A bit of grumbling ensued around the table, but it ended when the most imposing of the five interjected, “I heard it, too.”
All eyes turned to regard High Captain Kurth, a dark man, second oldest of the five high captains, who seemed always cloaked in shadow. That was due in part to his grizzled beard, which seemed perpetually locked in two days’ growth, but more of that shadowy cloak was a result of the man’s demeanor. He alone among the five lived out on the river, on Closeguard Island, the gateway to Cutlass Island, which housed the Hosttower of the Arcane. With such a strategic position in the current conflict, many believed that Kurth held the upper hand.
From his posture, it seemed to Kensidan that Kurth agreed with that assessment.
Never a boisterous or happy man, Kurth seemed all the more grim, and understandably so. His domain, though relatively unscathed so far, seemed most in peril.
“Rumors!” Suljack insisted, pounding his fist on the table, a display that brought a knowing smile to Kensidan’s face. The perceptive son of Rethnor realized then where Baram and Kurth had heard the rumor. Suljack was not the most discreet of men, nor the most intelligent.
“These rumors are no doubt due to my father’s—” Kensidan began, but such an outcry came at him as to stop him short.
“Ye’re not for talking here, Crow!” Baram cried.
“Ye come and ye sit quiet, and be glad that we’re letting ye do that!” Taerl, the third of the five, agreed, his large head bobbing stupidly at the end of his long, skinny neck—a neck possessed of the largest Adam’s apple Kensidan had ever seen. Standing beside Taerl, Suljack wore an expression of absolute horror and rubbed his face nervously.
“Have you lost your voice, Rethnor?” High Captain Kurth added. “I’ve been told that you’ve turned your Ship over to the boy, all but formally. If you’re wishing him to speak for you here, then mayhaps it’s time for you to abdicate.”
Rethnor’s laugh was full of phlegm, a clear reminder of the man’s failing health, and it did more to heighten the tension than to alleviate it. “My son speaks for Ship Rethnor, because his words come from me,” he said, seemingly with great difficulty. “If he utters a word that I don’t like, I will say so.”
“High captains alone may speak at our gathering,” Baram insisted. “Am I to bring all my brats and have them blabber at all of Taerl’s brats? Or maybe our street captains, or might that Kurth could bring a few of his island whores….”
Kensidan and Rethnor exchanged looks, the son nodding for his father to take the lead.
“No,” Rethnor said to the others, “I have not yet surrendered my Ship to Kensidan, though the day be fast approaching.” He began to cough and hock and continued for a long while—long enough for more than one of the others to roll his eyes at the not-so-subtle reminder that they might have been able to listen to a young, strong voice instead of all that ridiculous wheezing.
“It’s not my war,” Rethnor said at last. “I did nothing to Deudermont or for him. The archmage arcane has brought this on himself. In his supreme confidence, he has overreached—his work with the pirates has become too great an annoyance for the lords of Waterdeep. Solid information tells that he has made no friend of Mirabar, either. It’s all perfectly reasonable, a pattern that has played out time and again through history, all across Faerûn.”
A long pause ensued, where the old man seemed to be working hard to catch his breath. After another coughing session, he continued, “What is more amazing are the faces of my fellow high captains.”
“It’s a startling turn-around!” Baram protested. “The south spire of the Hosttower is burning. There is smoke rising from the northern section of the city. Powerful wizards lay dead in our streets.”
“Good. A cleansing leaves opportunity, a truth not reflected in these long and frightened faces.”
Rethnor’s remark left three of the others, including Suljack, staring wide-eyed. Kurth, though, just folded his hands on his lap and stared hard at old Rethnor, ever his most formidable opponent. Even back in their sailing days, the two had often tangled, and none of that had changed when they traded their waterborne ships for their respective “Ships” of state.
“My bilge rats—” Baram protested.
“Will grump and complain, and in the end accept what is offered to them,” said Rethnor. “They have no other choice.”
“They could rise up.”
“And you would slaughter them until the survivors sat back down,” said Rethnor. “View this as an opportunity, my friends. Too long have we sat on our hands while Arklem Greeth reaps and rapes the wealth of Luskan. He pays us well, indeed, but our gains are a mere pittance beside his own.”
“Better the archmage arcane, who knows and lives for Luskan…” Baram started, but stopped as a few others began to chuckle at his curious choice of words.
“He knows Luskan,” Baram corrected, joining in the mirth with a grin of his own. “Better him than some Waterdhavian lord.”
“This Brambleberry idiot has no designs on Luskan,” said Rethnor. “He is a young lord, borne to riches, who fancies himself a hero, and nothing more. I doubt he will survive his folly, and even should he, he will take his thousand bows and seek ten thousand more cheers in Waterdeep.”
“Which is leaving us with Deudermont,” said Taerl. “He fancies nothing, and already has a greater reputation than Brambleberry’d ever imagine.”
“True, but not to our loss,” Rethnor explained. “Should Deudermont prevail, the people of Luskan would all but worship him.”
“Some already do that,” said Baram.
“Many do, if the numbers o’ his swelling ranks are to be told,” Taerl corrected. “I’d not’ve thought folks would dare follow anyone against the likes o’ Arklem Greeth, but they are.”
“And at no cost to us,” said Rethnor.
“You would want Deudermont as ruler above us five, then?” asked Baram.
Rethnor shrugged. “Do you really think him as formidable as Arklem Greeth?”
“He has the numbers—growing numbers—and so he might prove to be,” Taerl replied.
“In this fight, perhaps, but Arklem Greeth has the resources to see where Deudermont cannot see, and to kill quickly where Deudermont would need to send an army,” said Rethnor, again after a long pause. It was obvious that the man was nearing the limit of his stamina. “For our purposes, we wouldn’t be worse off with Deudermont at the head of Luskan, even openly, as Arklem Greeth is secretly.”
He ended with a fit of coughing as the other high captains exchanged curious glances, some seeming intrigued, others obviously simmering.
Kensidan stood up and moved to his father. “The meeting is ended,” he announced, and he called a Ship Rethnor guard over to thump his ailing father on the back in the hopes that they could extract some of that choking phlegm.
“We haven’t even answered the question we came to discuss,” Baram protested. “What are we to do with the city guard? They’re getting eager, and they don’t rightly know which side to join. They sat in their barracks on Blood Island and let Deudermont march through, and the northern span of the Harbor Cross fell into the water!”
“We do nothing with them,” Kensidan replied, and Taerl shot him an angry look then turned to Kurth for support. Kurth, though, just sat there, hands folded, expression hidden behind his dark cloud.
“My father will not allow those guards who heed Ship Rethnor’s call, at least, to act,” the Crow explained. “Let Deudermont and Arklem Greeth have their fight, and we will join in as it decisively turns.”
“For the winner, of course,” Taerl reasoned in sarcastic tones.
“It’s not our fight, but that does not mean that it cannot be our spoils,” Suljack said. He looked at Kensidan, seeming quite proud of his contribution.