Unfortunately, he doubted they’d remain confused if they saw him up close. Trying not to look like he was in a hurry, and praying there was nothing in the way he moved that would give him away, he ambled to the door with the crumbling painting and pulled it open.
As he’d suspected, the space on the other side was a tavern, with kegs and jugs on the sagging shelves behind the bar and outlines of human figures drawn on the walls. The gashes left by throwing knives mottled the targets like sores, especially in the vicinities of the hearts and eyes.
The room smelled of beer, smoke, and a sweaty crowd packed in tight, although that last stink was a sort of ghost of last night’s carousing. At the moment, only a handful of glum-looking, possibly hungover folk sat drinking at the mismatched tables. Intent on their own solitary thoughts or desultory conversations, none paid any attention to Stedd. If they noticed him at all, maybe they too thought he was a halfling.
Good. But he felt like a cornered animal until enough time passed that it was clear Umberlee’s followers weren’t going to follow him inside.
Once he judged he’d given them enough time to prowl on by, he wondered if he should go back outside. But even the tavernkeeper, a barrel-chested fellow with pouchy, bloodshot eyes who looked as morose and withdrawn as his patrons, didn’t seem interested in demanding that the newcomer buy a drink; he was busy pouring himself a cupful of clear spirits. So perhaps, Anton’s instructions notwithstanding, Stedd was better off biding where he was.
Thinking of the pirate made Stedd wonder where he was. Then he noticed a curtain that evidently shielded some sort of secondary room or alcove. It seemed likely Anton was on the other side conferring with his contact.
Stedd decided to take a seat close enough to the curtain to eavesdrop. After his brush with the Bitch Queen’s bravos, it might settle his jangled nerves to verify that he actually did know where his protector was and that arrangements for the boat were proceeding as they ought. With luck, he’d be able to tell when the palaver was drawing to a close and be back on the street before it did, and then Anton would never know he’d disobeyed him.
Making sure the legs didn’t scrape on the planks beneath the sawdust on the floor, Stedd pulled out a chair. He caught Anton’s voice: “… these years working together, you know I’m good for it.”
“Times are hard,” replied someone who sounded like a talking bullfrog.
“Surely not for a gang with ties to Jaundamicar Bleth,” Anton said.
In a colder tone, the bullfrog said, “We don’t talk about that.”
“Sorry. I was just looking for a way to remind you you’re not dealing with a simpleton.”
“Neither are you. Do you think it hasn’t even occurred to me to wonder why you need a boat? Where’s the Iron Jest?”
“Busy elsewhere with a chore that’s none of your concern.”
“All right. Fair enough. And I suppose that in light of our years of friendship, you can settle up after. The voyage will just cost a little more that way: one thousand gold in lions, nobles, or a mix.”
“One thousand doesn’t strike me as a notably friendly sum.”
“To sneak Anton Marivaldi safely to his destination despite all the port officials, navy men, and rival pirates who live for the chance to lay hands on him? You’re right, that’s not friendship, more like a brother’s love.”
“Fine, my gold-grubbing brother. I agree.”
“Understand, that’s payment due as soon as the voyage is over. You might think you can just scarper off and leave the captain holding out his hand like a fool. From what I know of you, you might even get away with it. But ask yourself if you want to be at feud with the Fire Knives forever after.”
“I already said I agree. What captain are we speaking of?”
“Do you know Helstag Deepdale?”
Anton snorted. “I know he doesn’t take that worm-eaten tub of his out of sight of shore. I believe it’s the only intelligent decision he ever made.”
“He’ll make the crossing to Pirate Isle if I tell him to.”
Stedd felt shocked, like someone had unexpectedly slapped him in the face.
But maybe things were really all right. Maybe Anton had only told the bullfrog he intended to go to Pirate Isle because that was what the other man would expect.
No. No matter how hard Stedd tried, he couldn’t make himself believe that. As a reaver, Anton ranged all around the Sea of Fallen Stars, so why would he need to claim that he was headed for Pirate Isle to avert some sort of suspicion? And why would he reject Helstag Deepdale’s coaster if his objective was Sapra? Stedd was scarcely an expert on the geography of the region, but the Moonstars had taught him enough to know that a person could reach Turmish by hugging the southern shore. In fact, that was pretty much the only way to do it if one actually wanted to avoid sailing close to the pirate stronghold.
Once again, Stedd remembered Anton killing Questele and her brothers-in-arms, then threatening to murder the captive villagers, and felt grinding shame at his own idiocy for ever trusting him. That feeling, though, immediately gave way to a stab of panic. He had to get away from the pirate, and this moment was likely his only chance.
He rose and hurried toward the door. His departure finally evoked a halfhearted “Hey!” from the tavernkeeper, but he ignored the call and kept going.
No ruffians with tridents were lying in wait on the street. That was a minor relief, but where was Stedd supposed to go in a city full of strangers, any one of whom, out of greed, piety, or fear, might see fit to hand him over to the agents of Umberlee? Perhaps if he found a safe place to pray, Lathander would help him figure it out, but for now, he needed to keep putting distance between Anton and himself.
Struggling against the urge to run outright, he strode past the pawnshop and onward. He turned right at the first corner and left at the next one.
“Or more likely drown me trying,” said Anton. “Please, tell me there’s another choice.”
Perched on the high stool he needed to sit at the table comfortably, Dalabrac Bramblefoot smiled. The halfling dressed decently but with a sober lack of ostentation, carried no visible weapons, and with his round, avuncular face, looked more like a modestly successful tradesman than an officer in Westgate’s most powerful criminal fraternity. Where externals were concerned, his one exceptional feature was the guttural voice that had no business issuing from such a small body.
“Helstag would be hurt,” he croaked, “that you don’t trust his seamanship. But have it your way. What about Falrinn Greatorm?”
Anton smiled. “Falrinn will do. Where and when do I board?”
“Don’t worry about that. Stay here, have another drink or two, and I’ll send word to him to make ready. Come evening, we’ll sneak you down to the harbor, and you and Falrinn can sail with the tide.”
Dalabrac smiled and picked up the brandy bottle. “For a thousand gold, I take good care of you.”
“Thanks,” Anton said, “but I need to attend to other business before I embark. I’ll meet Falrinn on the dock.”
In other circumstances, he would have been happy to let the Fire Knives hide him until it was time to sail. But he didn’t want them seeing Stedd before it was necessary lest they realize a prize worth far more than a thousand Cormyrean lions stood before them for the taking. It would be better to rendezvous with Falrinn after dark with the boy prophet disguised as well as was practical, board the smuggler’s vessel, and cast off before anyone had time to wonder about Stedd’s identity.
Dalabrac shrugged. “Suit yourself. He still ties up on the east end of the harbor, but of course, everything is different with the flooding. Look for a boat with gray sails and a blue light shining in the bow.”