Danilo marked the sudden flash of recognition, quickly covered, that entered the archmage’s eyes. “Do you know him?” the bard asked.
“I did. Or thought I did. That was many years ago,” Khelben said shortly. “It is not a tale I wish to relate, so do not bother to ask.”
It was rare that the archmage was so blunt. Clearly, this old wound had healed badly.
“Note those hands,” he said, pointing to the dying wizard— for wizard he certainly was. That distinctive gesture, frozen in time by an artist who most likely did not understand what he recorded, was part of a long, difficult, and dire spell. A spell born of unquenchable pride and ambition, and a last recourse for a dying wizard who was not content to yield to death.
Khelben’s eyes widened as the implication of that gesture struck him. He shot a concerned glance over his shoulder at his nephew. “How could you know what this means? What in nine hells possessed you to learn that spell?”
“Curiosity,” Danilo assured him. “Not intent. I wished to know how such a thing might be done, but I have no wish to experience it myself.”
“Good.” Khelben expelled a long, shaky breath. “You are trouble enough as you are now.”
“But you see my point.”
“Indeed I do,” the archmage said grimly, “and I believe I know where the third ring may be found. Unfortunately, Bronwyn is the only person alive who has a chance of retrieving it.”
Ten
On the morning of their third day at sea, Bronwyn awoke to the sound of angry voices on the deck above. She groaned and rolled out of her hammock, placing her hands on the small of her back as she straightened up. As she had expected, Ebenezer’s hammock was already empty.
Bronwyn could barely stand straight without banging her head on the low ceiling beams. With four paces, she could easily cross the cabin she shared with her dwarven “partner.” Even so, they were traveling in comparative luxury. In the identical cabin across the narrow walkway that served as a hall, clearly visible through the two open doors, slept six occupants: four men and two ogresses.
One ogress snarled in her sleep, half-roused by the woman’s movements. Bronwyn grimaced and eased toward the cabin door, going one small, stealthy step at a time. The small porthole in the cabin wall showed a sky that was still more sapphire than silver, and her shipmates would not thank her for waking them so early. All six had been late to bed, scorning sleep to sit on the floor of the cabin recounting tales, playing dice, and swigging away at some syrupy, spice-laden drink. Rough though they were, these crew members shared an odd companionship born of long acquaintance and battles shared. Bronwyn almost envied them. She, a newcomer and their employer, had been excluded from this fellowship, but she had seen enough to know better than arouse their collective ire.
Bronwyn stooped at the door to pick up her boots and carried them with her as she slipped through the open door. She crept down the short hail to the ladder leading above deck and climbed it one-handed. On deck she found pretty much what she had expected to find.
Near the bow, standing nearly toe to toe with arms folded and eyes blazing, were Captain Orwig and Ebenezer Stone-shaft. The top of the dwarf’s curly red head barely reached the ogre’s belt, forcing him to tip his head way back to glare at his adversary; but Ebenezer’s angry expression conceded no disadvantage. The two of them were engaged in yet another round of verbal warfare, lobbing insults at each other with a force and fury that brought to mind flaming pitch balls and a pair of trebuchets. Bronwyn was no delicate spring flower, but she caught her breath in surprise at the sheer creativity of the dwarf’s pungent explanation of Captain Orwig’s parentage.
The small sound startled the combatants. They glanced over, and identical sheepish expressions flooded their unlike faces. The captain collected himself first, and after acknowledging Bronwyn with a curt bow, he strode aft to sound the morning rise bell.
Bronwyn’s gaze tracked him. Near the stern was mounted an old cart’s wheel that had been adapted as a steering device suitable to the ogre captain’s strength and size. Two paces to starboard was a huge brass triangle hanging from what appeared to be a miniature gibbet, upon which was a hook holding the long brass rod used to sound the alarm. But Orwig ignored the brass danger. He drew his cutlass, which he thrust into the triangle and spun in several quick, impatient circles.
An urgent clanging shattered the morning quiet and brought sailors roiling up to the deck. They came with their weapons in hand, feet still bared, sleep forgotten in the promise of coming battle. For a few moments, the crew scanned the waters for the threat, and then, when it was clear that there was nothing to be seen, they turned incredulous faces to their captain.
“Practice drill?” one of them ventured.
“Morning!” Orwig roared in response. “Layabouts, the lot of you! To your tasks, and quickly.” He spun away and scampered up the rigging, nimble as a squirrel despite his vast size.
Bronwyn sighed and sat down on a low barrel to pull on her boots. Captain Orwig seemed an able sailor, but he was still an ogre. The captain had no more love for Ebenezer than the dwarf bore him, and the exchange of insults and challenges was growing steadily hotter. Bronwyn suspected it was a matter of hours before the two of them came to blows.
The crew, too, were getting restive. She’d overheard some grumbling about their canceled shore leave, and she had marked their muttered expectations that this unplanned trip would have to pay well, and pay soon, to be worth the while.
She rose and looked about for Ebenezer. He stood with his ankles crossed and his back leaning against the mainsail mast. His current occupation was staring out to sea and puffing at a small clay pipe.
“That’s an interesting notion you shared with Orwig,” she said in a casual voice. “That particular use for lizard man eggs had never occurred to me.”
The dwarf jumped and then colored. “Wasn’t meant for your ears,” he mumbled.
Bronwyn took the pipe from his hand and sipped a bit of the fragrant smoke, then handed it back. “Orwig has a good record as a captain, and a good reputation as a smuggler— odd though that may sound. Everyone I talked to said he delivers what he promises, no tricks, no excuses. He’ll take us where we need to go, but mark me, Ebenezer, you can only push any ogre so fat”
“Itching for a fight, isn’t he?” Ebenezer said with immense satisfaction. He dragged at his pipe, then blew out a trio of smoke rings in quick, expert puffs.
As the implication of this sank in, Bronwyn gaped, then shook her head in disbelief. “You’re doing this on purpose? To work him up for the fight ahead?”
“There’s that,” Ebenezer agreed. “And it’s a bit of sport, to keep my mind off. . . .“ His voice trailed off, and he nodded at the sea.
“It’s almost over,” Bronwyn said, as much for her own assurance as the dwarf’s. “We should catch up with the slave ship today. Tomorrow at the latest.”