Durel looked askance at Ariko, but said nought, though he motioned for her to go on.
"You know that I told you if there were a way to foil Halott's scheme, I would. And I guessed from Halott's late-night visit that Soldt would be dead should I nick him. And given he needed to appear dead for Halott to send us back to Arith, well… you know how Rogi used to crow about putting 'ratth athleep,' and he told me all about the paste he used, and how to judge the dosage needed for 'ratth' and 'catth' and 'dogth' and other such animals, some quite large. That given, I simply, um, borrowed a tin of Rogi's paste and, gauging how much it would take, I replaced the poison—I think it was poison—Halott put on my blades…"
Durel's laughter rang out over the waters of the Valagon Sea as a gentle wind wafted the little ketch toward the city of Ibarr in the land of Azrain on the elsewhere world of Arith.
In a tower north of Sanctuary, Soldt awakened to find himself lying on a long metal table in a faintly lit laboratory. He swung his legs over the edge and stood, swaying slightly from the aftereffects of whatever had been done to him. And he took up his soot-laden, oil-disguised Enlibar blade. Where he was and how he had gotten there, he had not a clue, but someone was about to pay.
ROBIN WAYNE BAILEY: Ring of Sea and Fire
The sea shimmered like a dark mirror, still and smooth as glass beneath a windless, starlit sky. The faintest sliver of a waning moon hung like a beacon low in the west. To the south, it was impossible to discern any demarcation between the water and the heavens. Not even the barest breath of a breeze teased the placid surface, and all the world seemed smothered in an unnatural hush.
Along the coast to the north and northwest, it was the same. The hour was late, and only a few lanterns and torches glimmered on Sanctuary's shoreline. The distorted shadows of warehouses and fisheries stretched over the wharves, and the masts of the few sailing ships anchored in their berths rose stark and unmoving.
Then from around the brief peninsula called Land's End, an Ilsigi trireme glided on banks of oars that broke the water with lumbering precision. The muffled throb of its master-drum, issuing from deep within the ship, counterpointed each sloughing oar-stroke as the vessel rounded the point and eased into the city's harbor.
A lantern brighter than the few that burned along its deck suddenly appeared in the trireme's prow. It cast a beam that rippled out across the black water. A moment later, the beam winked out. Then it flashed again, over and over in rhythm with the drum.
At the end of Empire Wharf, another flashing lantern appeared, and a small skiff launched out across the harbor. Following the now-steady beam of light from the trireme, it approached the Ilsigi ship. An old man, thin as a fish bone and weathered as driftwood, sat alone in the skiff. He worked the pair of oars with the skill and strength of long practice.
A deep voice called down from the trireme's prow. "Ahoy, Mar-kam! Ahoy, the harbor pilot!"
The harbor pilot shouted back gruffly. "You're Wrigglie-ass late."
"No winds, Markam!" came the answer. The speaker could not be seen against the lantern's glare. "We've been working the oars since noon this whole damned day, and we'll have to put to sea again by dawn to keep our schedule. But we've got passengers and freight, and no matter the hour, our berth is already paid for. So lead us in, and no more of your flatulent mouth."
Markam grumbled a low curse, but turned his skiff. The master-drum throbbed again, softer now. A single bank of oars dipped into the water, and the trireme slipped into Sanctuary's port. Guided by the pilot, it nestled gently into a berth and dropped anchor. A dozen men leaped over the rails to the wharf. Thick ropes sailed through the air, uncoiling, and in no time, the ship was lashed and secure.
A gangplank slid down from the deck.
Regan Vigeles paused at the top of it and gazed from under his hood down the wharf toward the Wideway and the warehouses and the dark silhouettes of the rooftops beyond, and he wrinkled his nose. After days at sea with the sweet salt air filling his lungs, the stench of Sanctuary was a rude perfume. His black leather trousers, polished boots, and fine matching cloak marked him as a man of wealth. In one hand, he gripped a pair of gloves; in his other hand, a small purse.
A wagon drawn by a team of horses creaked slowly down the wharf as it approached the ship. Footsteps on the deck behind him. Regan Vigeles turned slightly as the Ilsigi captain approached. The captain wore a smile as he chatted with the woman at his side. Her flawless skin was as black as shadow, her eyes large and dark over sharply defined cheekbones. Her full lips were parted slightly as if in a bemused grin, perhaps at some joke or comment of the captain's. She was dressed for sea travel, not in women's clothing, but in trousers of brown leather with a white silk tunic whose sleeves flowed at her easiest movement, as did the jet black hair that hung straight to her waist. On her belt, she wore a pair of sheathed daggers.
"I believe you've charmed Aaliyah, Captain," Regan Vigeles said, looking down at the Ilsigi. He held out the purse in his hand and lowered his voice. "For your inside pocket. The voyage has been pleasant, and you've treated us well."
The Ilsigi captain bowed his head in thanks as he quickly thrust the purse under his sash before anyone else saw it. "I'm loath to abandon you, Lord Spyder," the captain said as he stared at the wagon that pulled to a stop by the ship. "I've set into this port many times, and it's no place by night for you and your lady."
"No need to worry, Captain. We'll be quite safe." Regan Vigeles took Aaliyah's hand. "Perhaps I could impose upon you to have your men load my freight into the wagon."
The captain patted the purse under his belt and bowed as he backed away.
Aaliyah's vacuous smile faded. A look of alert concern took its place as she gazed toward the city.
"Nha su preo, shahana Aaliyah," Vigeles murmured as he placed an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. He pushed back his hood as he looked down at her. His hair was black and cropped short, and his tanned, strong-featured face was beardless. She turned in his embrace to face him, and he looked into the dark warmth of her eyes as he drew a finger along the velvet line of her cheek.
A noise on the wharf below caught his attention as crewmen began unloading his crates and stacking them in the wagon. Each crate bore his seal, a painted emblem of a black spider that was visible even in the faint light of the ship's lanterns.
Regan Vigeles walked down the gangplank to the wharf, and Aaliyah followed, her soft footsteps making no sound at all.
The driver of the wagon climbed down. His name was Ronal, a short man, but powerfully built, in his mid-fifties although he looked much younger. Disdaining a cloak, he wore only trousers, boots, and a plain leather vest that laced across his broad chest. An old burn-scar showed on his bare right biceps, the brand of a slave-gladiator. It marked him as the property of House Donadakos. Years ago, however, he had won his freedom in the arena with fifty kills to his credit.
Ronal ran a hand through his short gray hair. "I'd nearly given up waiting, Spyder," he said quietly to Vigeles. "It's past the third hour of morning, but it's good to see you. Welcome to the anus of the empire." He ran an appreciative eye up and down Aaliyah. "Aren't you a beauty!" He gave a low whistle. "Where did you find her?"