longer pretend. Without him to look after, Bahzell could have played catch-as-catch-can with the cavalry patrols; with someone who could barely ride, much less walk, that was impossible. Which was why Bahzell had hit upon the notion of somehow hiring-or stealing-a ship. The idea had a sort of elegant simplicity, but only an idiot would think a hunted fugitive could sneak into the Purple Lords’ very capital, get aboard a ship, and-