Shandri exclaimed in pleasure, as well she might. With all the plunder moving though Immurk’s Hold, a good many luxuries were available, yet in most respects, it remained as crude and raucous a place as any outlaw haven. Accordingly, it took some doing to collect the elements of an elegant, romantic supper for two and assemble them to create the proper effect.

  Not that Anton had any authentic claim to breeding or refinement, but as he’d hoped, the trace that had rubbed off on him during his contacts with wealthy merchants and aristocrats was sufficient to impress his companion.

  “Vurgrom’s banquets are splendid,” she said. “But this is… lovely.”

  “Shall we?” He seated her then poured them each a cup of a ruby-colored Impiltur an wine. He toasted her. “To Shandri Clayhill, fiercest and most ravishing corsair on the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

  “To Anton, her gallant ship’s mage.”

  They drank. To his undiscriminating palate, the red was too sour, with a hint of bitter aftertaste, but he pretended to savor it so as not to spoil the mood. “The cook said the first course will be up in a minute or two.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Shandri said. “I could sit here all night.”

  “I’m glad you like it. Someday, maybe we’ll sup like this every evening.”

  She smiled. “I doubt the Hold is up to the task of providing such elegance on a regular basis.”

  “Who says we’ll always live on Dragon Isle?”

  “We’ll always live on one of the Pirate Isles. Where else is there for reavers to go?”

  He shrugged. “We wouldn’t be the first raiders to strike it rich at sea then use a piece to the loot to bribe their way to a pardon, or even patents of nobility, on land. Mind you, I’m in no hurry, but it’s something to bear in mind.”

  “Something to dream of, at least.” Bracelets glittering in the candlelight, tattoos crawling on her slim but muscular arm, she reached across the stainless linen tablecloth and laid her hand on his. “I do like it that you imagine us together years hence.”

  “Of course,” he said and felt as if he meant it, for a spy deceived others by splitting himself into two people. The one who revealed himself to his dupes truly became the role, the lie, at odd moments even forgetting he was simply a mask. But behind the semblance lurked the true personality, loyal only to Turmish, ready to burst through the shell as soon as circumstances warranted.

  “Where, exactly, would you wish to live,” Shandri asked, “once we’re ready to put our cutthroat ways behind us?”

  He grinned. “Saerloon seems to be lucky for us, but it’s a nasty sort of place. I wouldn’t want to raise a family there.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you’ve decided on children as well.”

  “Naturally. Fifteen or twenty stout sons, and maybe a daughter or two to help with your embroidery.”

  “If I have to learn to embroider, forget the whole thing.”

  “Fair enough. You needn’t touch thread or needles of any kind. I see us spending the bulk of our time on a country estate. Someplace with sheep, hedges, and-“

  Something pale and luminous stirred at the edge of his vision. Startled, he looked around. A shape was oozing through the crack between the door and the jamb. Once clear, it hovered in the air, thickened, and wriggled until it shaped itself into a spectral hand. It crooked its index finger in Anton’s direction.

  “What’s the matter?” Shandri asked.

  She was looking where he was, but plainly perceived nothing out of the ordinary. Tu’ala’keth had explained that if she used this particular spell, only he would be able to see the disembodied messenger.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I heard the server on the stairs. But I’ve just now remembered something. I have to go.”

  She frowned. “Why? I’m your captain. What urgent obligation can you have if I didn’t impose it on you?” “It’s Tu’ala’keth. I promised to assist with a ceremony. Something she must do tonight, before the tide goes out.”

  “Curse it, the waveservant is under my authority as well. Her wishes don’t take precedence over mine. You-” Shandri caught herself. “No. I’m just being bitchy because I’m disappointed. I don’t really want you to break a promise to Tu’ala’keth. We’ll both attend her and worship as she instructs. She tells me I need to pay homage to the goddess, and here’s an opportunity.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish you could accompany me, but Tu’ala’keth said I need to come alone.”

  Shandri frowned. “That’s odd. Usually, she wants as many people as possible to pray and offer to Umberlee. She hates it if anyone holds back.”

  “I guess it’s a special ritual. Please, stay here. Eat. The meal should be grand, so don’t let it go to waste. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  “Yes, you will. I order you to.”

  He rose, she followed suit, and they embraced. She gave him a deep, passionate kiss, and it stirred him. It saddened him a little to reflect that in all likelihood, he’d never see her again.

  He extricated himself from her arms, turned his back on her, and followed the floating hand: out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street.

  Hanging several paces in front of him at head level, the construct led him through crowds of roistering pirates and finally into the quiet side street where he and Tu’ala’keth sometimes met. She stood waiting in the niche between the shanties. Two sea bags lay amid the litter at her feet, another indication things were happening fast.

  The phantom hand blinked out of existence the instant he laid eyes on its maker. “I have our share of the Thayan treasure,” she said. “It may prove useful.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did Vurgrom know where the cultists are? Did he finally give up the secret?”

  “In essence, yes.”

  Anton shook his head. “I can’t believe your luck.”

  “Our ‘luck’ is the grace of Umberlee.”

  “Then, not to quibble, but it’s too bad she didn’t give you even more of it. If everything had gone as planned, we wouldn’t be absconding so hastily.”

  “Now that we have what we came for, it is time to go. But I confess, you are right. Vurgrom responded to my enchantments in a way I failed to anticipate, and he assaulted me.”

  “You mean-“

  “I stopped him before it went very far then extorted information from him at knife point. After we parted company, I found it necessary to kill one of his underlings. Thus, it is possible Vurgrom’s folk are already hunting me. We will need to exercise caution as we make our departure.”

  “Apparently so. How many of those pellets do you have left? The ones that let me breathe under water.”

  “Only one.”

  “Enough to let me swim or ride one of the seahorses a goodly distance from Dragon Isle-and drown between islands when the magic wears off. We need to steal a small, fast boat.”

  “It will be fast when I call the wind to fill the sails.”

  “Good.” He stepped forward to pick up one of the sea bags, and a cry rang out.

  “Men of Shark’s Blissl Of Vurgrom’s faction! I’ve found the traitors! Follow me!”

  Anton pivoted to see Shandri standing on guard several yards away, glaring, dark sword shivering in her hands.

  “I followed you,” she said. “I cared for you, but I’m not an imbecile, even though you played me for one, and what you were babbling just didn’t make sense.”

  Anton reflected bitterly that he was the imbecile. Normally, he took care that no one shadowed him, but tonight, he’d been too busy keeping track of the ghostly hand. Whereas Shandri, with the ring that let her see in the dark, had had little difficulty keeping him in view.

  “And I was wise to be suspicious,” the pirate continued. “Because, if I’m not mistaken, people worship Umberlee at the water’s edge, not in filthy little alleys.”

  “All right,” he said, “I did mislead you. But I can explain.”

  “Don’t bother. I heard some of what you and Tu’ala’keth had to say to one another. Enough to understand the two of you are spies. You came here to steal a secret, and now that you’ve got it, you hope to vanish in the night. Well, it won’t be that easy.” Once again, she shouted: “Shark’s Blissl Vurgrom’s men! I need you!”

  “Be silent,” said Tu’ala’keth. “We have done no harm to you or your ship, and we intend none. But if you continue to shout, we will kill you.”

  “‘No harm?’ What about your lies?”

  “I said you can be strong, and so you can. The choice is up to you.”

  Shandri sneered at Anton. “You told other lies besides that one.”

  “Love is pleasant,” said Tu’ala’keth, “but it is a petty thing compared to the mastery and slaughter which are your birthright. You demean yourself by making much of it. Now sheathe your sword and trouble us no more. Otherwise, I will kill you.”

  Shandri smiled. “Try.”

  “As you wish,” said Tu’ala’keth. She gripped her bony pendant, started to conjure, and several men and ores came dashing around the corner and down the street. Umberlee, it seemed, was even stingier with her

  “grace” than Anton had imagined. Folk were actually combing the streets for the shalarin, and they’d heard the pirate captain yell.

  Sealmid was at the head of the pack, amethyst bow in hand. “You found them,” he said to Shandri. “I didn’t know you’d even joined the hunt.”

  “Thus far,” said Tu’ala’keth, “you are all faithful worshipers of Umberlee. Do not offend her, lest she curse you.”

  “We thaw what you did to Yuiredd,” said the first mate. “We’ll take our chantheth.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging at his hip.

  Retreating, Tu’ala’keth resumed her chant. Pirates drew their blades and stalked after her.

  Shandri said, “Anton is mine.” She charged.

  He snatched his cutlass from the scabbard, barely in time to parry a head cut. The clanging impact jolted down his arm.

  “Don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you, and you don’t really want to kill me.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I do.” The dark blade leaped at him.

  As they circled, he caught glimpses of Tu’ala’keth’s part of the battle. Now outlined in some sort of protective blue-green aura, she conjured a howl of sound. It staggered her foes but didn’t stop them. The next time he saw her, pirates were hacking at her, while Sealmid loosed an arrow. The shaft veered like a bird on the wing to swing wide of the archer’s comrades, turned, and struck the shalarin in the back. From his vantage point, Anton couldn’t tell whether it pierced her silverweave or not, but it knocked her lurching forward, and a broadsword slashed at her torso. Snarling, she caught the blow on the haft of her trident.

  Her eyes seething with shadow like the greatsword, Shandri struck blow after furious blow, until Anton’s arm felt half-numb from the stress of parrying. It seemed impossible that anyone could hit so hard with such a ponderous blade and recover quickly enough to attack again just an instant later. He realized he’d never seen the pirate wield the living sword in actual combat, when she and it were united in their avidity for the kill. He hadn’t understood what a fearsome weapon it truly was.

  She was pressing him so hard that already, it was difficult to attack or riposte, and if anything, she kept striking faster and harder, as if battle-rage were making her steadily stronger when by all rights, she should be tiring.

  To make matters even worse, she was using the superior length of her weapon to good effect, keeping a measure that allowed her to attack him but not the other way around. He needed to adjust, to slip inside the critical space where his cutlass could cut and stab but a greatsword was unwieldy.

  He parried repeatedly, looking for the opening he needed-until a sweep of the dark blade snapped his own in two, leaving just a jagged stub protruding from the bell guard.

  Shandri laughed and sprang at him, swinging the greatsword at his neck. He blocked with the shattered cutlass-until the bell crumpled or broke beneath her hammering blows, it could still serve as a makeshift buckler-and snatched a dagger from his sash.

  It was a pathetic weapon compared to the greatsword, especially considering that, by pushing him so relentlessly, Shandri wasn’t even permitting him to shift it to his right hand. But it was all he had left.

  “I love you,” he said and, hoping the words might make her hesitate for a split second, lunged. Shandri instantly took a retreat, opening up the distance again, and the greatsword leaped at his belly. Somehow he stopped short, and the stroke whizzed harmlessly by. He blocked the next one with the broken cutlass.

  Such good fortune couldn’t last. She was going to penetrate his guard eventually, most likely within the next few heartbeats. He risked another glance at Tu’ala’keth, and saw she was still in no position to help him. A couple of her opponents sprawled on the ground, dead or incapacitated, but the rest were still assailing her, and one of Sealmid’s arrows was sticking through her bloody calf.

  Anton would have to save himself, and it was plain his combat skills were insufficient. He supposed that left sorcery.

  The problem was magic would require him to focus his attention on the intricate business of conjuring, which was all too likely to slow his reactions as he tried to parry and dodge the greatsword. But still, it seemed his only chance.

  He threw the knife at Shandri’s head, but it flew wide of the mark, and she didn’t even bother ducking. He told himself it didn’t matter. The real point had been to free up a hand. He reached into his pocket, fumbled out his bit of ram’s horn, and she feinted high and cut low. He recognized the true attack just in time to leap backward and avoid a fatal chop to the guts. Still, the dark blade sliced his arm. His fingers flew open, and he dropped the spell trigger.

  The greatsword pounced at him. It was a blur now. It was like dark lightning flickering in an infernal sky. He realized he had no more time to grope for and manipulate another talisman, even if she’d permit him to hold on to it, nor could he possibly stand still long enough to execute any sort of cabalistic pass without her burying the sentient blade in his body. His only hope was a spell purely verbal in nature.

  He couldn’t believe it would actually save him, but he gasped out the rhyming words. The greatsword leaped at him, and as he’d feared, with his attention divided, he failed to defend as nimbly as before. He caught the blow on the ruined cutlass, but the dark blade smashed through the battered guard and sheared deep into his arm just below the wrist.

  Perhaps because of the virulence in the living sword, the shock of the blow, harbinger of pain to come, was nearly enough to arrest thought. Nearly, but he wouldn’t let it ruin the spell. He fought to maintain the cadence, to enunciate precisely, to grit the remaining syllables out.

  Magic sighed through the air, and responding to the charm of opening, each of Shandri’s many bracelets and necklaces unfastened itself to drop clinking and glittering to the ground. The diamonds even fell away from her earlobes.

  Anton had suspected that even if he managed to complete the spell, it wouldn’t matter. Furious as she was, she wouldn’t care when the baubles dropped off. She might not even notice.

  Yet she did. Maybe it was because she so loved the jewelry or simply because she was so surprised, but she stopped attacking. She took her eyes off her adversary to glance down at the treasure strewn around her feet.

  Anton rushed her.

  The greatsword cut at him but too late. At last he was too close for it to threaten him. He drove the broken cutlass at Shandri’s face, half slashing with the jagged stump of blade and half bashing with what remained of the bell. He grabbed her, hooked his leg behind her, and threw her down. The back of her head cracked against the ground. He cut at her neck, and his ruined sword made a ragged cut. Blood gushed. The pirate thrashed for a moment, and she was gone.

  Panting, Anton looked around. Tu’ala’keth was still fighting, the outcome of the battle still in doubt. He twisted the greatsword’s hilt from Shandri’s death grip.

  As soon as he grasped it himself, a surge of gleeful viciousness washed away his weariness and the throbbing in his wounded arms. For a moment, the influx of the greatsword’s savagery sickened him, but he accepted the contamination anyway because he suspected that, in his spent and injured condition, it was only by surrendering himself to the weapon’s blood-lust that he could prevail.

  He jumped to his feet and charged Sealmid. The bowman was aiming another shaft at Tu’ala’keth but must have glimpsed Anton from the corner of his eye, because he pivoted and sent the arrow streaking directly at him.

  Anton should have died then, pierced through the heart. But the greatsword, of its own volition, shifted across his body and knocked the arrow off course. Anton struck Sealmid down, and felt an exultation as the blade bit deep. He jerked it free and turned to find the next foe.

  After that, he lost himself in the dizzying joy of slaughter. Until only one target remained within reach. He raised the sword to cut it down.

  “Enough!” said Tu’ala’keth. “I am your comrade. The fight is won.”

  With that, he recognized her but yearned to kill her even so. Fortunately, though, revulsion at the cruelty welled up from deep inside him, a sort of counterweight that enabled him to push the alien passions back into the sword. He threw the weapon down, sensing a twinge of its irritation just as it left his hand.

  “Umberlee has blessed us,” the shalarin continued. She knelt, gripped the arrow transfixing her leg beneath the point, and drew the fletchings through the wound. “We were outnumbered. I had not wholly recovered from my mistreatment at Vurgrom’s hands. Yet we are victorious.”

  “For now,” whispered Sealmid, still lying where he’d fallen. Anton was surprised the first mate was alive, but it was plain he wouldn’t be much longer. Blood soaked his clothes from neck to crotch, and more of it bubbled on his lips.

  “What do you mean?” asked Tu’ala’keth.

  “Vurgrom’th thending everybody to kill you bath-tardth, not… jutht uth. Had to round everyone up, haul them out… of the tavernth, but____________________” The dark froth stopped swelling and popping in his mouth.