Kurth chuckled again and reminded himself that Nehwerg served a valuable purpose for him, and that the man’s inanity was a blessing and not a curse. It wouldn’t do to have such a personal liaison to the Luskar garrison who could think his way through too many layers of intrigue, after all.

The black bird, the Crow, closed rapidly on Kurth’s position, finally alighting on the balcony railing. It hopped down, and flipped its wings over as it did, enacting the transformation back to a human form.

“You said you would be alone,” Kensidan said, eyeing the two soldiers hard.

“Of course my closest advisors are well aware of this particular aspect of your magical cloak, son of Rethnor,” Kurth replied. “Would you expect that I wouldn’t have told them?”

Kensidan didn’t reply, other than to let his gaze linger a bit longer on the two before turning it to Kurth, who motioned for them all to enter his private room.

“I’m surprised you would ask to see me at this tense time,” Kurth said, moving to the bar and pouring a bit of brandy for himself and Kensidan. When Nehwerg made a move toward the drink, Kurth turned him back with a narrow-eyed glare.

“It was not Arklem Greeth,” said Kensidan, “nor one of his lackeys. You need know that.”

Kurth looked at him curiously.

“Your shadowy visitor,” Kensidan explained. “It was not Greeth, not an ally of Greeth in any way, and not a mage of the Arcane Brotherhood.”

“Bah, but who’s he talking about?” demanded Nehwerg, and Master Shanty stepped up beside his high captain. Kurth impatiently waved them both back.

“How do you…?” Kurth started to ask, but stopped short and just smirked at the surprising, dangerous upstart.

“No wizard outside of Arklem Greeth’s inner circle could penetrate the magical defenses he has set in place in Kurth Tower,” Kensidan said as if reading Kurth’s mind.

Kurth tried hard to not look impressed, and just held his smirk, inviting the Crow to continue.

“Because it was no wizard,” Kensidan said. “There is another type of magic involved.”

“Priests are no match for the web of Arklem Greeth,” Kurth replied. “Do you think him foolish enough to forget the schools of those divinely inspired?”

“And no priest,” said Kensidan.

“You’re running out of magic-users.”

Kensidan tapped the side of his head and Kurth’s smirk turned back into an unintentional, intrigued expression.

“A mind mage?” he asked quietly, a Luskar slang for those rare and reputably powerful practitioners of the concentration art known as psionics. “A monk?”

“I had such a visitor months ago, when first I started seeing the possibilities of Captain Deudermont’s future,” Kensidan explained, taking the glass from Kurth and settling into a chair in front of the room’s generous hearth, which had only been lit a few minutes earlier and wasn’t yet throwing substantial heat.

Kurth took the seat across from Rethnor’s son and motioned for Nehwerg and Master Shanty to stand a step behind him.

“So the machinations of this rebellion, the inspiration even, came from outside Luskan?” Kurth asked.

Kensidan shook his head. “This is a natural progression, a response to the overreaching of Arklem Greeth both on the high seas, where Deudermont roams, and in the east, in the Silver Marches.”

“Which all came together in this ‘coincidental’ conglomeration of opponents lining up against the Hosttower?” Kurth asked, doubt dripping from every sarcastic word.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Kensidan replied.

“And yet, here we are. Do you admit that Kensidan’s hand, that Ship Rethnor’s hands, are in this?”

“Up to our elbows…our shoulders, perhaps,” Kensidan said with a laugh, and lifted his glass in toast. “I didn’t create this opportunity, but neither would I let it pass.”

“You, or your father?”

“He is my advisor—you know as much.”

“A startling admission, and a dangerous one,” said Kurth.

“How so? Have you heard the rumble on the island to your west? Have you seen the gathering at the gates of Closeguard Bridge?”

Kurth considered that for a moment, and it was his turn to tip his glass to his companion.

“So Arklem Greeth has frayed the many strings, and Kensidan of Ship Rethnor has worked to weave them into something to his own benefit,” said Kurth.

Kensidan nodded.

“And these others? Our shadowy visitors?”

Kensidan rubbed his long and thin fingers over his chin. “Consider the dwarf,” he said.

Kurth stared at him curiously for a few moments, recalling the rumors from the east regarding the Silver Marches. “King Bruenor? The dwarf King of Mithral Hall works for the fall of Luskan?

“No, not Bruenor. Of course it’s not Bruenor, who, by all reports, has troubles enough to keep him busy in the east, thank the gods.”

“But it’s Bruenor’s strange friend who rides with Deudermont,” said Kurth.

“Not Bruenor,” Kensidan replied. “He has no place or part in any of this, and how the dark elf happened back to Deudermont’s side I neither know nor care.”

“Then what dwarves? The Ironspur Clan from the mountains?”

“Not dwarves,” Kensidan corrected. “Dwarf. You know of my recent acquisition…the bodyguard?”

Kurth nodded, finally catching on. “The creature with the unusual morningstars, yes. How could I not know? The one whose ill-fashioned rhymes grate on the nerves of every sailor in town. He has brawled in every tavern in Luskan over the last few months, mostly over his own wretched poetry, and from what my scouts tell me, he’s a far better fighter than he is a poet. Ship Rethnor strengthened her position on the street greatly with that one. But he is tied to all of this?” Kurth waved his arm out toward the western window, where the sound of the bombardment had increased yet again.

Kensidan nodded his chin at Master Shanty and Nehwerg, staring all the while into Kurth’s dark eyes.

“They are trusted,” Kurth assured him.

“Not by me.”

“You have come to my Ship.”

“To advise and to offer, and not under duress, and nor under duress shall I stay.”

Kurth paused and seemed to be taking it all in, glancing from his guest to his guards. It was obvious to Kensidan that the man was intrigued, though, and so it came as no surprise when he turned at last to the two guards and ordered them out of the room. They protested, but Kurth would hear none of it and waved them away.

“The dwarf was a gift to me from these visitors, who take great interest in establishing strong trading ties with Luskan. They are here for commerce, not conquest—that is my hope at least. And my belief, for were they openly revealed, we would be facing greater lords of Waterdeep than Brambleberry, do not doubt, and King Bruenor, Marchion Elastul of Mirabar, and Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon wouldn’t be far behind with their own armies.”

Kurth felt a bit more perplexed and defensive, and a lot less intrigued.

“These events were not their doing, but they watch closely, and advise me and my father, as they have visited you,” said Kensidan, hoping that naming Rethnor almost as an afterthought had slipped past the perceptive Kurth. The man’s arched eyebrow showed that it had not, however, and Kensidan silently berated himself and promised that he would do better in the future. Ship Rethnor wasn’t yet officially his. Not officially.

“So you hear voices in the shadows, and these bring you confidence,” Kurth said. He held up his hand as Kensidan tried to interrupt and continued, “Then we’re back at the initial square of the board, are we not? How do you know your friends in the shadows aren’t agents of Arklem Greeth? Perhaps the cunning lich has decided it’s time to test the loyalties of his high captains. Are you too young to see the dangerous possibilities? And wouldn’t that make you the biggest fool of all?”

Kensidan held up his open palm and finally managed to silence the man. He slowly reached under his strange black cloak and produced a small glass item, a bottle, and within it stood the tiny figure of a tiny man.