Midnights Mask (12 page)

Several members of the crew left the ship for the dockside taverns, but the captain, first mate, and a sizeable contingent of the crew-hard looking seamen, all-remained aboard and armed at all times. Crewmen eyed passersby with suspicion. A simple system of whistles and hand signs alerted the captain or first mate any time the harbormaster, his undermasters, or any of the Scepters approached. Azriim took that behavior as confirmation that the ship had slaves in its hold.

After a time, the slaadi called upon their new abilities granted by their partial transformation into gray slaadi, and willed themselves invisible and airborne. Each could see the other, of course, since slaadi innately saw invisible objects, but they were completely invisible to all others. Azriim enjoyed the sensation of flying. He found that flight was effortless, and speed and direction answered to his mental urgings. He could even hover.

Unseen, they flew over the ship, watching, listening, telepathically exchanging the names of crewmen and the layout of the ship. Captain Kauzin ruled Demon Binder, and his first mate was called Greel, though the crew often called him by a nickname, Hack, no doubt earned in combat. Azriim studied the captain’s appearance and mannerisms with care. The human tended to bark orders, laughed rarely but sharply, and walked with a stiff, gingerly step that bespoke an old back injury. Dolgan studied the first mate with the same intensity. They did not set foot on the deck, in the forecastle, or below decks, for fear of being noticed or triggering a magical alarm.

The slaadi patiently watched until the sky darkened and the stars shone down on the bay. Both Azriim and Dolgan could see well in the dark and continued to watch for a while longer. By the time a distant bell tower sounded the eighth hour, the slaadi knew Demon Binder and its crew well enough to maintain their planned charade.

I believe I have him now, projected Azriim. They should be returning to their quarters soon.

I am ready also, answered Dolgan, hovering in the air beside him.

They watched until the captain and mate disappeared into the forecastle, which held their quarters.

Azriim said, Bring the bodies to the alley when it’s done.

Dolgan’s unhappiness carried through the mental connection. The alley? Why? Can I at least eat his head? Azriim smiled. We will see.

With that, Azriim drew his blade and his teleportation rod. Dolgan did the same and both of them turned the dials on the rods.

Do try not to get stuck in the floor this time, Azriim said.

Dolgan smiled in answer.

Azriim was jesting only by half. There was always a risk in teleporting to a location they had never visited, or at least seen. Still, he was nothing if not a risk taker. He called upon the magic of the rod to teleport him into the forecastle, to the captain’s quarters. The magic would need to fill in the gaps.

He gave the rod a final twist, felt the familiar tingle in his flesh as his body moved instantaneously from the air above the ship to the captain’s cabin.

He appeared in one corner of a small room. A neatly made bed hugged the far wall, with a sea chest at its foot.

A small writing desk stood near the bed with a logbook,

quill, and inkwell atop it. A covered clay lamp and some papers sat on a night table near the bed.

Disappointed to find the cabin unoccupied, Azriim sat at the captain’s desk to wait. He leafed through the log, noting the repeated references to “sacks of cured meat,” no doubt a euphemism for slaves. He looked over the papers on the night table: charcoal sketches, and well done—a pod of leaping porpoises, a three-masted schooner on the horizon, an island in the distance. The captain was an artist, a slaver with a sensitive spirit. Azriim liked him immediately. Too bad he had to kill him.

He did not have to wait long. Shortly, the door to the cabin opened and the captain strode in, huffing and mumbling under his breath. Azriim pulled one of his wands, pointed it at the captain, and said, “Stay.”

The moment he said the word, he became visible.

The captain went wide-eyed. His hand went for his blade. He shouted aloud, an inarticulate cry of alarm. Azriim cursed. The human had resisted the magic. He tried again. “Stay, you stubborn arse!”

That time the captain froze, his mouth open in a shout that would never escape his lips. Azriim grinned, but his smile vanished when a loud rapping sounded on the door.

“Captain?” a voice called. “Captain Kauzin?”

Azriim quickly changed his form to that of the captain—thick limbed, full belly, sallow skin, bad teeth, beard, and short, black hair-and walked to the door. He had the wrong clothes and had kept his natural mismatched eye color, but he figured the seaman would not notice.

He crossed the room and opened the door part way, using his body and the door to block visibility into the room.

“What is it?” he growled, and was pleased to hear the captain’s voice exit his throat.

A thin crewman with a pointed chin and a thin moustache and beard stared at him in surprise.

“Er, sorry, Captain. I thought I heard something amiss.”

Azriim smiled. He knew the real captain could hear the exchange and he could imagine the human’s frustration at not being able to move or say anything.

“You did hear something,” Azriim said. “I tripped on my chest and gave my back another twinge.”

The sailor nodded knowingly. No doubt all the crewmen knew of their captain’s troublesome back.

“Ah. Sorry for the interruption.”

Azriim grunted acknowledgement and shut the door. He waited a moment with his ear to the door to ensure that the crewman was gone.

He circled around to the still-paralyzed captain and stared into his face. The man was sweating profusely, even through the spell. He knew what was coming.

“I will make it painless,” Azriim said, “But only because I do not want to ruin your clothes with blood.” He smiled into the human’s face. “And because you are an artist, which I respect.” He tapped a finger on his chin. “But after you are dead and I’ve taken your corpse from the ship, I may eat your brain. Done?”

The captain only sweated.

“Done, then,” Azriim said. He smiled, took the captain’s head in his hands, stared into his fearful eyes, and snapped his neck.

Afterward, he stripped the captain of his clothes, donned them, and used his rod to teleport himself and the corpse back to the alley. He found Dolgan already there, in the form of the first mate, waiting with the body of the real mate. Dolgan had not been as elegant in disposing of his target. The mate’s throat was torn out and his shirt stained crimson. His hair was slicked too, not with blood, but saliva. Dolgan must have been gumming his skull.

“I have been waiting a quarter hour,” hissed Dolgan, his voice that of the human.

Is there blood in the mate’s quarters?”

Dolgan grinned and licked his lips. “Not anymore.”

Azriim could only shake his head and wonder how he and Dolgan had been born to the same brood.

“May I feed?” Dolgan asked, holding the slack body of the mate by his head.

Azriim nodded indulgently. “Take him farther into the alley. And be quick.”

Dolgan grinned, retreated into the alley with his meal, and changed to his natural form. A crack announced the opening of the mate’s skull and slobbering sounds bespoke the emptying of the brainpan. Dolgan returned to human form and dragged the corpse along, wiping his mouth. Atypically, Azriim felt no desire to feed when he glanced at the human’s hollowed-out skull. The partial transformation to gray had perhaps changed his tastes.

Clucking his tongue, Azriim piled the corpses together, looked out on the waters, and picked a suitable point off the coast. He touched his teleportation rod to the bodies and sent them out into the waters of the bay, near a pier. They would be found and identified soon enough. No doubt the opened brainpan of the first mate would set tongues wagging.

Exactly as Azriim planned.

If the priest of Mask and his allies were following them, Azriim wanted to ensure they followed along the path he marked.

Back to the ship now, he projected to Dolgan. Our assassin should be arriving soon. And we are setting sail tonight.

Cale procured a single room for the three of them in a dockside, two-story inn called The Murky Depths. The inn served wealthy itinerant merchants who did not want to spend their evenings aboard ship while they were in port. Well-dressed men and women filled the common room, chatting and laughing. Several subdued games of draughts, sava, and scales and blades went on at various tables. Business negotiations went on at others. Dice were not in evidence.

The sweet smell of quality pipeleaf filled the room and bluish smoke circled the roof joists.

A large kettle of fish stew simmered over the

larger of the taproom’s two hearths. The Depths had only a few windows, all tightly shuttered.

Dim glowglobes in the corners shed cerulean light of varying intensity, giving the taproom a deep-sea feel. Permanent illusions of small sharks, dolphins, jellyfish, marlins, and other exotic fish “swam” through the air between tables, between the roof rafters. An auditory illusion kept up a soothing chorus of distant whalesong. Permanent visual illusions made the floor appear to be transparent with a sea floor far below. Kelp, giant clams, and anemones dotted the sandy bottom, and schools of fish swam lazily under the feet of the patrons.

Cale could imagine the expense the proprietor must have spent on hired illusionists.

The three comrades sat in a shadowed corner of the taproom at a sturdy round table edged with an inset shell border. Ceramic tankards filled with quality house ale sat before them.

“Hardly our kind of place,” Jak said, eyeing the clientele. He reached out to touch a bright red illusory fish coasting past their table. It darted away from his touch and into the depths below the floorboards.

Cale agreed. Other than dinner knives and a couple of obviously ceremonial cutlasses that hung from the hips of two overweight merchants, the three comrades wore the only weapons in the room. The Depths was a place to which Cale might have accompanied Thamalon to close a trade deal.

Cale said, “I wanted us to have—”

The patrons scattered as an illusory shark burst out of the floor chasing a large silver fish. Prey and predator swam a frenetic course over three tables before knifing neatly back into the floorboards’ depths. Eventually the fish found shelter in a cave on the sea floor and the shark went hungry. Laughter and clapping followed.

Cale, Jak, and Magadon shared a look. All three had pushed back their chairs, half stood, and put hands to hilts. Cale had Weaveshear halfway from its scabbard.

Sheepishly, they released their blades and settled back

at their table. Some of the nearby patrons eyed them and whispered behind their hands.

Cale ignored them and took a sip of ale. “As I was saying, I wanted us to have a peaceful place from which to operate. One with few distractions.” He thought of the tavern back in Skullport, when he and Riven had fought off some mercenaries. That would have been a pointless distraction too, had it not led to him meeting Varra. He put thoughts of her from his mind. “I also figured it might as well be a nice place. We could use a reprieve, even if temporary.”

Jak tilted his head and raised his glass in a salute. A trio of golden fish swam near their table and Jak snapped out his free hand to grab at one. The little man proved faster than the illusion and all three illusory fish vanished at his touch. They reappeared, swimming peacefully, near the ceiling across the room.

“Got you,” Jak said to them, smiling, and took a long, congratulatory draw on his ale.

Magadon returned them to their task. “Sakkors is underwater. We know that. Hopefully, we can catch the slaadi and Riven aboard ship, but if not….”

“Then we go under,” Jak said, and looked down through the floorboards.

Magadon nodded. “And that adds to our enemies-the ocean is cold, dark, airless, and the weight of the water increases with depth. My mental abilities are of no help. What of your spells?”

“Within limits,” Cale said, and Jak nodded agreement.

“The slaadi can shapechange,” Magadon said. “They will take the form of something native to the depths. We will be at a disadvantage if it comes to that.”

“Then let’s not let it come to that,” Cale said. He looked to Jak and said, “Call in any markers you have, even your old Harper contacts.”

Magadon raised his eyebrows at that; the guide had not known that Jak once was a Harper. Cale went on.

“I will do the same. We angle for anything suspicions. A sailor, passenger, or merchant with mismatched eyes. Anyone asking after Sakkors or the Eldritch Temple. A ship unexpectedly departing. Anything at all. Drop as much coin as you need. We start tonight.”

“I will be of little use in this,” Magadon said, his lips pursed.

“You have been of great use in everything else, Mags,” Cale said. “Leave this to Jak and me. This is what we do.”

Jak drained his ale, wiped his mouth, and stood. “I’ll get started tonight.”

Cale nodded.

“I will try scrying,” he said. “If that does not work, I’ll join you on the wharves.”

*****

Dressed in the tailored black doublet, trousers, high boots, and fur-trimmed cloak of a middle-aged, wealthy, potbellied merchant, Riven walked the pier toward Demon Binder. To maintain appearances, he had hired a laborer to bear his chest of traveling goods— in reality, his weapons, armor, clothing, and a few other useless gewgaws he had purchased to add weight.

As he neared the gangplank, two crewmen hurried down to the pier to assist the laborer with his burden. Both sailors wore cutlasses and hard looks. Riven threw a silver to the laborer and sent him on his way.

“The captain said you was comin’,” the first said, a thin, tattooed sailor missing two fingers on his right hand,

“We’ll bear that for you, now,” said the other, a burly crewman with burn-scarred hands. His sour breath stank of distilled spirits.

Riven wiped fictional sweat from his brow, made as though he was catching his breath. He adopted a Chondathan accent and offered his thanks.