The Mercenaries - Ed Greenwood [6]
Belmer had laid his plans well. The Ankle Bells was perhaps the most crowded establishment in Tharkar after the Masques-and if Daggers were going to search it for eight ruffians, seen poorly through night-gloom and at a distance, they were going to have to break down a lot of barred doors, and disturb a lot of men and women who'd be rather irritated with them… and eager to demonstrate this. All of which would take time. Moreover, the damp, evil-smeUing cellars weren't likely to be the first place searched-and one of them linked with the source of the smell: a smuggling tunnel that led right out under the docks, to a waiting skiff.
Most of the seven had visited the Ankle Bells before, and knew about the false door to misdirect hurrying Daggers, and another door that was held up only by twine, ready to crash down on anyone who tried to wrench it open. All of Tharkar knew that skilled actors could be hired there, equipped with enchanted masques that mirrored the features of folk when bid to do so, to provide a harried patron of the Bells with a night's alibi. The she-pirate Sharessa had even worked at the Bells for a season, and-if she'd wanted to once more awaken memories that all too often burned in her dreams like black flames-could have told the others about the bed-canopy that crushed unwanted occupants, and the trip step on the back stairs____________________But even her eyes widened at the password the fat man gave to the drunk slumped atop the refuse-heap-the one that called forth a dozen half-dressed "patrons" to enact an instant brawl that blocked the street behind them. She'd have sworn not more than a dozen ship captains in all Faerun knew that word-and certainly not this little stranger.
She traded looks with Kurthe, and then with Rings. The seven Sharkers were beginning to be impressed by this bustling little fat man. He seemed to have everything planned, to know exactly what he was doing, and to set about things with unbroken calm- all of which were more than the wild-tempered, brawling Blackfingers had ever done.
* * * * *
The cellar was as damp-and dim-as they'd expected. Broken bedsteads leaned against one wall in a tangle of riven wood, and the rest of the many-pillared room was a litter of crates, barrels, seachests, and stones fallen from the crumbling walls. Evil-smelling remnants of offerings to Umberlee-drowned rats and squirrels, floating in the seaweed-decorated bowls consecrated to the goddess-stood on plinths here and there, their presence guarding the building above against flooding and collapse. The Sharkers crowded in and leaned on several stacks of crates, facing the little man who'd spirited them out of the Masques.
He was perched on a chest well away from them, on the other side of the lone, hooded lamp that dangled from the low ceiling, festooned with spiderwebs cloaked in thick, wet dust. Dead flies the size of a child's fist hung frozen amid that gray fur.
The Sharkers shifted uneasily. The man facing them showed every evidence of being ready to sit calmly and silently watching them all night. Sharessa opened her mouth to speak; it was time to break the silence.
As often happened, the dwarf beat her to it. "Dispense with Ambassador Droon,' and give: who are you?" Rings asked abruptly, angling his nose up at the mysterious fat man like the beak of an inquisitive bird.
"Belmer," the fat little man told him flatly. "An out-lander looking to hire pirates for a single task… albeit a task that may take a season, or more."
"So," the surly Konigheimer told him, "talk. Just what task, and how much?"
The little man smiled faintly at the seven Sharkers. "To help me find-and slay-a certain someone… who's not a ruler or lord of particular fame or power."
"Ah," Kurthe said, with a thin smile of his own. "A woman."
Belmer did not quite smile in return, and said nothing.
"The pay," the barrel-shaped woman with the many-times-broken nose prompted him.
"A chest of jargoons each, now, and a fist of rubies upon discharge,"