<u>4</u>


    High-elven justice was swift, without mercy or vengefulness… normally.  As a people, they would act to end trouble by the quickest means possible, with little regard to rank, motive or cause.


    “You are not on trial here, Leftenant Cliffwatch,” Lady Sheraza had told her, adding that a truth spell was in effect; one able to punish with increasing pain any lies or omissions on her part.  Needless to say, Sera left nothing out, under intense questioning.


    The entire city council was present.  Lady Sheraza, along with the heads of Milardin’s first families:  Karren Serenard, Voskar Tintillian, Esten Dawnwending and Kal Vilicente, with ‘the people’ represented by a clearly terrified human fisherman (Svenli, or something like that).  The major trade guilds had sent forth their master craftsmen, as well: shipwrights, scribes, bankers, mages and masons.  The fleet’s destruction was a matter of finance as well as a gut-wrenching tragedy, and no one present had kept all their kin and their money.  No one but Lady Sheraza, whose questions were brittle and cold, but very precise.


    “State, for the record, your name, rank and position aboard ship at the time of departure,” she commanded.


    Sera bowed to that young and icy chief councilor.


    “Yes, my lady.  I am Leftenant Sera Cliffwatch, third mate of Vancora, responsible for dispensing ship’s stores and cordage, ma’am.”  <u>Current commanding officer</u>, she did not need to add.  Being only a half-elf of no great descent, her position would certainly drop again to third mate.  Maybe lower than that, once the council was through with her.


    ‘No, Captain,’ said the airship, in her mind. ‘Your decisive actions saved me and all those left aboard, and I will accept no one else.’


    A very bold statement.  Worse yet, under the chamber’s truth-spell, one heard by every soul present.  Sheraza’s beautiful face did not alter.  Very young, she was nevertheless in charge of this trial; this search for the truth of Lord Arvendahl’s doings.


    “Vancora’s statement is noted and logged.  Your position was too low to place you within his lordship’s inner circle.  Yet, you must have had <u>some</u> inkling as to his mood and reason for leading the fleet into battle with sea-elves,” probed Sheraza, her blue eyes as hard and unyielding as sapphire.  “What said he to his officers, as Vancora left the city, Leftenant?”


    <u>Not much</u>, was the short (and least healthy) answer.


    “He… your pardon, my lady… he is not one to explain himself or to seek advice from those beneath him.  Nor… I think… did Vancora have any say in the matter.”


    ‘I did not,’ seconded Princess, looking out through Sera’s brown eyes; speaking aloud again via truth-magic.


    “Go on,” said Sheraza.  “As you surely saw his lordship, what was your estimation of his emotional state at the time of departure?”


    “I…” Sera glanced up at the implacable folk seated above her.  Only that human fisherman showed any kindness, at all.  As for those six elven councilors, they might have been carved out of flint.  “H- His lordship was very angry, my lady. He… seemed driven past reason.  Burning with hatred, I’d say… but I did not speak with Lord Arvendahl directly until after the battle and storm and those pirate attacks, when all of the rest… Captain Lianne and Leftenant Vaskin… were already dead.”


    Someone (Lord Dawnwending) made a slight noise, pain briefly twisting his handsome dark face.  Sera bowed low.


    “I am terribly sorry, my lord.  If… if it matters, Captain Lianne was the best officer I’ve ever served under.  She…”


    “Enough,” cut in Lady Sheraza, gesturing silence.  “Keep your comments on point, Leftenant.”


    A slight, warning burn shot through Sera’s nerves and her brain.  Slight, because Vancora numbed most of it.  Deeply shaken, the half-elf gathered herself to continue.  Then, with a deep, hollow groan and a sudden, head-snapping jolt, an earthquake struck, dousing lights, cracking marble and hurling the councilors off their high seats like a scatter of grain.


    No.  Not just an earthquake.  A magically triggered assault, from one who refused to be placed on trial.  It was the marine guard who saved Sera Cliffwatch by hauling her into his arms and shielding her with his own armored body.  There was a terrible crash.  And then…


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As nightfall descended, Freeport switched over from halfway respectable harbor to lawless pirate-den.  Drunken carousers flooded the streets and the swinging rope bridges.  Bare-knuckle fight rings sprang up in the alleys. A swarm of rough garbage pickers emerged from their caves on the island’s broad bottom.  In airboats or winged, they would sort the trash for anything edible.  Anything useful at all.  A desperate lot, and better avoided.


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    Off in a very cheap berth, hard by the island’s pointed nadir, Falcon was rocked by a number of sudden hard losses.  First the tabaxi third mate, Lady Shadowclaw, growled in surprise and popped like a bubble.  Then Meliara, their oracle, vanished away between heartbeats, saying just, “It is fated.”


    Captain Gelfrin and Laurol Greenbow were on deck to see it all happen (having come topside to open the hold).  One, two, gone.  The paladins rushed straight over, Villem at their head, still trailing that dangerous, powerful sword.


    ‘Captain,’ said the airship, inside of his mind. ‘Three of the crew are taken.’


    “Three?  I count only two, Speedy.  Who else is missing?” asked Hallan, as two worried humans and a towering orc thundered up.


    ‘The wood-elf druid, Mr. Shagbark, has been borne away by very strong magic, Captain,’ said the ship, sounding as worried as intelligent timber and metal could manage.  ‘Mr. Not-Jonn and the wizard remain, and they are coming back at best speed.’


    “Good.  That’s… Yes, I <u>know</u>.  I saw her disappear, along with my new second mate,” snapped the red-haired young captain, surrounded by rattling armor and bulk. Laurol stepped between Hal and the paladins, hand at the hilt of her sword. His marine guard was there on the instant as well, crossbow cocked and face a tense mask.


    “<u>Back</u>,” snarled Mr. Conn.  “I can nail you all with one shot. <u>Try me</u>.”


    There might have been trouble, then, which the sword seemed to absorb like a bandage soaking up blood.  Only, a fleet-sized gate opened up in the darkening sky over Freeport, disgorging a trio of sleek, golden airships.  Imperial dreadnoughts, armed to the back-teeth, glowing with manna and packed with marines.


    In his head, Hallan felt Speedy quiver, seeming to shrink close against him for comfort.  Any one of those monsters would have been more than a match for Falcon.  <u>Three</u> could lay waste to a city.


    Hal clasped the railing and squeezed as an amplified voice bellowed,


    “Attention the port!  By the authority of His Imperial Highness, you are placed under lockdown and ordered to deliver up High Lord Arvendahl or any known associates.  Any attempt to flee or resist arrest will be met with summary execution!”


    Hallan glanced over at Laurol and Conn as Not-Jonn came pounding back up the gangway at a dead run.  He was towing that addled wizard, almost pulling the blue-robed mortal right off his feet.


    Varric had a saying for moments like these, when a sleek little cutter had best slip away in search of big friends and better odds.


    “Time to dust.  Let’s punch a hole in the sky… <u>carefully</u>.”


    As the dreadnoughts spread out, dropping lines from which troops descended like spiders, Hallan came up with a plan.  Nodded to himself and to them, saying,


    “Freeport dumps her garbage from an outlet below, just after sunset.  <u>All</u> the floaters do.  Speedy, when the griffins and dragons start diving for trash, you’ll break up into… to four pieces.  Do your best to look shabby and junked, but keep the parts linked.  Don’t let them spread out too far.  You lot… Conn, Laurol, Not-Jonn, Paladins… spread through the ship. I want at least three of our people on every segment, to repel possible boarders.”


    Everyone nodded assent, for the threat was clear to them all. Glancing upward, briefly, the captain continued,


    “Stay out of sight, unless someone tries to claim salvage.  Fight if you have to, but make it look like a trash-crew dispute.  <u>No</u> uniforms or rank insignia.  Understood?”


    A chorus of:


    “Yes, Sir!”


    ‘Understood, Captain.’


    And: “Yes, we’ll comply.”


    …came back in response, from that circle of tense, worried faces and Falcon.  Hallan nodded.


    “Good.  To your places, quickly.  Laurol, sort them.  Conn, hand out arms.  Not-Jonn, stay with the helm.  Wizard, you’re with me.  We’re not falling into imperial hands.  Neither is Speedy, or that wretched drek sword.  Now, <u>move</u>.”


    And they moved.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Seahorse, too, had lost people.  First Lerendar, then Beatriz, Zara, Alfea and Bean simply vanished; spirited away by powerful magic.  The lot of them winked out of sight like doused candles, halting Prince Andorin’s music mid-strum.


    “Zara!  Lady Fee!” shrieked Pretty and Mirielle, looking wildly around the teak-paneled cabin.  “Where did they go?!”


    Bronn and Elmaris closed ranks with the sea-elven prince, while Katina herded the girls away, promising hot milk and ginger-men.  Ava raced over to join Lerendar’s former shades, hauling weapons and armor out of her faerie pockets.


    “Who took my lord?” she demanded anxiously; a pretty young elf very clearly in love.  “Where have they taken him?”


    Andorin lifted a partly webbed hand, gills flaring open in sudden emotion.


    “Wait,” he said to them all.  “I am seeking.  Our fates and well-being are linked, now. ‘This One’ cannot be hid from us by any magic but the gods’, and… Ah.  There.  He is just north of Baitfish, near the mouth of the Alys River.”


    Elmaris pulled an unhappy face.


    “Baitfish is one of those places that…”


    “That you’d rather not venture.  Noted, guttersnipe.  Is there <u>anywhere</u> that your worthless head isn’t sought after, to enliven a post by the gates?”


    “I’m only ‘suspicious’ in Starloft, not actually wanted. Yet,” admitted the dark-haired rogue.


    Bronn shook her head.  Much less scarred in the face since visiting Epona, she still didn’t talk much. (It did not pay to chatter, working for sly Titania.)  Now,


    “How fast can we get there, Prince?” she asked, placing a steady hand on Ava’s trembling shoulder.


    Andorin smiled grimly.


    “How fast?  Are we not at sea?  Do the waters below not heed the call of a bard?” he asked.  Began playing again, calling a mage-wind and a mighty, towering wave.  “Get there we can, and swiftly.  Let those who have taken our heart-friend look to themselves, for an ocean-lord comes in his might and his wrath!”


    ...But the Flying Cloud beat them all.