"Listen to the man," Bahzell said, shaking his head with yet another smile, and looked at Brandark. "Were you ever hearing a kinder offer? And here he's been to such lengths to make folk think he's a ball of old pitch where others keep a heart! It's enough to make a man come all over teary-eyed."
Evark glowered up at him, and the Horse Stealer laughed softly in a cloud of vapor and reached down to rest a hand on his shoulder.
"Jesting aside, it's grateful I am for the offer, Evark," he said, "and I'm thinking you've probably a point or three, as well. But we've no lack of funds-" he gave the fat belt purse which had once belonged to a Purple Lord landlord a jingling shake "-and we'll not be wandering about Belhadan all unescorted."
"You won't?" Evark sounded surprised.
"We won't?" Brandark echoed, and raised an eyebrow at his towering friend. "That's nice to know. Ah, just when were you planning to tell me we wouldn't be? And while I'm thinking about it, how in Fiendark's name d'you know we won't?"
"I wasn't after telling you sooner because himself only got around to telling me on the way into the harbor," Bahzell said reasonably, and Brandark and Evark closed their mouths with perfectly synchronized snaps. He gave a deep, rumbling chuckle at their reaction, and Brandark shook himself.
"I don't recall seeing any deities standing around the deck," he remarked mildly, and Bahzell shrugged.
"If he'd been minded to show himself he'd have been bringing along a chorus of trumpets and appearing in a flash of light, I'm sure," he explained kindly. "Given as he didn't do either, why, the only thing I can think of is that he wasn't all that wishful to be seen."
"Oh, thank you for explaining!" Brandark replied, and this time Evark joined Bahzell's laughter. Brandark let them chuckle for several seconds, then poked his friend in the chest.
"All right, Longshanks," he said firmly. "Now stop laughing and explain just what you mean about not wandering around on our own."
"There's no mystery in it, little man," Bahzell replied. "We're after being met, and unless I'm much mistaken-" he raised his hand to point "-that's the lad looking for us now."
Brandark followed the direction of Bahzell's index finger, and both eyebrows rose as he took in the apparition striding down the dock.
Others were turning to look, as well. Actually, gawk was a better word, for seldom did such splendor grace the warehouse district of the Belhadan waterfront with its presence. The handsome, golden-haired newcomer was taller than Brandark, which made him very tall indeed for a human, but despite broad, well-muscled shoulders (once again, for a human) he was almost slender compared to the powerfully built Bloody Sword. His silver-washed mail glistened, the white sword belt that marked a knight of one of the chivalric orders was studded with faceted gems that flashed with eye-watering brilliance, as did those adorning the scabbard of his sword, and his high, soft boots had been dyed the same forest green as his fur-trimmed cloak and surcoat.
A surcoat which bore the crossed sword and mace of Tomanāk in gold and silver thread.
"Korthrala!" Evark muttered, pulling at his magnificent handlebar mustache while he stared at the glittering vision. "I could buy a whole new suit of sails out of what he's wearing on his back!"
"Aye, he is after being a mite… spectacular, isn't he just?" Bahzell agreed with a wicked smile.
"Did you know what was coming?" the halfling asked, unable to tear his eyes away.
"No, I'm thinking himself was after deciding I'd enjoy the surprise," Bahzell replied, and Brandark sighed.
"Wonderful. I wish someone had thought to warn me about gods and their senses of humor."
"How's that?" Evark asked.
"I know all the legends and lays," the Bloody Sword said plaintively. "I've learned just about all the songs, read most of the chronicles, and studied everything I could get my hands on about the Fall."
"And?" Evark prompted when he paused.
"And not one of them warned me," Brandark complained. The halfling looked at him, and he shrugged. "Oh, there's plenty of warning that Hirahim Lightfoot enjoys bad jokes, but that's his job. According to the lore masters, Tomanāk is supposed to be a serious, high-minded sort of god… not the kind of person who'd send that-" he waved at the oncoming martial fashion plate "-to meet us."
"Aye? Well according to the tales, he's not one to be having hradani champions, either, now is he?" Bahzell demanded. Brandark shook his head wryly, and Bahzell smacked him on the shoulder. "Then I'm thinking that either your precious lore masters weren't quite the 'masters' they thought, or else there's changes being made. Either road, I've more than a feeling there's a reason himself was after sending 'that' to be meeting us."
"Oh, I'm sure of that," Brandark muttered. "What I'm not sure of is that it's a reason I'll like."
It was even colder on the docks than Vaijon had feared. He had the distinct impression his nose was about to freeze off, followed by other portions of his anatomy in order of exposure, but he looked about with interest despite his discomfort.
He'd never been a good sailor. The mere thought of a winter voyage could tie his stomach in knots, and he'd managed to avoid visiting the docks more than twice in the entire time he'd been assigned to the Order's Belhadan chapter. Those two trips had been made in the middle of summer, unfortunately, and in addition to its importance as a shipping hub, Belhadan was home port to the largest fishing fleet in Norfressa, and his business had taken him right to Fisherman's Wharf. The stench from the midsummer fishery sheds had turned Vaijon a darker green than his surcoat, which was why he'd gone to such lengths to avoid repeating the experience. Luckily, today's business took him to a different part of the waterfront. Even better, the winter cold seemed to have frozen the stench out of the air, for which he was devoutly grateful.
He consulted the scrap of paper Sir Charrow had handed him and nodded as he matched the numbers on it to those painted on the dockside pilings. He'd been told to look for a schooner (whatever a "schooner" was) at Berth Nine at the Produce Pier, and he shoved the note into his belt pouch as Berth Nine came into sight. He couldn't see much of the ship moored there-it appeared to be lower than the side of the pier-but it had only two masts and seemed quite small. He felt a spurt of indignation that a champion of Tomanāk should be forced to travel aboard such a lowly vessel, but he stepped on it quickly. A true knight went where honor and his duty to the God took him, and a champion's presence touched even the least prepossessing ship with the shadow of Tomanāk Himself.
He quickened his pace, reassured by that thought, and squared his shoulders as the crowd of roughly dressed longshoremen turned to stare admiringly at him. He was accustomed to that reaction, and he inclined his head at precisely the right angle-enough to acknowledge their admiration but not enough to appear overly proud-as he headed for the gangplank.
"Gods!" Brandark muttered as the magnificent young man drew closer. "D'you think Tomanāk would be too upset if we dropped him in the harbor for a few minutes? I'd pull him back out-promise!"
"Will you just listen at that, now!" Bahzell replied. "Why, I'm thinking he could be teaching you a thing or two about dressing sharp, Brandark my lad."
"Him?" Brandark snorted. "All this time together, and you still haven't learned to appreciate the elegance, the restrained style and cut, the carefully selected fabrics of my wardrobe?" His hand swept a graceful gesture at his tattered finery, and he shook his head sadly. "Anyone can sew fistfuls of jewels onto himself, you uncouth barbarian, but that doesn't mean he has a sense of fashion! Besides, I won't have to drop him in the harbor if he's not careful. If he pokes his nose an inch or two higher, he's going to trip over his own two feet, go over the edge, and drown out of pure self-admiration."