Outside, it was pissing down rain. The sun was a smear of orange just above the rooftops, making it difficult and painful to look at the circling of the griffon cavalry. Yagra hunched her shoulders against the warm rain, idly wondering if it was worth it to try and stop to purchase a cloak. The others didn’t seem at all bothered. Doc was, of course, already wearing a cloak. Dingo and Jeremiah walked along as if they hardly noticed it. Ramona alone seemed a little perturbed, reaching up to pat her sleek hair which was already frizzing a little at the ends.

“Soooo,” Dingo half-sang, sidling up beside Yagra. She looked down to find an ingratiating smile on that puckish face. “Why were those gents in the bar trying to kick the stuffing out of you?”

Right. They’d said they would talk on the way. Yagra blew out a noisy sigh. It wasn’t as if she was interested in lying to these people, who had been friendly enough and even willing to let her tag along on this job. It was more like… Yagra wasn’t a spymaster or whatever, like Davil was. She didn’t know if the truth would cause her any problems down the line. She didn’t know shit, really.

“I’m Zhentarim,” she said, shortly. She reached up to tap the ruby amulet around her neck. In the center of the gem was the black-engraved shape of a curling snake with wings. The winged wyrm, the symbol of the Black Network.

“Oh, really?” Dingo’s eyes flew wide. She turned to Doc, excited. “Doc, do you still have…?”

“Of course.” Yagra watched as the large man rummaged through pockets in his belt, eventually coming up with an identical ruby amulet. Yagra gaped at it.

“You’re…?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. An awkward silence fell for a moment.

“You two have so much in common,” Dingo commented. “You both fight with maces, you’re both part of the Zhentarim…”

“Uh, I guess.” Yagra shook her head to break out of her funk. That amulet was an old identification symbol. Newer members in the Waterdeep faction were more likely to have a winged wyrm tattoo. It was possible that this man had simply killed an older member of the Network and taken their amulet, but… He was showing it to her with no shame, and no calculation that she could tell. If he’d been trying to use that amulet to get to Davil back in the tavern, wouldn’t he have brought it out sooner? And not after accepting another job which took him away from it? Unless he was trying to gain her trust…

Ugh. Yagra sometimes deeply regretted becoming Davil’s lieutenant upon promotion to Viper rank. She’d never had to deal with this kind of convoluted shit when she’d been a Zhentarim Wolf. She wasn’t suited to all this second-guessing of motivations, nor was she any good at it.

“What rank?” she asked.

“Wolf. You?”

“Viper.”

“Nice.”

“Thanks?”

“So you’ve been in the Zhentarim for a long time?”

“Long as I’ve been in Waterdeep. About twenty years.” Sensing the next question, she grumbled, “I’m thirty-five.”

“So young…” she barely heard Doc whisper.

“Fucking what?”

“NOTHING AT ALL.”

They were quite thankfully forestalled in any more strange, personal conversation by a commotion up ahead. As they came around a corner, where Castle Ward transitioned to Dock Ward, a knot of people came into sight. At first, all Yagra could make out was the backs of half a dozen City Watchmen. A captain of the watch with a particularly impressive, curled mustache stood a little ways off, barking orders at passerby.

“Nothing to see! Move along, please! These are dangerous men, members of the Black Network, give my men some space!”

Yagra’s heart sank into her gut. She fumbled to quickly slip her amulet beneath her linen shirt. It was an imperfect disguise, the neckline just slightly too deep to fully conceal the ruby pendant. With luck (ha), it would withstand casual observation. She couldn’t look too obviously interested in the men being arrested. If they really were Doom Raiders like her, she would do them no good by getting arrested. But could she really walk away from her own brothers like that?

Thankfully, a few more steps was all it took to lay her fears to rest. Maybe Yagra’s luck was taking a turn for the better. She didn’t recognize a single one of the men being forced to kneel on the cobblestones, their hands tied behind their backs. She didn’t know every single member of even the Doom Raiders, of course, but the fact that none of them seemed to recognize her was one clue, coupled with the fact that she could see tattoos on most of them. She avoided meeting any of their eyes or the guards’, just trying to walk past as quickly as possible.

Naturally, Doc called out to the watch captain.

“Everything all right?”

The man did a small double-take, taking in the strangeness of the person calling out to him. Gruffly, he said, “Nothing for you to worry about. Just some Zhent scum causing trouble in the streets.”

“What?” Doc began to bristle

Yagra grabbed him by the elbow. To her surprise, there was absolutely no give to the arm beneath her fingers. It was as if the man was wearing a skintight steel suit beneath his cloak and clothing. It took more strength than she would have expected to give that arm even a light tug. When his sapphire eyes turned down to her, she shook her head slightly.

“They’re not ours. I’ll explain later,” she hissed.

That frozen, featureless golden face seemed to hesitate. “Alright. If you say so.” He gave a cordial nod to the watch captain and made to keep walking. Dingo, meanwhile, was walking so closely on his other side that her lithe body was practically subsumed in Doc’s cloak. One of her hands was latched over the ball of the opposite shoulder, as if the guards may suddenly aim a stab at her heart as they went past. Jeremiah and Ramona, on the other hand, were the very picture of studied nonchalance, easily avoiding eye contact as they stepped past the scene.

They had only just gotten past, a sigh of relief in Yagra’s throat, when a shout caused her to choke on her ease.

It was the captain. “Watch it! He’s running!”

In the next second, a rough shoulder was shoving Yagra aside from behind. One of the arrested Zhentarim members was making a break down the sidewalk, barreling through their group, hands still cuffed in front of him.

Doc made a strange, clicking kind of sigh behind his mask. One booted foot thrust out, his arm easily sweeping Dingo up and away from the motion by a grip on her nape like a scruffed kitten. The half-elf yelped. The Zhentarim did too, stumbling over the boot. His fate was sealed by Jeremiah on the other side, who brought up a hand to the small of the man’s back. A flash of arcane energy in his palm sent the Zhent tumbling head over ass to the pavement. Only seconds behind, two watchmen shoved through the group to haul the fallen Zhent up by his arms and drag him back towards the others.

Doc turned, still dangling Dingo from one hand. “Are you Waterdeep’s finest? What, did you all graduate from City Watch Academy feckin’ yesterday? And you were telling me it was alright!”

The captain sputtered, clearly longing to ream his subordinates but unable to retaliate against Doc’s accusations. He touched a resentful thumb to the brim of his helmet. “Captain Hyustus Staget. Thankee kindly for your help, citizens.”

“Wasn’t a problem,” Jeremiah waved off the thanks.

“Just call us if you need to make any more scary arrests, huh?” Doc snorted. He finally lowered his friend to the earth. “Gond above…”

As soon as her feet were on the ground, Dingo was seizing Doc in one hand and Jeremiah in the other and hustling them out of there. Yagra picked up her pace, exchanging a startled glance with Ramona as the two half-orcs took up the rear. They were several yards down the sidewalk when Dingo finally slowed.

“You two,” she hissed, “do not need to be talking to the city watch!”

“Don’t have to tell me, mate,” Jeremiah shrugged.

“I’d talk to them less if they could do their jobs more,” Doc grumbled.

Yagra asked, “Why are you so afraid of them?”

Dingo jolted, as if she had forgotten there was an outsider among their party. She offered the least threatening glare which Yagra had ever seen on a humanoid’s face. There was far too much pouty lip and round cheek on this face for it to look threatening.

“You have to ask, ‘Zhentarim scum’?”

Yagra shrugged philosophically. “Those guys were Zhentarim scum.”

“Unlike you?”

“Yeah. They’re a different, uh, branch you could say.”

“Does this have to do with why you were getting jumped in a tavern by the Xanathar?” Ramona put in.

“Similar reasons. Like I said, there are two kinds of Zhentarim in Waterdeep: scum, and my kind. Most people just see the winged wyrm and assume you’re the scum kind.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Doc demanded. “I’m Zhentarim. What are you talking about?”

Yagra sighed. “You and me, we’re old Zhentarim. Do you know Davil Starsong? Istrid, Tashlynn, Ziraj?”

“I know Davil.”

“Yeah. He and that group are called the Doom Raiders. The original Black Network. These people in Waterdeep calling themselves Zhentarim now… They’re not part of the same Network. They’re thugs, following their own rules. The Zhentarim are supposed to be brothers. Supposed to look out for each other. These people are not Zhentarim.”

“So… Doom Raiders good, Zhentarim bad,” Dingo summed up. “And you’re one of the good ones? How long have you been part of the Doom Raiders?”

Technically, she had never been part of the Doom Raiders. That name was for Davil and his friends. Still, she worked directly for Davil, and it made the conversation easier for them to have two different names, so she let it go. “Twenty years, like I said. The new Zhentarim only showed up around here in the last couple of years.”

“And you aren’t trying to stomp them out?” Doc asked, incredulous. “They’re just running around throwing shite on our name and your Doom Raiders are just, what, letting it happen? Shouldn’t you be seeking out their hideouts and leaders and fucking routing them?”

By now, Yagra had clocked that the massive, white-clad cleric of Gond was a somewhat blunt speaker. He spoke what he saw as truth and he didn’t much care if it made other people angry. Yagra had thick enough skin to appreciate it. She certainly hadn’t been raised in the kind of environment that coddled feelings. Even her patience had its limits, though. And the environment she’d been raised in wouldn’t let her bow her head and just take insults meekly.

She bared her teeth in his direction. “Who the fuck says we aren’t? Ten years a Wolf and you think you can tell Davil how to run his Network?” The unmoving gold of Doc’s mask made it impossible to know if this jab had landed.

“Alright, alright, let’s watch the tempers,” Ramona broke in. “We have a job to do.”

Yagra subsided. True enough. And it wasn’t a part of Yagra’s job to prove Davil’s competence to this random being, either. If he stuck around Waterdeep, he’d be forced to prove his loyalty eventually somehow.

----------------------------------------

The Skewered Dragon was exactly as Jeremiah had described it. A dive. It loomed out of the mists of the Dock Ward like the wreck of an old galleon, splinters and spars standing out from its surface where the exterior boards had warped and buckled and never been replaced. The windows were covered by wicker lattices which had been left shut so long that the eyelet hooks holding them that way had rusted in place and could no longer be pried apart. The very building leaked an aura of pipe-smoke and the smell of alcohol. It was not precisely what one would call watertight. The sign above the door depicted a jousting knight with a snakelike dragon pierced on the end of his lance.

Within, the clientele was just as shabby as the building they were drinking in. About as fragrant, too. Yagra was viscerally reminded of her adolescence crammed into ramshackle tents with the refuse of society. She couldn’t judge others for living in poverty, but she sure could judge them for living without showering. It was obvious at a glance that the only person in this place who had used a hairbrush in the last twenty-four hours was Ramona herself. Frankly, the bard stuck out a bit despite her fairly subdued fashion. Simply being sleek and well-groomed, wearing clean clothes with no stains, and not reeking like a distillery set her apart. Jeremiah and Doc, rough and scarred men both, fit in a lot better.

For a second, as they crossed the threshold, Yagra thought that somehow they had lost Dingo. She craned her neck, catching the door before it could close behind her. The half-elf wasn’t outside. She looked back at Doc, trying to see if she had slipped beneath his cloak again.

There was indeed someone there, but it was a male dwarf rather than a female half-elf. He had rich, copper ringlets which cascaded down both his back and his chest. His eyes, between bushy mustache and bushy brows, were a shining amber. He wore a tight, blue linen tunic which was stretched open at the collar to reveal abundant copper chest hair. Unusually for a dwarf, he didn’t seem to be wearing any jewelry anywhere on his body. No necklaces, earrings, bracelets, or hair beads. Not even a twinkle on his clothes. The only flash of decoration was a blue tattoo around one eye, slashing across the lid like a diving hawk. He was fairly tall for a dwarf, too, nearing Yagra’s shoulder.

He was currently bent over, in the act of stuffing the hems of his overlong pants into the tops of his boots. When he finished, he rose and very casually said, as if to nobody at all, “I’ll be watching from nearby.” From his sturdy frame, his nasal accent sounded ever-so-slightly too high in pitch, making him seem a bit younger than the wild beard on his face suggested. He nodded as if that finished some argument and then strode up to the bar.

“I’ll go with Dingo,” Doc said, and stepped after the dwarf.

Yagra, left behind, said, “Dingo…?”

“Oh, is this your first time seeing it?” Ramona giggled. “Dingo’s specialty is changing faces.”

Yagra had seen disguises before, magical and otherwise, but the completeness and abruptness of this transformation was jarring. Now that she was noticing, the dwarf was wearing the exact same clothes that the half-elf had been. On the slim, half-elf body, they had been looser. They also shared the exact same voice and accent, which was why the tenor of it seemed mismatched in both forms, one stout and masculine, one lithe and feminine.

Shaking herself out of it, Yagra followed. She was just in time to see the half-elf bartender pointing at a table in the corner.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“...Silverfingers. Over there.”

“Seen a man named Floon Blagmaar?”

“No,” she answered immediately. Far too quickly to actually know who that was. Dingo peaceably gathered up a round of tankards, passing them out to Doc and Yagra behind him before all three split off for an empty table. Jeremiah and Ramona, pretending that the others had entered at the same time as they by coincidence, made their order separately and headed for the indicated table to question Solomil Silverfingers, their current only lead.

----------------------------------------

The first Solomil knew of newcomers was when he looked up and saw a small crowd of attractive strangers at his table. After a few seconds, his eyes focused a bit better, revealing that only a couple of those strangers were actually real. One was a tanned human man with a wide grin and half a head of sandy blond hair. The other was a half-orc woman with a sleek fall of long, raven hair that contrasted the pale blue of her skin like shadows on snow. They far outclassed the usual clientele seen in the Skewered Dragon, which Solomil would know, having been coming here for most of his life so far. Jobs had come and gone in that time, but Solomil had always been able to count on the Skewered Dragon to be both lively and discreet about who showed up when. The walls were leaky, but the mouths were not.

All of that to say that Solomil had never seen either of these two before. Most of the regulars around here were similar to Solomil–locals who lived or worked in the Dock Ward, for whom a hike to the fancier places in the Trade or Castle Wards was out of the question due to finances or time. On the other hand, some of the regulars made exactly such a hike in the opposite direction, owing to the Dock Ward’s later hours of business and less strict codes of conduct. First-timers to this commute tended to stick out just like these two were doing.

It took Solomil several long moments of contemplation before he realized that the strangers were not only sitting with him, but speaking to him. A few more blinks didn’t clear up his eyes nor ears, so he simply stared until the newcomers repeated themselves.

“You are Mr. Solomil Silverfingers, yes?” the half-orc woman repeated, lines tracing themselves across her forehead.

That one got through. Solomil nodded, agreeably. A burp came out as he did so. “You’ve found him! What can I do for you?”

“We were asking about a mate of ours who said he came in here two nights ago, but I think he must have been having us on,” the man complained. “Nobody here remembers him.”

Solomil chuckled. He attempted a knowing sort of look which came out mainly as cross-eyed, leaning in. “Ah, you’ll never get anything out of those others. Lips tighter than oysters in here.”

“What, are they worried we’re with the city guard?” the man chuckled back.

“Surely not! This hair is far too good to hide beneath a helmet.” The half-orc tossed her locks over one shoulder.

Solomil murmured agreement through rubbery lips. The woman turned on him with a sparkle in her eye, reaching out a single finger to stroke at a wisp of Solomil’s beard.

“Your hair is quite charming as well. How do you get it so smooth?”

It was an unexpected question, but a welcome one. A pretty woman, paying attention to Solomil and noticing all the effort he put into his hair… The flush of alcohol was joined by the burn of pleasure. “The secret’s a good oil, lass! Would you believe this one is mineral oil? Humans think elves have it all figured out, with their aloes and their coconuts and their avocados… All hokum! Mineral oil gives hair all the strength and sparkle you could want!”

From somewhere within the tap room, there was an odd hooting noise as of amusement or disbelief.

A nasal voice shushed the noisemaker. “Doc–”

“--man’s rubbing gravel in his feckin’ hair!”

“--shut up!”

“Ooh, interesting,” the half-orc cooed. “I never would have thought of mineral oil. No wonder it’s so… shiny.”

Solomil grinned, running a rough palm across his forehead up into his well-oiled hair. The movement revealed the jewelry from which he had derived his moniker: dozens of silver rings of all different sizes and engravings, stacked three and four deep on each finger. Despite the bulk of these accessories, his fingers moved as dexterously as any others of his race’s, renowned for their clever touch.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen our mate, would you?” the human put in. “He was here with Volothamp Geddarm. Heard they played a couple rounds of cards with you.”

Solomil was fully entertained by these charming strangers. He laughed with his whole chest, rolling out clouds of stinking breath across the table. “Aye, we played a few rounds.”

“Really? What’s your game of choice?”

“My friends, have you ever heard of Sava?”

The human and the half-orc shared puzzled looks. After a moment, the half-orc’s eyebrows shot upwards.

“Oh, yes, I think my father played. It’s a… high-class parlor game, is it not?”

“It is indeed.” Solomil rubbed his palms together in anticipation. He pushed himself out of his seat with woozy enthusiasm. As if swimming, he pushed off with each step, propelling himself until he came to a bumping stop against the bar. He aimed a smile up at the unsmiling bartender.

“Kept my board safe, love?”

A knife slammed, quivering, into the surface of the bar just beside Solomil’s beringed fingers. He didn’t move, continuing to grin. The half-elf bartender snorted, looking down her nose at him, before condescending to stoop and retrieve something from among the bottles of booze beneath the bartop. What she retrieved was a plain, walnut box a foot around and a few inches deep, its covers patterned with checks of lighter and darker-stained wood. Solomil accepted this with both hands and what he considered a very dashing wink.

Back at the table, the dwarf set to unfolding the box, revealing that its hinge swung all the way around so that it sat flat upon the table’s surface. The top was a square field of checkers. What was within the box came spilling out in a clattering heap across the table. Solomil fumbled through them, occasionally watching the buggers leap from his fingers like little fishes.

The half-orc picked one up and examined it. It was a little spider carved of walnut on a round base.

“It’s a drow game, originally,” Solomil explained, still attempting to sort the figures. “A game of strategy and deceit. Each player controls a noble house, and the object is to destroy your opponent’s.” He explained the functions and movements of each figure as he lined them up: matron, consort, driders, high priestesses, mushrooms, and slaves. His interlocutors nodded seriously, looking as if their lives may shortly depend on reciting these rules back to him.

“So!” Solomil proclaimed, clapping his palms together with the ring of silver. “What I propose: One of you plays me. We’ll call the ante 5 dragons. Whoever wins gets the pot, and no matter what, I tell you what I saw of your friend Floon.”

“More than fair!” the human proclaimed. “Ramona, you or I?”

“I’m game for it,” Ramona declared, tossing her hair back from her face. A half-orc’s face was built so that when one intended to convey serious business, one conveyed it indeed. Ramona’s was built no differently, only with an extra sprinkling of playful mischief in the sparkle of her eyes and the quirk of her red lips. Solomil quite enjoyed the sight as he made his opening move, pushing forward one of his side’s slaves.

Sava was a game of deceit, as he had explained. The deceit was in reading one’s opponent, similar to many card games which relied on the player’s discretion. If you moved your pieces too hastily or too eagerly, you may tip an opponent off to your plans and cause them to reconsider their own. There was an element of a mind game at work, in addition to the simple strategy of which piece to move where and when.

Solomil took his time on his turns, twisting his rings thoughtfully around his thumbs and deeply considering the board. Ramona leaned forward so that her hair hung down over her shoulders again, resting her hands beneath her thighs following each of her moves, her eyes intent. She occasionally glanced up from beneath her lashes as if to check Solomil’s reaction to her strategy, finding every time that he would beam back. The dwarf himself was quite unconscious of any tells he may have been giving off. In his mind, he was an enigmatic master of the game, moving his pieces with fluid grace, always a step ahead of the churning waters of their matched wits.

From Ramona’s perspective, he was a sloshed dwarf whose fingers occasionally trembled so badly that he nudged pieces he wasn’t moving into the wrong spaces. When he thought he was being clever, he leered and winked. When he was struggling to compensate for an unexpected loss, he scowled heavily. Ramona, a master of people-watching, had no difficulty discerning the flow of the game.

As their match went on, Solomil winked less and scowled more. His pieces began to pile up beside the board as Ramona captured one after another. At last, the carved figure of Solomil’s drow consort stood alone between one of Ramona’s high priestesses and one of her slaves. He scowled at the board for a long, long silence.

“Does this mean I win?” Ramona asked.

Jeremiah whooped. “Lady Tymora loves a beginner!”

“Yes,” Solomil said, slowly. “Beginner’s luck, must be.”

Ramona favored him with a tusked smile. “It was an exciting game. You didn’t make it easy for me, Master Silverfingers.”

Her lovely face sweetened Solomil’s sour loss. He sat back, holding up his hands in defeat. “Alright! The ante is yours, lass.”

While the half-orc collected her ten dragons, her companion folded his arms.

“So! My winnings, too! You saw Floon the other night, correct?”

“Aye. Him and his schrolary friend,” he answered, sagely. “Favored me with a few rounds and a few wins, then they retired to their sorrows.”

“Did they leave together?”

“Nar. Volo left first. His good-looking friend sat alone for a while before he was joined by another. Those two did leave together, though not alone together, you understand.”

“They were followed,” Jeremiah said, evidently understanding.

“By whom?”

“Don’t know ‘em. Four human thugs. One with a snake tattoo on his neck, like.” Solomil drew a finger along his nape and shoulder, illustrating the path the tattoo took across the man’s skin. “Left right after Floon and his friend.”

At the mention of the tattoo, both faces grew pale. Jeremiah and Ramona exchanged rapid, speaking looks.

“Could it have been a coincidence that they left at the same time?” Ramona wondered.

Solomil shrugged. “I’m a betting man. I’d put another 5 dragon ante on your pals having been left for dead in a nearby alley.”

“I do hope that is not the case,” she frowned. Then, face clearing back into its charming, dimpled smile, “You’ve been a great help, Master Silverfingers. Thank you for the game.”

“Yer welcome back anytime, me beauties!”

Solomil watched with bleary satisfaction as the backs of anywhere from two to six people retreated from his table. He hoped none of them were about to end up knifed by the Zhentarim in a back alley. It would be nice to see if Miss Ramona could beat him sober, sometime.

Well. That time might not come for a while anyway.

----------------------------------------

The sun had already set, but the sea of paperwork spread out before Zardoz Zord remained as endless as the sea. He leaned back in his chair, boots propped on the edge of his desk just inches away from the interminable stack of yellowed paper. His boots rarely saw more dirt than what could be found on the deck of his ships, but even so he was wary of leaving an accidental boot-print on any of Waterdeep’s taxation forms. No, the boot-prints he was going to leave on those would be entirely intentional and at artistic angles.

Gloves and hat had been shed to hang from a nearby coatrack, leaving Zardoz’s hair to tumble free across his shoulders. In one hand, he swirled a glass of moondark wine. The damp chill of the early night air washed in through the cracked-open panes of the picture window behind him, along with the fishy-salt smell of the harbor. Nothing as good as the clean scent of of open ocean, but a good sight drier. The flicker of the candles on Zardoz’s desk were supplemented by the gently bobbing light of the lantern hanging off of his picture window balcony. Without what limited warmth the spring sun could provide, the captain’s cabin was a bit chilly. Even so, Zardoz lounged in only a thin shirt with the collar open, reveling in the chill. It reminded him of home.

No sound from crew or actors could be heard within the captain’s cabin, level as it was with the middeck. The most that could be made out was the quiet tread of boots going past as Fel’rekt, on first watch, circled the deck. Even when in harbor, Zardoz made sure to keep his ships well-patrolled. He had plenty enough riches and plenty enough secrets to make mischief worthwhile. Luckily, he also had plenty enough skilled lieutenants to deter that mischief.

Fel’rekt, young as he was, was one of them. Every time he went past, his heels clicked eagerly across the deck, sounding like the claws of a chicken scurrying across the planks. He could just imagine the boy hoisting his lantern high in one hand, blue eyes sweeping the deck before him rapidly, his other hand already resting on the hilt of the knife at his waist. Lady, give Zardoz the energy of the young.

The Eyecatcher was too hefty a vessel to dip at the presence of footsteps on the gangplank, especially when it was already so overburdened and sitting so low in the water. The only clue Zardoz had that his ship was greeting guests was the shrill greeting of Fel’rekt’s voice through the cabin door.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

A warmer, slower voice answered. Zardoz was only faintly able to hear this one through his open windows, being as the gangplank was positioned so near the stern. “Stow it, shipmate, you know Jeremiah Vane.”

“I know you, yeah,” Fel’rekt shouted back. “Who’s that with you, iblith?” From tone alone, the captain could picture his lieutenant’s chest puffing out like an angered rooster’s beneath his cable-knit sweater. It was an impression which was not helped by the puff of curly blonde hair which stuck out from beneath the kerchief tied around the boy’s head; Zardoz had been treated to the sight before. He just knew that hand was on the knife again.

In his cabin, Zardoz felt a pulse of fury in his own chest. His fingers tightened on the stem of his wineglass. Along with the energy of youth came the impetuousness. Zardoz would have some choice words to share with Fel’rekt about the boy’s, well, choice of words.

An unfamiliar voice with a Northern accent replied, “Friends o’ his, looking for a place to crash for the night.”

“Well, that’s gonna be up to the captain, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” Jeremiah agreed, laconically. “You gonna… let us go in and ask him?”

With obvious relish, Fel’rekt said, “Wait here and I’ll check.” Those scurrying, chicken-claw steps preceded three rapid knocks to the cabin door. “Captain Zord! Some visitors here to see you! Should I tell ‘em to kick rocks?”

Zardoz sighed. He set his glass aside. “Send them in, if you please, Fel’rekt.”

“Oh. Aye, Captain.” Somewhat disappointed, the young lieutenant slunk away from his door. Zardoz smiled wryly as the murmur of voices now dipped too low and too far amidships for him to easily hear. Within moments, there was a heavy tread of approaching feet before one of the strangest groups of beings Zardoz had ever seen were striding into his cabin.

Jeremiah was the only familiar face among the lot, with his uniquely fearsome yet endearing appearance. Beside him was a half-orc woman with a robin’s-egg complexion, well-dressed and with luxuriantly groomed hair. A third figure towered above all, swathed in ragged white clothes and a billowing white cape, face hidden by a golden mask. Finally, a stocky female elf followed who had white dappled patterns tattooed onto her oaky skin and a cloud of poofy brown hair pulled back from her face.

“Cap’n! How goes it?” Jeremiah greeted.

Zardoz favored him with a small smile, cheered by the man’s usual familiarity. Behind him, in the doorway, Fel’rekt lurked with an unfriendly eye. “All well, mate,” Zardoz replied. “Who have you brought to see me?”

“This here’s Ramona, Dingo, and Doc.” The sailor-turned-performer indicated the half-orc, elf, and masked man in turn. “Mates, this is Captain Zardoz Zord, ringmaster of the Sea Maiden’s Faire.”

“A pleasure, Captain,” Ramona smiled. Zardoz returned the expression. This was one who knew how to use a smile to get her way. He appreciated that.

“Likewise. A friend of Jeremiah’s is a friend of the Sea Maiden’s Faire. What can we do for you this evening?”

Bold as brass, Jeremiah leaned one hand on Zardoz’s desk, cocking his hip languidly and gesturing with the other. “My friends here are a bit between places at the moment. I know we’ve plenty of room in the bunk for a few extra, so I hoped that with your permission they could spend the night with me.”

Zardoz sat back in his seat, hands folded over his stomach. He thought deeply. A simple, straightforward request on the surface. Fel’rekt had been vocal in his suspicions over this particular performer, but Zardoz had yet to see anything that stood out among the motley group of oddballs who normally ended up performing in a traveling circus. Any intended subterfuge would be harder to achieve, now that the lad had introduced his whole party to the captain and lieutenant on watch. Not to mention that Jeremiah had never shown any signs of aggression or hostility, for all his occasional oddness.

But then, Zardoz knew better than most how many masks a man could wear. He knew better than to trust surface appearances. It may be that this simple request was a misdirection of some sort. These people may be sneaking something in or out, or simply scouting for information about the ship’s layout. Perhaps they were making contact with someone else within the ship. Or Jeremiah hoped to inure Zardoz to these particular peoples’ presence so that he let his guard down over time. Just a simple request which became another, then another.

On top of all this intrigue, there were practical considerations as well. Zardoz didn’t mind a bit of drink or sport when his performers were in the mood, but he didn’t exactly want to open up his hold to a regular traffic of drugs or disease. Who knew what these people were bringing in with them. And even if their intentions were entirely, fully innocent… People always represented a potential information leak. Who knew what they may see while on the Eyecatcher which might make its way into the wrong hands. A simple piece of gossip passed on may be all it took to expose Zardoz’s secrets. In a way, it might be even simpler if this group was simply here to sell drugs or knock boots. At least then they’d be too occupied to see things they shouldn’t.

From the doorway, Fel’rekt met Zardoz’s eye. The boy raised eager brows as well as one finger which traced the silent signal, You want I should kill them? This was, of course, a single draw of the finger across the throat.

Zardoz chuckled, all tension fleeing his body. Of course, he had his lieutenants here. Soluun had seen Jeremiah all the way to The Yawning Portal with no suspicious stop-offs, only a tendency to talk to himself. And after first watch was over, these strangers would be sharing a bunk with sharp-eyed, loyal Fel’rekt. What was there to worry about, really?

“Alright, Mr. Vane. I don’t see the harm. As you said, we’ve plenty of space. Call it… four shards to cover the rent and your friends are welcome.”

“Said and done, Cap’n!” Jeremiah handed over the coins with a cheerful grin. “Thank you, kindly!”

“Of course. Sleep well.”

Jeremiah tossed off a lazy salute on the way out, leading his group of silent, strange companions towards the hold. Fel’rekt remained in the doorway after they had passed, eyes huge and inquisitive.

“You sure about this, Captain?”

“I trust you to keep an eye on them,” Zardoz answered. As predicted, the words made the boy swell up like a fluffy bird, beaming fit to blind a kobold. His next words, however, deflated that puff somewhat. “Although, I wonder if I can continue to trust you to keep your mouth shut?”

“S-Sorry? Ilareth?”

As soon as the word flew out of his mouth, Fel’rekt knew his mistakes. He bit his lower lip hard, hands shooting behind his lower back like a child caught stealing sweets. Like this, he looked even younger than his twenty-five years. Zardoz couldn’t help but favor him with the kind of look one saved for a beloved younger brother.

Beloved younger brothers were rare, where Zardoz was from. Just another thing that made Fel’rekt unique.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Fel’rekt mumbled, staring at his toes.

Zardoz relented. “Be more careful. Especially while strange ears are around. I’m counting on you, Fel’rekt.”

Instantly, the hangdog once more became a proud rooster. “Aye, Captain!” With a clatter of eager footsteps, the boy vanished from the doorway, slamming the cabin door shut behind him. Alone once more, Zardoz fished around behind himself without looking for his abandoned glass of wine. The tax forms could wait until he’d settled back into the mood.