Deadhouse Landing

Dancer went to the side table to pour a glass of their best wine, which, if he was being honest, wasn’t really all that good. Setting it before Durard, he went to sit over by the window and stretched out his legs.

Kellanved returned to the desk. ‘Looking to put the sea behind you, yes?’ he said.

Durard blinked at him, confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Ah, right. I suppose so.’

Dancer was repeating the strange new name to himself. Kellanved … what in the Abyss kind of name was that supposed to be? It didn’t sound Dal Hon at all. And it sure didn’t mean anything – he’d just made it up.

‘Strange for someone to simply up and buy a ship, you know,’ Durard was saying. ‘Usually it’s consortiums of merchants, or groups of owners. Like partners. Or cities, a’ course.’

‘Of course,’ the mage answered, all soothing and agreeable. He motioned to Dancer. ‘I do have a partner.’ Durard glanced over and tilted his head in acknowledgement, then cleared his throat.

‘So … how d’ya want to do this? Got letters of credit or such? Bullion?’

There came a knock at the door and Dancer rose to answer. It was Surly, carrying a tray with fruit, bread, and cheese. She gave Dancer a dark look and pushed past. At the desk she banged down the tray, gave Kellanved a look that could only be described as surly, and sauntered out.

‘Ah, yes … well. Thank you, Surly.’ Kellanved offered the food to Durard then tapped his fingers together, elbows on the desk. ‘So, payment. Yes. Well, I do have something that I believe would serve here on the island. They are quite valuable – or so I’m told.’

He rummaged down under the desk and came up with a bag that he set on the desk. Dancer recognized it as one of the canvas pouches from the hijacking.

Durard leaned forward to peer in and his eyes fairly goggled as he saw what the bag held.

Wu – Kellanved – set down another pouch next to the first.

Durard’s brows rose even higher.

Kellanved then set down the third and leaned back, clasping his hands before his chin. ‘I do hope that this will cover the price.’

Durard’s amazed gaze moved from the bags to Kellanved and back again. He coughed into a fist, stammering, ‘Ah! Well … All three, you say?’

Kellanved nodded.

The captain slammed a hand to the desk. ‘Done! You drive a hard bargain, friend!’ He threw back the rest of his wine and raised the glass. ‘Perhaps another…?’

Dancer almost fell out of his chair. He glared bloody murder at Kellanved. Behind Durard, he mouthed, What the Abyss! and threw open his arms. Throughout the display the Dal Hon kept a stony face. Though seething, Dancer took the captain’s glass. ‘Certainly.’

Durard produced the paperwork from within his jacket. ‘Have you a quill, then, old man?’

Kellanved blinked, uncertain; then realization came to him that it was he who was being addressed as ‘old man’ and he started, then searched about the desk for quill and ink. Finally, after much fumbling and drawer-banging, he produced a set.

‘There you are,’ Durard said, signing. ‘The fine ship the Twisted. Serve you well, she will. Fast into the wind.’

Fast to the bottom, Dancer amended silently. Handing the captain his refilled glass, he reflected that Kellanved, now, was at least being consistent. First he purchases a wreck of a bar; now he purchases a wreck of a ship. The fool was resolutely grinding them into failure and penury.

Durard tossed back the wine and stood, then slipped the lightest pouch into a pocket within his jacket. The others would not fit and so he used the cut ties to hang them over a shoulder, snug down his side. He saluted Kellanved. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, sir.’

Kellanved nodded benignly. ‘All mine, I assure you. My thanks.’

Grinning, Durard sent Dancer a nod of farewell. Dancer showed him out. The fellow obviously left in a far better mood than when he’d entered; he was fairly chuckling. Dancer returned to the office and shut the door. The mage was munching on the cheese and bread. ‘So,’ Dancer began, ‘Kellanved, is it?’

The lad swallowed. ‘Yes – and many thanks.’

‘What’s it supposed to mean?’

Kellanved peered round, uncertain. ‘Mean? It’s just a name. A pseudonym. A veil to hide a thousand crimes; a rallying cry in battle; a curse on our terrified enemies; a—’

Dancer waved him short. ‘I get the idea. But you just made it up!’

Kellanved sniffed. ‘I gave you no such grief over your selection.’

Dancer waved his impatience again. ‘Fine.’ He poured himself a drink. ‘So … you’re determined to bankrupt us by throwing all our funds away.’

Kellanved leaned back, knitted his fingers before his chin. ‘Those shells? Faugh! Useless to us. But the Napans … invaluable. And we must have a ship.’

‘If you can call it that,’ Dancer muttered into his glass.

‘Come, come! These Napans are great sailors. They’ll have it shipshape in no time at all. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

‘Tell them that.’