Rising Tide (34 page)

Her emotion came out of the conviction of her office. Born a malenti, an automatic outcast from her own people, she’d been given nothing but the Great Shark to believe in, and she did believe. Even with the involvement of Iakhovas, she believed that there had been some reason she’d been allowed to glimpse the truth of the legend and find the ancient wizard, though she couldn’t recognize that reason at the time.

“Sekolah freed the sahuagin into these waters and gave them the strength and the ferocity to go forth and take what they needed,” she said. “That is the only sign a true believer should ever need!”

Huaanton swiveled his great head to her. The guards’ tridents stopped within inches of the high priestess.

She raised her hand in warning, the sound of her praying voice loud enough to carry on the currents that filled the room. Their instinctive fear of even her magic made them drop into nervous defensive positions, but they readied to charge, obviously wanting to deal with her quickly.

“Stop!” Huaanton ordered.

Reluctantly yet relieved, the royal guard stepped back, but they didn’t put their weapons away.

“You run the risk of insult, priestess.” The sahuagin king glowered at her.

Laaqueel thought quickly. “I run that risk only to keep you from blaspheming, Exalted One. Our two positions-the warrior’s to lead the sahuagin race, and the priestess’s to guide the sahuagin in their beliefs-are both necessary. A warrior keeps the sahuagin alive in the now, and a priestess keeps the sahuagin alive forever. Our two paths must never work at cross purposes.”

“I agree,” Huaanton said. “That’s why I want Sekolah to give some sign to my priestesses before this next battle takes place.”

“Sekolah is not a god you can put demands on.”

Laaqueel assumed a level stance, no longer subservient to the sahuagin king. Her eyes met his. The Great Shark would demand no less. In the past, the warrior’s way and the priestess’s way often conflicted. Both drew on the same resource of followers, but during most of those times compromises could be worked out.

“He doesn’t want parasites as his worshipers; he wants warriors.”

“I agree,” Huaanton said, “but I see before me a malenti, a birth defect, claiming to be a conduit for a god. Wouldn’t you question that?”

The insult hit Laaqueel like a physical blow. She didn’t trust herself to speak until she’d dealt with the anger that filled her.

“Then, at your own peril, you’ll have your sign,” Iakhovas said.

Huaanton looked at the wizard as if wanting to question whether the statement had been a threat. Instead, he asked, “When?”

Laaqueel didn’t dare look at Iakhovas, afraid that her doubt and fear would be apparent to everyone. How could Iakhovas promise something like that?

“A tenday from now,” Iakhovas went on. “It will be here, in your city, for all sahuagin to see.” He paused, his eyes rebelliously focused on Huaanton’s. “When that sign is delivered, there will be no doubt about what is to be done.”

“I will look for you here,” the sahuagin king said. “You’ll be guests at the palace.”

For Laaqueel the offer translated simply that they’d be prisoners of the palace. She watched numbly as Iakhovas excused them from the sahuagin king’s audience chamber. They were accompanied by the royal guard through the maze of tunnels, swimming back to where the flier was tied up.

I perceive my error now, little malenti, Iakhovas said in her mind.

By promising a sign from Sekolah? she asked. If we don’t come here in a tenday, Huaanton will rightly have us hunted down and brought to him. We’ll be thrown into the gladiatorial amphitheater and used as sport. Should we show up and there’s no sign, we’ll end up in the same place.

Little malenti, Iakhovas mocked, you concern yourself overmuch with matters that are entirely trivial. I have cared for you fifteen years, elevated you into the position of high priestess for a prince from being a junior priestess and spy for a baron. Miracles are easy to accomplish if you have those who wish to believe in them.

Laaqueel resented the words, but knew they carried the strength of truth.

No, he said confidently, there will be a sign. My chief oversight lay in reasoning that I could accomplish everything I need to as anything less than king.

She stared at him through the darkness filling the maze tunnel. He smiled, and his single eye blazed with conviction.

XXV

Jherek pushed in through the double doors of the Copper Coronet in the row of festhalls fronting Athkatla’s docks and opened his eyes to their fullest against the darkness that clung to the tavern’s interior. Raucous voices in a dozen and more languages spilled over into the street beyond the doors, beaten back only by the street vendors hawking their wares to wandering ships’ crews.

He waited a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Even at midday, the tavern’s darkness appeared to be an inviting cool, a place where secrets and guilt could be shared. Pipeweed smoke, dimly lit from candles on the scarred tables and wall sconces, curled toward the stained ceiling. Sea-roughened men reached for waitresses, cracking off-color jokes or making half serious offers given the benefit of graphic gestures. The waitresses for their part flirted with the men, working for the small tips that came their way.

The Copper Coronet was one of Athkatla’s many dives. Pirates and smugglers met there to arrange business, and journeymen cutpurses gathered there to find victims. Sawdust covered the floor, sopping up spilled ale or blood as the need arose.

Jherek breathed shallowly through his nose. He’d never felt at home in such a place. Even the taverns in Velen had never become overly familiar or comfortable. He’d gone because Finaren had often concluded ship’s business there, and sometimes to briefly share in celebrations he’d been invited to.

Men stood at the sturdy bar that lined the other side of the room, hoisting tankards of ale and laughing at witticisms or stories told by others. The bartender was a short, broad man with a bald head and flaring mustache. He regarded Jherek with a flat, uninviting gaze as he wiped an ale tankard out with a frayed and stained towel. A copper crown, evidently the item the tavern took its name from, rested haphazardly on the yellowed ivory skull of a crocodile jutting from the wall behind the bartender. A handful of teeth were broken in the reptilian grin.

A slim waitress approached Jherek, balancing a tray on one bony hip. Her skirt was cut short enough to embarrass the young sailor, and he kept his eyes on hers. She smiled at him, showing a missing front tooth. Dark sandy hair flared out across her shoulders.

“Can I get something for you, sailor?”

“No,” Jherek replied. “I’m looking for the crew of Breezerunner.”

“I think I noticed them earlier,” she admitted, moving close enough that Jherek could feel the heat from her body.

Involuntarily, he took a step back. Dropping his eyes from hers, he couldn’t help glancing at the long legs revealed by the short skirt. They were white from not having seen enough sun but still held the roundness of youth.

He glanced up at her again and saw she was smiling even more broadly.

“I need to find them,” he told her.

Beyond the waitress, other men in the tavern were starting to look at him, evidently noticing his distress at handling her and her attentions. One old sailor with a peg leg slapped his leg with glee, watching intently.

“I’ll give you a hand,” the waitress replied. She reached forward, dragging her fingers across his stomach.

He felt the heat of her touch through his shirt. Taking another step back, he broke the contact.

“I thought you wanted my help,” she challenged. Above her smile, he noticed her eyes had taken on cold, calculating lights.

“Aye,” Jherek answered nervously. “Could you point me in the right direction?”

“Yes. I can get you pointed in the right direction.”

Her hand dropped to the front of his breeches, seizing his belt and pulling him forward till their bodies met. Before Jherek could decide how he could easily break out of her grip without hurting her or appearing too rude, she leaned in and kissed him, biting gently at his lips.

“Enough!” he said with iron in his voice.

He took her wrist in his hand and broke her grip, lifting her arm between them to use as a lever to keep her away.

“Are you sure?” she taunted. Her smile seemed brighter and colder than ever.

Blood pounded in Jherek’s temples. He was embarrassed and angry, not understanding what he’d done to deserve such treatment at the serving girl’s hands. Over the roar of anger that filled his ears, he also heard the rollicking laughter of the sailors.

“Unhand the woman,” the bartender growled.

Jherek glanced at the big man and saw the oaken club he rested easily across the bar top. Reluctantly, the young sailor complied, stepping back again out of the woman’s easy reach.

She closed on him at once and a fresh wave of braying laughter filled the bar.

Nimbly, Jherek pulled out a nearby chair and placed it between them, creating a momentary barrier against the woman’s unwelcome attention.

Without hesitation, she stepped up into the chair. The tavern patrons hooted and shouted their support. She flung her arms wide, preparing to throw herself at Jherek, sensing that the young sailor wouldn’t let her hit the floor.

“Essme!” the bartender called in his thunderous voice.

The waitress hesitated.

“It’s enough,” the bartender told her. “You’ve had your fun. Get back to work.”

Reluctantly, the serving girl stepped down, away from Jherek. “Another time,” she promised throatily, and blew Jherek a kiss.

Face flaming with humiliation, Jherek almost turned and fled the tavern. Only a recognized voice stilled him.

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” a man gruffly demanded.

Jherek turned toward the man stepping out of the shadows behind him. He recognized Aysel from Breezerunner’s crew, and the three men that stood behind him as the sailor’s cronies.

“You too good for women a regular sailor has to bed down with if he’s to know something warm and willing?”

The small daggers hanging from Aysel’s ears glinted in the dim light. His thick mane of black hair was held back in a rawhide thong, but his beard was unkempt, frosted with ale foam. His open shirt revealed the pelt of dark hair that coiled on his massive chest and covered his big belly.

Jherek guessed at once that Aysel and his companions had put the waitress up to her performance. He felt shamed that he’d reacted as he had, letting the deceit get to him. He should have thought more clearly and found a way to stop the serving girl without obviously rebuffing her. Malorrie, he knew, wouldn’t have reacted in the same fashion, but the woman’s advances had been too bold, too blatant, and somehow Aysel had sensed what effect they would have on him.

“You stand in a tavern filled with seafaring men who know how to appreciate a real woman’s charms,” Aysel stated. “Every manjack here probably feels insulted at the way you disrespected that woman.” He glanced around and got the support, halfhearted as it was, of the rest of the sailors in the tavern.

“No disrespect was meant,” Jherek replied. His voice sounded tighter and higher than he’d intended. He glanced at the serving wench, watching her move easily through the tables, back to business as usual. “Nor do I think any was taken.”

Aysel raised his voice. “How about that, Essme? Do you wish to let bygones be bygones? I stand ready to take up arms in your defense.”

He shifted, revealing the battle-axe at his side. The haft was four feet long, and the double-bitted head rested on the spur jutting from the top on the sawdust strewn floor, in a position to be easily swept up into action.

Jherek altered his stance, taking in air as Malorrie had instructed. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew that Aysel had borne him enmity since their first meeting on Breezerunner at the water barrel when Tynnel had called the man down for his behavior.

“I’m here on business,” the young sailor stated easily.

“What business is that?” Aysel demanded.

“I need to speak with the captain.”

“Cap’n’s not here,” Aysel said. His eyes remained flinty hard with challenge and anger. He raised his voice even louder. “Essme!”

The serving girl looked back at the broad sailor, and every head in the tavern snapped around to watch what was going on.

“What?” she asked.

“I asked if you wanted me to stand up for you in this matter of ill charity. A man should not be so cavalier as to spurn a woman’s offered charms.”

The serving girl appeared hesitant, then finally waved the offer away. Jherek got the impression she wasn’t sure how much of the action was still play.

“It’s no bother,” she replied. “I claim no foul. After all, he’s just a boy, not like one of the real men that fill this room.”

The tavern goers shouted in glee, banging their empty and not-so-empty tankards down on their tables. A number of jests and curses filled the air at Jherek’s expense.

Clamping his jaw tight, Jherek struggled to rein in his anger. Since being driven from Velen, having his identity and home stripped from him by circumstance, he’d been aware of the dark anger that had filled him, but it had been mixed in equal parts with the sense that he’d somehow deserved every bad thing that had happened to him. Evil clung to blood. That was believed by most people, and even Jherek admitted there was some truth to it.

Maybe he didn’t deserve a home as other people did, and maybe one of the most feared and hated pirates of Faerun was all the family he’d ever had, but he didn’t deserve Aysel’s treatment. The man was more on his level. Jherek rested his hand on the worn hilt of his cutlass.

“Is Captain Tynnel here?” Jherek asked, pushing himself above the anger that swirled within him.

“Why?” Aysel demanded.

“I was sent to get a message to him.”

“By who?” the big man asked. “Sabyna? She seems to be the only one you talk to these days. Always running after her with your nose up her skirts.”

A tremor filled Jherek’s arm and he barely stilled himself from drawing steel against the man. “Have a care,” he said softly. “I’ll not have her honor trampled while I’m standing nearby.”