“I wonder if Hulean will be there still,” Tagg said, as he did some stretches with his arm and shoulder.
Vaenuth shrugged. If the magician was, he would present a valuable advantage—as she understood it, magic could heal wounds faster or bestow misfortune on their enemies. It might even be helpful for the upcoming negotiation. If the strange man was not there to help them, then Vae’s mission would continue exactly as she had planned it. She felt the ocean spray on her hands as she leaned over the rail of the ship and watched the waves. A moment later, she looked up.
Ahead, at the end of the long cove, rose the rocky city of Sheld. A rainstorm was following The Flying Hound today, with prongs of dark clouds that stabbed across the heavens as the ship sped ahead of its strong gale.
In Sheld, Vaenuth would seek information from Gharo, the head of the local crime syndicate. According to Ovoe’s records of three months prior, Gharo’s ring of influence reached every port on the Grey Sea. He would recognize the etching of her slave brand, no doubt, and for a price, would direct her to the criminal group responsible. If he chose to protect them, instead, Vaenuth would fight for the information.
And she would fight well. Tagg had recovered a lot of his skill, but had a permanent stiffness in his arm. He could best Krebin and Arloe, even Pressip. But Vaenuth defeated him with ease, and neither could say if it was because of her mastery with a sword or because of his injury.
Before they reached the docks, Vaenuth had time to repack her things from the cabin she slept in. She bound her white wrap around her torso, concealing both of her brands and some of her tattoos, and she belted her sword at her hip. She even decided to wear her jewelry today, linking her ear and nose piercing with the loose silver chain. She would appear an exotic warrior, no doubt—hopefully one with more wealth than the nearby chest of coin held. Tagg’s wound had cost them dearly, both in supplies for the ship for the month of his recovery and in the fees for the clinic that repaired him.
Sheld was much clearer to her vision now, on their approach to its harbours. A massive stone dome loomed above the city, high up the cliffs, while numerous estates and mansions adorned the overlooking but secure ridges. The lower class seemed to be scattered throughout, wherever the rocks were not sturdy enough for a lord or lady of the upper class to invest. Vaenuth wasn’t certain if they even considered them lords here, or just ‘men of the city’, like many places did. She strode off The Flying Hound with her curtain of brown hair tossed over the right side of her raised face, and her hand resting on the pommel of her single-bladed sword.
Pressip walked beside her, at first, and asked, “Where will we be going first? To see if Gharo and his Family will house us?”
“I have no intent with staying in a place of his ilk,” Vaenuth said. “We’ll go to an inn. Hulean was to meet us at a place Banno had mentioned, right? The Craver’s Pub or something like that? We’ll be staying in an inn the whole time we’re in Sheld, or we’ll be sleeping on the ship again.”
She desperately hoped that was not the case—she wanted a sturdy bed again, and she wanted company to share it, to get rid of that edge that kept her forearms and her lower spine tense. She exhaled, as she walked.
The Craver’s Pub was a shelter for lowlife, a wooden house with an arched roof that stuck half out of the grey cliffs. The deck of it was close enough to the edge to get sprayed with saltwater whenever the storm blew a large wave into the rocks. She could taste the salt in the air, thick like sand in a sandstorm. Thankfully it only seemed to dry her eyes out, instead of filling them with painful grains. She led her companions inside as quickly as possible.
The common room was crowded with men and women; most of the former were sailors, and most of the latter were bar wenches or harlots, but the categories were not completely exclusive. Vaenuth didn’t pick a fight with the first man to crack an insult about her tits or her ink, unlike in Varravar. She was in a tavern for business this time, not for a pleasant place to stay. She led Tagg through the chaos and paused when she spotted one of the tables near the edge of the room.
Hulean waved at them, rising from his seat and smiling exaggeratedly. He didn’t look like a magician. He had a round face, tan skin, and could barely grow any facial hair. He looked like a young book keeper, perhaps, or a man who hadn’t decided what to do with his life quite yet. But there he sat, having beat them to Sheld on the wings of whatever sorceries he commanded. Vaenuth smiled and sat down at his table. She was content with his assistance, as long as he didn’t hesitate when it was time to pile bodies in the ground.
A tiny bargirl asked for her order. Vae ordered a whiskey, and momentarily thought that maybe she would like a girl tonight, instead of a man. Three things put her in a good mood, suddenly—firstly, they were close to a good fight she had long awaited; next, she would have undeniable fun this evening; and lastly, the whiskey tasted far better than this salty house should have provided.
As for Gharo’s crime group, she would wait a week to learn what she could about him and his city, and then she would strike. With words, or swords, or whatever would make him talk.
Hulean spilled the beans first: “So, Gharo isn’t in charge of things anymore,” he told Vaenuth. “His son took over, which is both good and bad for us. Good, because he gives women a good measure of respect. Bad, because he’s gone. Hit the road to Lo Mallago three weeks ago…”
Vaenuth took a swig of her drink.