The sunken ship that served Sardinakh as a headquarters lay canted at an angle on a reef that had grown over it, claimed it, and now held what was left of it together. Those remains did not include most of the landward side of the hull, which left the hulk open to the scouring currents, and provided a panoramic view of the gulf of dappled blue water across which Mlavverlath was swimming.
Mlav was impetuous and ambitious, more like the sahuagin than his own kind, and so ran straight into the jaws of his own reckless impatience far too often. Yet unlike the fish-heads menacingly crowding Sardinakh’s office, his hide still wore the dappling of raw youth. Their overly bold ways were long years set, and a problem he was going to have to contend with.
Sharkblood, he was contending with it now! Like all tako, Sardinakh could dwell ashore or beneath the waves, though he preferred warmer waters than these. He knew Mintarn’s worth. To drylanders, it was an island strategic to Sword Coast shipping, offering an excellent natural harbor and independence from shore realm laws, feuds, and taxes. Sardinakh also knew he hated these two sahuagin officers even more than he hated all fish-heads, and must contrive to get them killed before they did as much for him. Unfortunately, they commanded a strong and able fighting force of their own kind that outnumbered those at Downfoam six to one, or more. His moment must be chosen with extreme care.
Thankfully, “extreme care” was something most tako could take, and no sahuagin really understood. If only Mlav could be taught to use some measure of it, before it was too—.
“Perhapsss we could now deliver our important reportsss,” the sahuagin Narardiir said in a tone that made it clear he was neither requesting nor waiting for permission to do so.
Sardinakh carefully did not glance at Mlavverlath’s approaching form as he said in a cool, almost flippant tone, “Why don’t you?”
Both sahuagin hissed to show their displeasure, but when he neither looked at them or made any reaction, they were forced to move on. Their black eyes were staring, always staring. Ineffectual gogglers. He turned his back on them to show fish-heads held no fear for this wrinkled and wortsome old tako.
“There is newsss both good and bad from our ssspiesss assshore,” Narardiir began stiffly. “The dragon Hoondarrh, called ‘the Red Rage of Mintarn,’ has not long ago begun a Long Sssleep in his cave. Ssshould we invade, he won’t intervene.”
“The good news,” Sardinakh agreed calmly, his eyes now on Mlawerlath as the tako passed over the outermost sentries, regarded but unchallenged. “And the bad?”
The other sahuagin spoke this time, and, by the mercy of whatever god governed sea refuse, did so plainly. “Recent dryland pirate smuggling and slaving has driven the human Tarnheel Embuirhan, who styles himself the Tyrant of
Mintarn and is the dryland ruler of the isle, to hire a com-‘ pahy of mercenaries to serve Mintarn as a harbor garrison. A human force, and highly trained, by name the ‘Black Buckler Band.’ It is thought, and we concur, that they won’t hesitate to wake the dragon if beset by foes who seem on the verge of victory.”
“There isss little elssse to report,” Narardiir added, “but—”
“That is a good thing,” Sardinakh interrupted smoothly, “because Mlavverlath is here.”
As he spoke, the younger tako flung out his tentacles in all directions, to serve as a brake to his powerful journeying, and slid into Sardinakh’s office with his tentacles rippling, water swirling around them, and grace hurled to the winds.
Befitting an underling in disgrace, Mlavverlath passed between the hissing sahuagin and Sardinakh’s desk and struck the far wall of the chamber with a solid thump. The old but coral-buttressed bulkhead scarcely quivered.
“Hail Sardinakh, master of all our voyages,” Mlavverlath said hastily, venting many bubbles in his haste and nervousness. “This one salutes you and at the same time humbly beseeches your pardon at his lateness. This one has devised a cunning plan, as promised, and has come to unfold it before you.”
He glanced at the two sahuagin and blushed a little in his nervousness. That purpling promptly deepened when the fish-heads hissed mockingly, “Cunning plan, cunning plan,” and leaned forward to hear with exaggerated scullings of their webbed claws.
“My officers are somewhat excited,” Sardinakh explained in dry tones, ignoring fish-head glares. “Ignore them, and speak freely. Keep me not waiting.”
Mlavverlath jetted forth bubbles in a sigh, slid some tentacles around the nearest mast-pillar more for the reassurance an anchor-point brought than for anything else, and said, “This one’s plan should eliminate both the merfolk who dwell in the harbor and the new dryland garrison of human mercenaries.”
The sahuagin hissed loudly at the thought that their news was obviously old tidings elsewhere in Downfoam, and.Sardinakh took care that the beak-fluttering that signified tako mirth was well hidden from his underling. Mlawerlath’s tone of speech would have better matched the announcement: “This one has devised a plan that this one hopes will win him back a place in good favor with Sardinakh.”
“Please excuse this one’s plain recitation of simple facts,” Mlawerlath began haltingly. “It is intended as no insult, but to anchor the scheme. Thus, then. For some years, the merfolk of Mintarn have praised and hungrily devoured oysters brought from the Shining Sea nigh eastern Calimshan and the Border Kingdoms, where the waters are warmed by the outflow of the Lake of Steam. Suldolphans—the humans of the city whose dwellers harvest most of the oysters—like these oysters, which have somehow acquired the name ‘Mabadann,’ done in lemon. So, too, do the folk of Mintarn.”
The two sahuagin showed their fangs in unison then, in great yawns designed to display their boredom. Sardinakh ignored them, but Mlawerlath, obviously flustered, continued his speech in stammering haste. “I-in the friendship feasts th-they hosted to welcome the new garrison, whom after all they must trust and work with, the merfolk fed the human warriors these oysters.”
In his quickening enthusiasm, the young tako forsook his anchor to flail the canted deck with his tentacles as he moved restlessly across the room, then back again. “The humans so dote on these oysters now that the water-filled barrels of live Mabadann oysters are the most eagerly awaited shipments into Mintarn. The drylanders have even taken to sneaking some shipments past the merfolk to get more for themselves.”
The sahuagin were drifting a little closer now, their heads turning to hear better; a sure sign of interest. Mlavverlath warmed to his telling. “Now, in coastal caves nigh Suldolphor dwells a malenti, Jilurgala Rluroon by name, who owes this one a debt. Long ago she perfected a magic that puts creatures into stasis—unbreathing, unseeing, as if dead—for short times, with set trigger conditions.”
The tako’s tentacles were almost dancing with excitement now. “If she can be induced to cast her spell on a hundred or ‘aimed bullywugs,” Mlavverlath added, his voice rising, “of those who dwell near at hand, on the Border Kingdoms coast, south of Yallasch—and Jilurgala sets its trigger to awaken them when their barrel is opened, they can be the next shipment of oysters smuggled past the merfolk and into the drylander kitchens of Mintarn!”
It is rare for a tako’s mirth to be loud, but Sardinakh’s quivering and loud venting of raging bubbles was uproarious laughter. It drowned out the amused hooting of the sahuagin and left the commander of Downfoam barely able to signal his approval to his flushed and quivering underling.
“To it, 0 Master of Oysters!” Sardinakh roared, tearing apart a waterlogged bench with a surge of his tentacles. “Go, and come back victorious!”
* * * * *
“Truly,” Brandor muttered, as two of the tallest, most muscular Black Buckler warriors minced out of his way, twirling their hands in mockeries of spellcasting and crying out as if in mortal fear as they rolled their eyes and grinned at him, “this is The Place Where Guards Snore At Their Posts.”