Corsair by Richard Baker Page A

about the loyalty of his bodyguards. They were well compensated for agreeing to undergo the necessary rituals.
    “Well enough, so long as one doesn’t mind smelling like the harbor for the rest of the evening,” Sergen answered. He was a fastidious man, and he took great care in maintaining his wardrobe. Tonight he wore a lavender tabard over a shirt of black silk, with a broad belt and high boots of expensive Sembian leather. A wide-brimmed hat with a rakish tilt matched his tabard. He was just about to retreat inside the dubious comforts of his storehouse when he heard the muffled clip-clop of hooves on slick cobblestones and the creaking of wooden wheels.
    “Wagons coming, m’lord,” Kerth said.
    Sergen smiled in a distinctly predatory fashion, pleased that his late vigil would be rewarded after all. “About time. Kerth, turn out your men to lend a hand. Quick and quiet now!”
    “As you wish, m’lord,” the armsman Kerth answered. He raised a knuckle to his scarred forehead and turned to rasp orders to the other guards waiting nearby. Sergen stood aside from the doorway as his armsmen unbarred the gate leading into the narrow alleyway between his storehouses and hurried out to guide several large wagons inside. This was not the sort of work he liked to give his highly paid guards, but he was certain of their loyalty. Unfortunately the small army of clerks, scribes, and porters who worked in the Five Crowns tradeyard during the customary hours of business was not under any sort of magical compulsion to serve with unquestioned loyalty. Oh, some of them were trustworthy enough, but Sergen knew that clerks and porters tended to gossip with their colleagues in other trading houses when the day was done. When he caught Five Crowns men making that mistake, he punished them severely, but it was impossible to stop all such talk. Better to keep the night’s work to those he could trust to keep it to themselves.
    Sergen unlocked a door leading to a rarely used storeroom. “In here,” he told his men. The drivers of the wagons weren’t in his employ, but they knew better than to ask questions or look too closely at the cargo they were hired to carry. They set their brakes and climbed down to undo the ties that held each wagon’s canvas cover in place. Beneath the canvas, the wagons were laden with heavy crates, casks, barrels, and chests. Each had been seared with the black mark of the Five Crowns brand, conveniently covering the former owners’ marks. Over the next tenday or so, Sergen would arrange to dispose of the stolen cargo a few parcels at a time, which would turn a tidy little profit for his merchant company.
    It irked him that he had to attend to such details, but that was the nature of his circumstances. As much as he affected the habits of the nobility, he was simply one more merchant in Melvaunt, and his fortune was not so substantial or secure that he could leave it in the hands of underlings. A few months ago he’d entertained dreams of making himself lord over Hulburg, but his so-called family had somehow survived his carefully planned acquisition of power, largely through the interference of his thrice-damned stepcousin, Geran Hulmaster. Instead of ruling from the throne
    of Griffonwatch, he was reduced to skulking about in dark storehouses in the middle of the night, with spell-bound sellswords the only minions he could trust.
    Kerth interrupted his brooding. “That’s all of it, m’lord,” the tattooed swordsman said. “The wagonmaster’s asking after his coin.”
    “He is, is he?” Sergen answered. He looked into the storeroom, studying the merchandise with a practiced eye. He’d been expecting at least another wagonful or two, but apparently it wasn’t coming tonight. With a shrug, he closed and locked the storeroom. “Very well, then. Bring him in to my office.”
    While Kerth went to fetch the wagonmaster, Sergen unlocked his office and counted out the gold coins of Melvaunt—anvils,