III

4 Kythorn, the Year of the Gauntlet

Jherek stood on the twilight-shadowed docks of Baldur's Gate and drew in the dank air from the River Chionthar. He missed the salty tang of the ocean, but it was the first time he'd felt close to home since leaving Athkatla.

He stood nearly six feet tall, a lean youth of nineteen heavily muscled in the arms and shoulders from years of hard work. Dust still covered his breeches and shirt under the cracked leather armor he wore. Sweat and grit had plastered his light brown hair to his head, causing it to hang heavily to his shoulders. Pale gray fire lighted his haunted eyes.

Baldur's Gate occupied a crescent shaped section along the river. Four dry-dock slips held skeletons of ships under construction. Normally the crews knocked off at evening-feast, only working occasionally on late jobs or specially commissioned ones.

Now, work crews filled all four slips. Jherek had heard they were working night crews by lanterns as well, trying to meet the demand for ships from merchants who'd lost vessels to sahuagin and pirate raids. The watch had taken over one of the slips as well, turning out ships for the navy.

The river lapped at the dock pilings and the cargo boats at anchor in the harbor. Men worked the ships steadily, cursing in loud voices while cargo chiefs and harbormasters yelled at them as well. The cacophony of sound made him feel homesick, made his heart ache, and twisted his stomach in sour bile.

His home lay upon the sea even more so than in the house where Madame litaar read her divinations and had given an orphan boy hearth and love. He missed her, and missed Malorrie as well. Now, with the harsh traveling behind him for the moment and no threat of goblinkin roaring down on him, he felt that loss more strongly than ever. More than that, he felt lost.

As long as I have a home, you'll have a home.

Madame litaar had told him that shortly before she'd sent him packing on Breezerunner, a cargo ship bound for Water-deep. Only the ill luck that had marked him since his birth had continued to follow him, and events had gone awry in the City of Coin. He'd gotten kicked off Breezerunner for fighting with a crew member, and was forced to join up with a caravan to make his way to Baldur's Gate. All that to follow the destiny that lay before him. Madame litaar had seen in a vision that he was supposed to go to Baldur's Gate. Now that he was here, he had no idea what to do next. In Athkatla, he'd had a goal. Now there was nothing, only the emptiness and uncertainty stretching before him.

He watched the boats plying the river. The smaller cargo vessels managed the docks with ease while barges worked the larger ships, off-loading the cargo then ferrying it to the docks. Lights from lanterns reflected from the dark waters, held by sailors moving across decks and hung from pole arms.

There weren't as many ships as Jherek remembered from other trips to Baldur's Gate. With the sahuagin activity still at a frenzied peak, though, that was to be expected. From the moment he'd arrived in the city with the caravan, he'd heard reports of ships that had been taken, and how Water-deep was rebuilding from the attack on her harbor. Everyone held the opinion that the sea was quickly becoming an unsafe place. Many people swore they'd never venture there again.

Jherek couldn't imagine never again sitting in a crow's nest or hanging in the rigging with an ocean spread out around him, being pushed by the wind while fighting it at the same time. Yet, for now, that seemed to be his fate. For a moment anger burned away the heaviness in his heart, but it didn't last. The anger was never enough to burn away the sadness that often filled him. There was no one save himself that he could blame for his misfortune.

"Ye're a sailor, aren't ye, lad?"

Jherek's hand strayed down unconsciously to the long sword he wore in a sash at his waist. He turned toward the voice. With all the overland travel now going on between the cities to replace the lost shipping lanes, goblinkin, dopplegangers, and raiders had infiltrated the cities and the wildernesses between. Opportunities abounded for those on both sides of the law.

"Don't mean ye no harm, lad. Just making conversation."

The dwarf stood at the railing to the left and behind Jherek. He leaned on his elbows, working a pinch of pipe-weed into the bowl of his pipe. He was short and broad, his face filled with unruly gray whiskers that stuck out in all directions. His breeches and shirt had seen better days, and the thin coat he wore against the night's chill had been patched repeatedly.

"My apologies," Jherek said. "I meant no disrespect."

He didn't take his hand from the sword. He was used to carrying a cutlass instead of the long sword, but Frauk, the caravan master, had insisted Jherek use the more conventional weapon because he'd wanted all his men armed similarly. Malorrie had schooled him in the long sword, but Jherek was most comfortable with the cutlass.

"None taken." The dwarf pulled a twist of straw from his pocket, shoved it into a nearby lantern on a pole, then used it to light his pipe. "Just noticed that hungry look on yer face. Mayhap I should have kept my big mouth shut. Sometimes a man don't need his thoughts interrupted."

"Not these thoughts," Jherek said. "I'm grateful for the interruption."

"How long since ye've been at sea?" the dwarf asked.

"Longer than I care to think about," Jherek admitted.

"Ye miss a ship. Ye get used to her, get used to the way she's always moving, always passionate with a wind that gets a sailor's blood up."

"Aye," Jherek said, immediately warming to the kindred spirit the dwarf exuded. "Are you with one of these ships?"

The dwarf shook his head. "Been a damn landlubber off and on for the last five years," he said, reaching down to slap his right leg. It thunked hollowly.

Jherek saw the wooden peg sticking out of the breeches.

"Lost it to a hungry shark what was a faster swimmer than meself, even properly spirited as I was at the time."

The dwarf grinned wryly and a chill that was more than the cool air coming in off the river ghosted across Jherek's neck and shoulders. During the trip up from Athkatla, he'd dreamed of a great shark that had pursued him until each dawn had awakened him.

"I'm sorry," Jherek offered.

The dwarf flashed him a tight, practiced grin that lacked mirth. "I yet live. The sages say that while a man still lives all things are possible. Mayhap I don't ship out as often as I've a mind to, but I still get to go. Right now, I'm working on one of the ship's crews down in the dry docks. Me shift just ended and I thought I'd smoke a bit before finding a bite to eat."

Jherek's own stomach growled in frustration. He'd lost weight while hard traveling with the caravan. The work taxed him and he'd not had much of an appetite.

"Is the Elfsong yet open?" The dwarf asked.

Jherek remembered that famous tavern from past travels. On the first night Breezerunner had put in to Baldur's Gate with Jherek aboard, Finaren had treated him to dinner at the Elfsong. Ilmater's tears, but Jherek missed the old sea captain too.

"Aye," the dwarf answered. "Though it might be busy come this time of night."

"I'll stand you to a bowl of stew if you'd like," Jherek said.

"I'm no cripple, lad, and quite able to take care of meself, thank ye kindly."

Jherek felt flustered. "I only meant it as an offer." He hesitated, not wanting to admit that he wanted the company. He'd bonded with none of the hard men in Frauk's crew. "I don't like to eat alone."

The dwarf squinted up at him and asked, "Where ye hail from, lad?"

"Velen," Jherek answered.

"Aye, the city o' ghosts." The dwarf nodded and ran his fingers through his beard in contemplation. "Seen a few of them there on occasion meself. Ye are flesh and blood, ain't ye, lad?"