The Reaver Page 8

  “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.”

  “I remember him signaling with that blue lantern.” Anton lifted his dented pewter cup in salute to Dalabrac, drained it, rose, and pushed back through the curtain into the tavern’s common room.

  As he strode toward the door, he told himself that the difficult part of his enterprise was over. Falrinn’s boat was nimble enough to evade the Iron Jest and any other seafaring hunters. At some point, Stedd might realize where they were truly headed, but it would be too late for him to do anything about it. If need be, Anton would tie him up to keep him out of mischief.

  Although imagining that made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He didn’t know why. A man did what was necessary to make his way; if he balked, some more enterprising soul would only knock him down, walk over him, and commit the selfsame act he’d been too squeamish to perform. With that truth held firmly in mind, he pulled open the door.

  Stedd was gone.

  Hoping that the rain and gloom had momentarily deceived him, Anton cast about. To his growing dismay, he still saw no sign of the boy. He paced along the narrow street and peered into the various shops. Stedd wasn’t inside any of them.

  Had waveservants or other hunters recognized the child and snatched him away? Possibly. But wouldn’t Stedd have scurried into the Golden Helm in search of his protector if he saw trouble headed his way?

  Not if he’d been taken by surprise. Not if someone struck him down before he had a chance to act. Anton imagined the little boy sprawled facedown with Umberlant priests standing over him, and the surge of rage the picture evoked surprised him. No doubt it was anger at the thought of someone else snatching his prize away from him.

  Although he didn’t know for certain that was what had happened. Maybe Stedd finally realized his traveling companion remained what he’d always been, an enemy resolved to sell him for the bounty.

  But if so, how? Anton was confident he’d given the boy no reason to suspect him. To the contrary; he played the part of a true guardian and friend. At first, the pretence had required effort, but as the days wore on, it had become habitual, perhaps, in some sense, even natural.

  Still, maybe Stedd had discovered the truth with magic.

  On their first morning together, Anton had deemed it prudent to prevent the boy from renewing his abilities. But it had proved impractical to do the same with each new sunrise, and so, although he’d kept interfering when circumstances provided a good excuse, the boy nonetheless possessed some magic. It might only be healing of the sort that had aided Anton aboard the Jest and sick folk they’d met along the trail. That was all the Turmishan had witnessed so far. But for all he knew, when turned to the purpose, it might also yield warnings and revelations.

  With a jaw-clenching spasm of frustration, Anton decided there was no way to guess with any degree of confidence why Stedd had disappeared. There were too many ambiguities involved. In any case, what mattered was finding him, but how was a lone pirate, himself a fugitive, supposed to find a single missing child in the teeming sprawl that was Westgate?

  Plainly, he couldn’t. But the Fire Knives had eyes throughout the city. He was just going to have to tell them the truth and cut them in for a full share of the bounty.

  He strode back into the Golden Helm and ripped open the curtain screening the alcove. Startled, Dalabrac peered at him.

  “I need your help with another problem,” Anton said.

  “What?” the halfling asked, perhaps a shade too quickly, or with a bit too much concern. At any rate, something about his reaction gave Anton a twinge of unease. But that didn’t alter the fact that he needed help.

  “I had a boy with me,” he said, “born and raised on Pirate Isle and unfortunately, unhappy there. He stowed away aboard a ship, and his father has posted a reward …”

  Dalabrac grimaced. “Stop. I know you were traveling with a child. I also know who the child truly is.”

  Anton blinked. “How?”

  “I warned you I’m not a simpleton, and neither are the new leaders of your former crew. They’ve been in touch to tell me you absconded with the boy prophet that Evendur Highcastle wants and might turn up here to ask for help.”

  “In which case,” Anton said, “they wanted the Fire Knives to return the two of us to their keeping instead.”

  “Of course,” the halfling said, “I wouldn’t have turned an old friend over to be killed.”

  “Of course not,” Anton said, making no effort to conceal his skepticism.

  “But once the boy was actually standing in front of me, it’s possible I would have proposed that you and I renegotiate our arrangement. And that, I infer, is the problem. You wouldn’t even have told me there is a boy if you hadn’t just discovered that you’ve lost him.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. He was right outside in the street, and now he’s disappeared. I need your help finding him.”

  “But do I need your help?” Dalabrac replied. “The Fire Knives know Westgate far better than you ever could. At this point, what can you contribute to the enterprise?”

  “The lad trusts me”—Anton hoped that was still true—“and I know how he thinks. I can also fight if need be. You may remember, I’m pretty good at it.”

  Dalabrac hopped down from his stool. “I remember having to stab that Shou son of a troll in the arse and save your hide. But still, yes, you are. So, a new arrangement. One third of Evendur Highcastle’s bounty for you, two thirds for the Fire Knives, and no need to cut in your former crew. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” Anton said.

  “Then let’s get moving.”

  Despite the rows of stalls, the marketplace, a plaza where three streets came together, felt relatively open, and despite the scarcity of goods and the high prices that periodically elicited cries of amazed disgust, a fair number of folk were shopping. It all made the skin between Stedd’s shoulder blades crawl like someone was about to stick a dagger there.

  But on the trek from the Star Peaks to the Sea of Fallen Stars, Questele had told him that sometimes, the safest place to hide was in a crowd, and whether or not this was one of those occasions, he hadn’t figured out anywhere else to go. So he drifted from one vendor’s stand to the next and struggled not to constantly look around for signs of pursuit like the fugitive he was.

  Hooves clattered and wheels rumbled and threw up water as four wagons rolled into the marketplace. Someone had painted a white hand clasping a blue rose on the side of each, and the men driving them or riding in the backs wore livery marked with the same symbol.

  The wagons headed down one of the busier aisles, busier because, despite the paucity of harvests out in the countryside and the reluctance of farmers to send produce to market that they might end up
needing to eat themselves, the grocers had some fruit and vegetables to sell. Some of their customers had to scurry out of the way of the draft horses with their jingling harness.

  A thin man with a weak-chinned but keen face like a weasel’s hopped down from the bench of the lead wagon, and ignoring those who’d arrived ahead of him, started talking to a grocer. At the end of the exchange, he tossed her a purse and his associates loaded up her bushel baskets of cucumbers and ambercup squash, not stopping until they stripped her area clean.

  By that time, the weasel had moved on to a second grocer. After another brief bit of haggling, he purchased all of that vendor’s wares, this time, radishes and pears.

  The other shoppers—reduced to would-be shoppers now—were glowering and grumbling among themselves. The weasel ignored them and moved on to a stand selling sacks of flour. But before he could begin another transaction, a big woman in an apron with a wicker basket hanging on her arm grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.

  Stedd was too far away to hear the exchange that followed, but he could imagine it. The woman was saying it didn’t matter how rich or important the weasel’s master was; the nobleman or merchant had no right to buy all the food. And, sneering, the weasel was replying that what he was doing was entirely legal, and if she didn’t like it, that was her problem, not his.

  The weasel attempted to end the altercation by turning back to engage the flour vendor. But the woman with the basket grabbed him and pulled him around more roughly than before.

  The rich man’s factor jerked free of her grip, shouted, and waved his hand. Two men wearing the hand-and-rose emblem left off loading a wagon and strode in his direction with the obvious intent of forcing the woman to leave him alone.

  But the woman had plenty of sympathizers among the onlookers, and several of them planted themselves in the way of the weasel’s subordinates. By calling for help, he’d only succeeded in creating a second confrontation.

  Other servants moved to reinforce their beleaguered fellows. Their problem was that they couldn’t do that and look after the wagons, too, and a boy a year or two older than Stedd darted toward the one with the radishes and pears. His mother yelled for him to stop, but he didn’t.

  Perhaps it was her cry that alerted the servant who lurched back around. He rushed the boy, tackled him just short of the wagon, and bore him down on the wet cobbles. The man’s fist swept up and down as he repeatedly punched the child in the face.

  Someone shouted, “Get him!” and people rushed to drag the servant off the boy and beat him in his turn. They were so eager to vent their outrage that no one offered further aid to the child. In fact, his rescuers stepped on him as, dazed and bloodied, he tried to crawl away.

  Stedd missed seeing where violence erupted next. Seemingly in the blink of an eye, it was everywhere.

  People punched and tried to grab the servants in livery, who, outnumbered, fought back desperately. But there was more to the fracas than that. Following the thieving boy’s example, other folk shoved their way toward the wagons or overran the vendors’ stalls and battled one another for the spoils to be found there, overturning bins and baskets in their frenzy and tumbling onions and snap beans to the ground.

  Horrified, Stedd realized his own precarious circumstances didn’t matter; this situation was bad enough that he felt compelled to intervene.

  Ahead of him, an itinerant vendor simply abandoned his pushcart and ran before the spreading chaos could overtake him. Stedd dashed to the cart and climbed on top of it. Trinkets, including starfish on thongs, trident badges, and similar ornaments, snapped and crunched beneath his feet.

  All right, now what? Stedd couldn’t just start preaching the way he had dozens of times before. With all the yelling and crashing going on, no one would even notice, let alone stop looting and brawling to pay attention.

  He pictured a golden sunrise and reached out to the god enthroned at the heart of the light. And an idea came to him, although not in words. He’d never heard Lathander’s voice as such. It was more like the Morninglord’s grace quickened his own capacities to perceive and to plan.

  He took a long breath and raised his hand to the sky. Flowing from east to west, a wave of light and warmth swept across the marketplace and the dozens of vicious scuffles in progress there.

  The glow didn’t stop the rain, and the cloud cover walling away the sun remained unbroken. But it was still daylight brighter than the folk of the Inner Sea had experienced in a year. Startled, the brawlers stopped fighting to look around.

  When they did, they beheld Stedd on his makeshift dais with his arm still dramatically upraised. He was no mountebank, but since coming south, he’d addressed enough crowds to learn a little showmanship, and as long as it helped him deliver Lathander’s message, he didn’t see any harm in it.

  “Please,” he said, “for your own sakes, don’t fight one another, and don’t steal. It’s not who you are nor who you want to be.”

  “Did you make the light?” called a woman with blood trickling from a split lip. She clutched a half-gobbled pear in her hand.

  “Lathander made it,” Stedd replied. “He’s come back to tell us the Great Rain won’t last forever, and we don’t need to turn on each other to survive it. In fact, the way to make it through is to do the opposite: Stand together, and help folk in need.”

  “That’s not what Umberlee teaches!” shouted one of the men wearing the blue-rose emblem. His eyes were so wide that white showed all around, and the whip he’d likely grabbed from one of the wagons trembled in his grip.

  “Umberlee’s just one power among many,” Stedd replied, “and you can choose which one to follow, the same way people always have. She’ll never be supreme in Westgate or anywhere else unless people lift her up with their belief and their obedience.”

  “That’s blasphemy,” declared the man with the whip, “and everyone who’s watched the sea rise knows it! Just like anybody who’s even heard the name knows Lathander’s dead. He died in our great-grandfathers’ time with a dozen other gods.”

  As the servant offered his retort, the magical light faded. It did so simply because it had burned through all the power Stedd had channeled to make it shine, but the timing was unfortunate. The returning gloom felt like validation of the Umberlant’s assertion.

  Mouths twisted and scowled as disappointment and disgust replaced the hope that had momentarily brightened haggard faces. A major port like Westgate no doubt saw too much magic to be easily impressed by it, and, deciding Stedd was simply a charlatan or deluded wretch with a mystical trick or two at his disposal, people went back to the grim business of snatching any food within reach, which sometimes devolved into playing tug of war with bins, baskets, and even individual pieces of produce. Subjected to such rough handling, a sack split and poured flour onto the pavement, depriving both contenders of the contents. A man cried out when, shying at all the commotion pressing in around it, a draft horse set its hoof down on his foot.

  It was plain that renewed violence was only a breath or two away, and this time, some of it was likely to involve Stedd. The servant with the whip started toward him, and so did two other men. Either they’d heard something about a reward offered for a boy prophet or they simply meant to punish him for proclaiming a message they considered pernicious nonsense.

  When Stedd reached out to Lathander, the contact clarified his thinking and buttressed his faith. But it didn’t turn him into a different person, and on the human level, he was as alarmed as any child would be at the prospect of three grown men pummeling him, flogging him, or worse. His heart pounded, and his mouth was dry. The fear made it hard to think about anything but running away. But that would mean leaving his work undone.

  Should he lash out at his assailants with magic as the village waveservant had struck at Anton? It might be possible, but he didn’t know for sure. He’d never tried to use his gifts for fighting. From the beginning, he’d sensed that the Morninglord wanted him to give peop
le help and hope, not punishment.

  That, he decided, was what he still needed to do, and he thought he saw how. Once again, he fixed his inner eye on the dawn that flowered eternally if a person only knew where to look, and prayed for an infusion of its glory.

  Lathander answered with such an abundance of power that for the first time, the channeling hurt. Stedd’s insides burned like fire. Only for a moment, though, and then the pain became ecstasy. That, however, made it no less imperative that he turn the force he’d received to a sacred purpose, and with a strangled cry and a flailing wave of his arm, he hurled it forth.

  At the same instant, the whip curled through the air and lashed him across the chest. The stinging blow staggered him, and he fell off the pushcart onto the cobbles. The impact smashed the wind out of him.

  He tried to scramble up. The lash cracked down across his shoulders, and the stroke knocked him back down onto his hands and knees. He lunged, and a hand caught hold of his cloak and threw him back to his starting position. Dazed, he cast about for a way past his tormentors but couldn’t spot one. The bullies’ legs and the pushcart had him surrounded.

  The whip snapped down again. He jerked with pain and bit his tongue. That, however, was the last stroke. As the lingering burn of it subsided, excited babbling replaced the shrieks, grunts, curses, and pounding noises of the riot.

  Stedd raised his head. Fruit and vegetables lay heaped here, there, and everywhere in such profusion as to bury whatever baskets remained intact. As he’d intended, the magic he’d cast across the plaza had multiplied the foodstuffs ten times over.

  A few folk were frantically snatching all they could. But more simply goggled at the abundance, or turned in his direction with the same astonished wonder in their eyes.

  Someone offered Stedd a hand. When he took it and clambered to his feet, he saw he’d accepted the help of the man with the whip.