"Tell me."
And he did.
Travis Crowe had needed to get out of Freiport and neither the peasant fields of Pontaine nor the Faith-ridden Vos Empire had sounded appealing. It wasn't that he was being hunted — not then, anyway — but he was sick of hearing the screams from the basements of every other tavern. You had to be careful not to get so paralytic that you couldn't stop yourself being dragged into some back-street temple and sent as a messenger to some minor god nobody ever heard of.
He needed a breath of fresh air.
He had first thought of looking in the Anclas for a mercenary company that was hiring, but quickly discarded the idea. These past couple of years, peace had been breaking out everywhere and the number of unemployed mercenaries turning up to look for work in the cities had been steadily increasing. Besides, he didn't feel like being a bodyguard to some merchant who thought selling a few baubles made him some kind of chosen one. The chances were too high that he would end up throttling his own employer within a week.
Fortune was with him, as he received a visitor just as he was packing up a bedroll and preparing to leave the inn where he had been staying for a short while. The visitor was a balding man with close-cropped greying hair and a drooping moustache. He was wearing trews and leather jerkin, but Crowe took him for a nautical man as soon as he took a step. He had that rolling movement peculiar to someone so used to keeping himself upright on a floor that was always tilting this way and that.
"Travis Crowe?" the man asked from the doorway of the common sleeping room.
"Never heard of him," Crowe said cautiously. "What's he look like?"
"Truth to tell I don't know; I've never met him, but I was told I could find him here. He came highly recommended."
Crowe didn't stop packing, but was intrigued all the same. Still, anyone could use a line like that if they were coming to pick a fight. "I can't imagine anyone living in a place like this being highly recommended for anything."
The man looked around at the smeared and stained wood, and the drunken man still snoring in the far corner. "There's something in that, right enough. But when Sandor Feyn tells me a man's a good soldier, that counts for a lot."
Crowe straightened. "Sandor Feyn?"
The man nodded. "I need a good soldier and he said to come here and ask for a Travis Crowe."
"All right… You found him. Who are you?"
"My name is Margrave," he said "Captain of the Belle."
"What do you need a soldier for?"
"The usual."
"Keep the crew in line, guard the cargo, that kind of thing?"
"Most probably." Margrave hesitated, but Crowe didn't press him. He knew the man would feel obliged to tell him what he wanted to know. At least, he would if he was genuinely keen to hire Crowe. If not, then Crowe would go somewhere else as planned and find a better job. "And fight off any pirates, or any ships that try to board us."
"Fair enough."
Margrave shuffled uncomfortably. "And any sea devils."
"Sea devils?" Crowe tried not to sneer. "Now you're superstitious."
"Careful, I'd say, rather than superstitious. Believe me, I've heard many stories that have made me think twice about the existence of such things. I hope this doesn't put you off — "
"Don't worry, Captain; it'd take more than some bedtime story to put me off earning a living."
The gangplank had bounced slightly under Travis Crowe's boots as he crossed from pier to deck. He'd been on enough ships before, plying the coastal routes round Freiport, Allantia and even as far around as Turnitia, but he had never liked them.
This ship had two sturdy masts and rode higher in the water than anything Crowe had sailed on before. The Belle was carrying supplies and ballast, and more than enough men, but he didn't see any cargo to trade. He should have taken that as a warning sign and left immediately, but a trip out of Freiport was all that mattered to him. Every ship Crowe had ever been on before had carried cargo from one port to the next. He'd never been on a ship that had left a port unladen.
He stowed his gear below and then went to find Margrave. The stocky captain was in his Day Room, talking to a baggy-eyed blonde man who was squeezed into a chair too small for him. Two hooded men were standing behind him. After a moment, Margrave noticed Crowe and shook his hand in both of his.
"I'm glad you made it. We'll be sailing in a couple of hours." His eyes crinkled as he smiled and slid the ship's crew book across for Crowe to sign on. "You won't regret coming along, I promise."
"Yeah, that's good," Crowe began. "I hate to be a pain, but, what are we carrying?"
"Carrying?"
"Cargo. I assume we have some. That's what the likes of me are protecting, usually."
Margrave looked at the silent figure in the chair and his standing companions, and smiled weakly. "Not… exactly."
"What Captain Margrave means to say," the man in the chair said, "is that my companions and I are the cargo, such as it is."
"You must be worth a lot."
"Not particularly, but later in our voyage, perhaps." He smiled. Crowe took an instant dislike to him. He was clearly a smartarse of the first order.
"This voyage is not one of mere trade, but exploration." Margrave said. "Farran here is searching for a particular place. It is in that respect that he is the… cargo."
Crowe looked at Farran. He seemed familiar somehow and Crowe had a vague recollection of seeing him in a tavern once or twice. "He need any special protection?" He asked.
"Not at the moment, but it's always possible, especially once we find what he seeks."
"Treasure, you mean?" Crowe tried not to laugh. "I wouldn't have thought such fine businessmen would have fallen for dockside tales."
Farran stood. He was taller than Crowe and broader. "What we seek isn't a matter for you. Just keep us alive, soldier."
"Your friend here paid me enough to get you that."
Margrave looked between them. "I must say, I hadn't expected such hostility. Please, let us concentrate on the journey. It will be most dangerous and we will need all our wits about us."
Crowe nodded and left the room.
Crowe was no sailor, but he knew that no-one was paid to board a ship who didn't work a full day. The bos'un had set him to swab the afterdeck as the Belle was swept out to sea on the Down Tide. The complex layers and squat spires of Freiport began to shrink as the Belle moved out into the Allantian Channel.
As the beginnings of an eclipse darkened the day, Crowe had taken his rum ration at the rail to watch the land fall away behind the ship and Farran appeared beside him. Farran's pale skin and blonde hair took on a strange look under the light of Kerberos.
"You seem very concerned about things that shouldn't concern you. And people that shouldn't concern you."
"I've seen enough Brotherhood priests in Freiport and other places to know one when I see one."
"You don't strike me as a follower of the Final Faith, Crowe. Especially since Sandor Feyn speaks so highly of you."
"Feyn's usually a good judge of character. If I was with the Faith, Feyn would never have given me a second thought."
"I'm glad to hear that." Crowe didn't like that tone. It was the sort of tone that implied if Farran didn't like Feyn's judgement, he might try something stupid. He leaned on the rail and Crowe caught a glimpse of his linked-circle tattoo. The symbol of the Brotherhood was inked onto the base of Farran's neck. "Yet you're not one of us?"
"I'm me, lad, not one of someone else."
"Now, that comes close to heresy. Turning against the Lord Of All."
"By the terms of the Faith, maybe. I've got nothing against the Lord, just against men and women who claim to speak for him."