absence of snores, and the quiet of the galley beyond. Surely the dawn was approaching; surely the cook would be hard at work preparing the morning meal. But no singing floated through the half-closed galley door.
The ship had stocked enough oil in Waterdeep to last the entire journey to Calimport, and kegs of the stuff still remained in the hold. Entreri pulled open the trap door and hoisted out two of the heavy barrels. He broke the seal on one and kicked it into a roll through the barracks, spewing oil as it went. Then he carried the other—and half-carried Regis, who was limp with fear and revulsion—topside, spreading the oil out more quietly and concentrating the spill in a tight arc around the captain’s door.
“Get in,” he told Regis, indicating the single rowboat hanging in a jigger off the starboard side of the ship. “And carry this.” He handed the halfling a tiny pouch.
Bile rose in Regis’s throat when he thought of what was inside the bag, but he took the pouch anyway and held it securely, knowing that if he lost it, Entreri would only get another.
The assassin sprang lightly across the deck, preparing a torch as he went. Regis watched him in horror, shuddering at the cold appearance of his shadowed face as he tossed the torch down the ladder to the oil-soaked barracks. Grimly satisfied as the flames roared to life, Entreri raced back across the deck to the captain’s door.
“Good-bye!” was the only explanation he offered as he banged on the door. Two strides took him to the rowboat.
The captain leaped from his bed, fighting to orient himself. The ship was strangely calm, except for a telltale crackle and a wisp of smoke that slipped up through the floorboards.
Sword in hand, the captain threw the bolt back and pulled open the door. He looked around desperately and called for his crew. The flames had not reached the deck yet, but it was obvious to him—and should have been to his lookouts—that the ship was on fire. Beginning to suspect the awful truth, the captain rushed out, clad only in his nightshift.
He felt the tug of the trip-wire, then grimaced in further understanding as the wire noose bit deeply into his bare ankle. He sprawled face down, his sword dropping out in front of him. An aroma filled his nostrils, and he fully realized the deadly implications of the slick fluid drenching his nightshirt. He stretched out for his sword’s hilt and clawed futilelv at the wooden deck until his fingers bled.
A lick of flame jumped through the floorboards.
Sounds rolled eerily across the open expanse of water, especially in the empty dark of night. One sound filled the ears of Entreri and Regis as the assassin pulled the little rowboat against the currents of the Chionthar. It even cut through the din of thetaverns lining the docks of Baldur’s Gate, a half-mile away.
As if enhanced by the unspoken cries of protest of the dead crew—and by the dying ship itself—a singular, agonized voice screamed for all of them.
Then there was only the crackle of fire.
Entreri and Regis entered Baldur’s Gate on foot soon after daybreak. They had put the little rowboat into a cove a few hundred yards downriver, then sank the thing. Entreri wanted no evidence linking him to the disaster of the night before.
“It will be good to get home,” the assassin chided Regis as they made their way along the extensive docks of the lower city. He led Regis’s eye to a large merchant ship docked at one of the outer piers. “Do you remember the pennant?”
Regis looked to the flag flying atop the vessel, a gold field cut by slanted blue lines, the standard of Calimport. “Calimshan merchants never take passengers aboard,” he reminded the assassin, hoping to diffuse Entreri’s cocky attitude.
“They will make an exception,” Entreri replied. He pulled the ruby pendant out from under his leather jacket and displayed it beside his wicked smile.
Regis fell silent once more. He knew well the power of
The ship had stocked enough oil in Waterdeep to last the entire journey to Calimport, and kegs of the stuff still remained in the hold. Entreri pulled open the trap door and hoisted out two of the heavy barrels. He broke the seal on one and kicked it into a roll through the barracks, spewing oil as it went. Then he carried the other—and half-carried Regis, who was limp with fear and revulsion—topside, spreading the oil out more quietly and concentrating the spill in a tight arc around the captain’s door.
“Get in,” he told Regis, indicating the single rowboat hanging in a jigger off the starboard side of the ship. “And carry this.” He handed the halfling a tiny pouch.
Bile rose in Regis’s throat when he thought of what was inside the bag, but he took the pouch anyway and held it securely, knowing that if he lost it, Entreri would only get another.
The assassin sprang lightly across the deck, preparing a torch as he went. Regis watched him in horror, shuddering at the cold appearance of his shadowed face as he tossed the torch down the ladder to the oil-soaked barracks. Grimly satisfied as the flames roared to life, Entreri raced back across the deck to the captain’s door.
“Good-bye!” was the only explanation he offered as he banged on the door. Two strides took him to the rowboat.
The captain leaped from his bed, fighting to orient himself. The ship was strangely calm, except for a telltale crackle and a wisp of smoke that slipped up through the floorboards.
Sword in hand, the captain threw the bolt back and pulled open the door. He looked around desperately and called for his crew. The flames had not reached the deck yet, but it was obvious to him—and should have been to his lookouts—that the ship was on fire. Beginning to suspect the awful truth, the captain rushed out, clad only in his nightshift.
He felt the tug of the trip-wire, then grimaced in further understanding as the wire noose bit deeply into his bare ankle. He sprawled face down, his sword dropping out in front of him. An aroma filled his nostrils, and he fully realized the deadly implications of the slick fluid drenching his nightshirt. He stretched out for his sword’s hilt and clawed futilelv at the wooden deck until his fingers bled.
A lick of flame jumped through the floorboards.
Sounds rolled eerily across the open expanse of water, especially in the empty dark of night. One sound filled the ears of Entreri and Regis as the assassin pulled the little rowboat against the currents of the Chionthar. It even cut through the din of thetaverns lining the docks of Baldur’s Gate, a half-mile away.
As if enhanced by the unspoken cries of protest of the dead crew—and by the dying ship itself—a singular, agonized voice screamed for all of them.
Then there was only the crackle of fire.
Entreri and Regis entered Baldur’s Gate on foot soon after daybreak. They had put the little rowboat into a cove a few hundred yards downriver, then sank the thing. Entreri wanted no evidence linking him to the disaster of the night before.
“It will be good to get home,” the assassin chided Regis as they made their way along the extensive docks of the lower city. He led Regis’s eye to a large merchant ship docked at one of the outer piers. “Do you remember the pennant?”
Regis looked to the flag flying atop the vessel, a gold field cut by slanted blue lines, the standard of Calimport. “Calimshan merchants never take passengers aboard,” he reminded the assassin, hoping to diffuse Entreri’s cocky attitude.
“They will make an exception,” Entreri replied. He pulled the ruby pendant out from under his leather jacket and displayed it beside his wicked smile.
Regis fell silent once more. He knew well the power of
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