The carriage pulled up to a pavilion at the western end of the docks, where a footman in Dhostar livery handed Alias down to the ground. The swordswoman stared uncomfortably at the crowd of strangers all about. Most of them appeared to be errand boys, bodyguards, and ladies-in-waiting, left beneath the pavilion to await the returns of their masters and mistresses. Alias smiled politely at a bodyguard dressed in Malavhan livery, but was met with a grim stone face. Too late, she realized he took her for one of the nobles, and in Westgate the servants did not fraternize with the nobles.
Alias turned to thank Victor's driver, but he had already evaporated, coach and all, to whatever demi-plane hid such utilities until they were called for again. Another, larger carriage was pulling up to debark its passengers. The footman asked Alias politely to please move down the pier to join the other guests.
Down the pier there were small mobs of nobles, from dandies to grand dames, in tight little constellations. Wandering planets of individuals only casually acquainted with the brightest stars would graze the edges of the constellations, but finding insufficient gravity to hold them, they would soon look for new orbits. Eventually, in twos and threes, guests drifted up the gangplank of The Gleason. Since she had no acquaintances among any of those on the pier, Alias made straight for the gangplank, but she paused halfway down i the pier to stare in awe at the Dhostars' new ship.
The Gleason, Alias realized, was a galleass. She had heard that Sembia was building such ships, but the; Dhostars' was the first she had seen. It was basically a larger and more heavily armed version of the great galley, one hundred sixty feet long and forty feet across the beam. The sails were lateen-rigged from three huge masts, though at the moment they were tightly furled, tied with cords of black and gold. Tonight the ship would be powered by oar. Alias counted fifty oars, painted bone ж white and so large that each could be manned by several rowers. A twenty-foot iron-clad battering ram jutted out from the bow. Tarpaulins covered what Alias guessed was a pair of ballistae mounted on a massive turret on the top of the foc'sle. Both the foc's'le and the sterncastle, which towered two stories over the deck, featured narrow archers' slits.
While the fighting capabilities of the ship were not hidden, tonight the vessel was obviously decorated for festivities. The rowers' benches were curtained off, screening them from view of the guests, and vice versa. A giant banner emblazoned with the wagon wheel and three stars of House Dhostar draped down from the top 3tory of the sterncastle, reaching nearly to the waterline, while a smaller House Dhostar banner and the banners of the croamarkh and the city of Westgate fluttered from poles fore and aft. The stern lantern, fitted with magical light stone, was covered with a square of fine red silk, bathing the ship's deck and the dockside with a rosy glow.
The pier rattled, and Alias turned to see a chair on wheels, with an awning, like a miniature carriage, rolling toward her. The wheeled chair was white, with a green feather painted on the side panel, and pushed by six halflings. The passenger was an ancient human woman attended by a pale, blonde girl in her teens. The girl's main duty seemed to be to keep the halflings from pushing the chair into other guests in their zeal to move the device toward the gangplank. Several guests broke away from their constellations to chase after the chair, with as much dignity as they could muster, until the vehicle came to rest at the end of the pier. Then the followers paid their respects to the elderly passenger.
Someone brushed up against Alias, and the swordswoman turned quickly, expecting a pickpocket despite the standing of the crowd all about her. She faced the back of a woman in an elegant gown of yellow satin hemmed and edged with fox fur, with a tiny golden dagger dangling from her gold-link belt. Her dark hair, which hung down her back, was swept back from her face with a barrette fashioned like a basilisk. The woman turned and murmured an apology, which Alias accepted with a nod and a weak smile.
The woman smiled broadly. "You're new," she noted with a tone of delight and surprise.
"Yes," Alias admitted. "I feel like a fish out of water. I'm afraid I don't know anyone here."
As Alias spoke, the other woman took full stock of her, her gaze fixing at last on her right arm. The stranger's eyes became glassy, and her face seemed to petrify. "No," she replied frostily. "You wouldn't." She turned on her heel and made for the next little group over, leaving Alias staring at her retreating form and the eyes of her basilisk barrette.
Alias frowned. Obviously the woman had recognized her from her tattoo. She couldn't believe she'd been snubbed just for being a swordswoman. Surely Westgate merchants socialized with adventurers on other occasions. She continued moving toward the gangplank, scanning the crowd for a friendly face. As she passed the woman with the basilisk barrette, the group the woman now stood with broke into gales of laughter. At least two other women turned to look at the swordswoman, then hurriedly looked away.
Alias spotted a flash of blue and purple, and thinking it might be Durgar, moved in that direction. At this point, even the opinionated priest would be welcome company.
Fortunately, her rescue was much more pleasing. She spied Victor bolting down the gangplank in long, swift strides. His eyes were fixed on the pavilion at the end of the pier, where the carriages were still unloading guests. He could be looking for someone else, but Alias was determined not to let him hurtle past her without speaking to him. She stepped into his path with her hands folded in front of her as he approached.
Victor checked his stride so suddenly that he almost tripped himself. The anxious look he'd worn was fading into one of delight. "I'm sorry I wasn't at the pavilion to welcome you. There were so many last-minute-" The young noble interrupted himself. "You look radiant. I'm so glad you came."
Alias smiled. "So am I," she said. "Now. You look nice, too," she complimented him. He wore a three-quarter length tunic of cream-colored silk, trimmed in brown satin, and his hair glistened in the lamplight. Tonight he looked every bit the nobleman.
As Victor took her arm and ushered her up the gangplank onto the ship, a herald began announcing the ship's imminent departure. All guests, the herald insisted, should board the ship now.
There was a flurry of activity as the guests tried to move toward the gangplank quickly, yet without looking hurried or rudely jostling one another. Still, many people on the pier remained where they were, without moving.
"They don't all seem to believe your herald," Alias commented. r
"They haven't all been invited," Victor explained. "They're petty nobies, lesser merchants and their hangers-on, come to see the boat off, hoping for some last-minute invitation."
Alias looked down and saw the woman who'd snubbed her among those not chosen for the voyage. The woman shot Alias a glare as killing as that of the basilisk that adorned her hair.
The last to board the ship was the ancient woman from the personal carriage. She hove herself out of her chair and ambled up the gangplank, leaning on a large, ornately carved staff on one side and the pale, blonde girl on the other. Despite the supports, there was nothing feeble about the woman's appearance. Her back was as straight as an elm tree, and she carried her head high.
"That's Lady Nettel Thalavar," Victor whispered in Alias's ear. "She's the only one of the merchant nobles who has even a dram of old Verovan's blood in her. She's a third cousin, two generations removed. She's outlived three husbands and rebuilt her clan's fortunes to nearly what they were in Verovan's day. The girl on her left is her granddaughter, Thistle."