Corsair by Richard Baker Page B

they were called— from his strongbox. By the time he finished his swordsman was back, standing at the side of a portly halfling dressed in a thick, quilted tunic. The halfling doffed his cap and bobbed his head. “Good evenin’, m’lord,” he said. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”
    “I suppose. Were you seen?”
    “Not by the shore, m’lord. No one was about; I think the fog drove most folk indoors tonight. We made the usual arrangements at the city gate, and had no trouble.”
    “I was expecting more merchandise.”
    The driver nodded. “The man who met us said you would be, m’lord. He gave me this to give to you.” He handed Sergen a small envelope sealed with a blank daub of wax.
    Sergen took the letter, broke the seal, and read it. It was short and to the point: “We must meet. Expect me at two bells. Take the usual precautions. —K.” Sergen tugged at his goatee, wondering what new development this signaled. Well, he would find out soon enough. It was already an hour past midnight—one bell, as they said in Melvaunt—so he needed to conclude his business and return home. “Your payment,” he said, handing the halfling a small pouch. “I’ve counted out ten anvils since your load was lighter than I’d been led to believe.”
    The wagon driver winced, but he did not complain. It was hard but fair, and he knew that he’d get no more from Sergen this evening. “Thank you, m’lord,” he said. He bowed and withdrew.
    “Kerth, have my carriage brought up immediately,” Sergen told his bodyguard. “We’ve got company coming. Have your men lock up here.”
    In a matter of minutes Sergen and Kerth clattered away from the Five Crowns storehouses in a swift black carriage, driving back up to the hillside where Sergen’s villa overlooked the harbor. The guttering streetlamps painted the murk hanging over the city a dull red-orange color, but as the carriage climbed, the thick stink lessened perceptibly. Soon enough the carriage clattered past the comfortable houses of the wealthy, each surrounded by its own wall, and some guarded by watchmen with pikes. Near the top of the hill they reached Sergen’s estate and turned into the long, gated driveway. “Order the servants to their quarters, and douse the streetlamps,” Sergen told Kerth. “I’ll be waiting in the study.”
    “I understand, m’lord,” the mercenary said.
    The carriage stopped by the manor’s door. Sergen allowed his footman to open the carriage door for him. As he climbed the steps to the manor’s foyer, a valet took his cloak and the doorman held the door for him. He might not have a noble title, but he certainly could afford the trappings of nobility. While Kerth spoke with the servants and saw to the arrangements outside, Sergen headed back to his study, a large room with broad windows overlooking the harbor. He drew the curtains closed and then poured himself a glass of good dwarven brandy from a service he kept near his desk. Taking a seat by the room’s fireplace, he listened to the faint sounds of the household staff receding and watched as one by one the lights were turned down low outside. His visitor valued discretion, after all.
    Sergen waited no more than a quarter hour in the dark study before he heard footsteps in the hallway outside. He set down his brandy and stood as Kerth opened the door to admit a tall, cloaked figure. The armsman looked at Sergen; Sergen nodded to him, and Kerth stepped outside and closed the door, leaving him alone with his visitor. The man undid the fastenings of his heavy cloak and tossed it carelessly onto the nearest sofa. “This is a fine house, my boy,” he said. “But living here is making you soft, mark my words.”
    “It’s all for show,” Sergen answered. “Hello, Father.” He stepped forward for a quick embrace and a hearty thump on the back. Kamoth Kastelmar was a lean, well-weathered man of fifty-five years, a little taller than his son. A gray-streaked beard of