During her questioning, the topics had ranged from the obvious to the bizarre, and throughout she had endured the punishment and stuck to her original story: she was an itinerant Knight-Adamant of her Order, which was true, who happened into a situation in which she had perceived something of interest, again true, and had chosen to investigate, again true; but she neglected certain details and volunteered no additional information.
Her captors seemed to know a fair bit about her, though, which corresponded with what the hired archer Ned had said when he mentioned they knew her name. She hadnt been interrogated by the man in the robe who had ordered Neds killing, but by others who seemed content to ask her a series of questions that appeared unrelated, and beat her from time to time, seemingly irrespective of the answers she gave.
One in particular, a reed-thin man with a hooked nose and a heavily pockmarked face which he tried to hide with a thick beard, seemed to take pleasure from causing her pain. She had known his type when she had been a whore in a brothel in Krondor, and fortunately her beauty had prevented her from their predations, because the owner of the brothel had wanted her undamaged. But she remembered the other girls who had returned from time with those men bleeding, bruised, and sometimes cut and scarred. Many of them escaped into drugs and a few took their own lives.
She thanked Dala every day for Brother Mathias, the Knight-Adamant who had saved her and brought her to the path of the Goddess. Though on days such as today where she awoke chained to the stinking hull of a ship, with dirty bilge-water splashing up on her every time the ship struck a comber bow-on, in a hold which contained enough rats to populate a sewer in Krondor, she wasnt sure how much thanks was appropriate.
She had no sense of time. Even the passing of night and day was impossible to judge, since she was so far below in the ship that night and day were not distinguishable. She did know her own body well enough to realize she had been there for at least a week. She was trained to go without food for a long time, and had had to endure hunger before, and the way she felt now told her she had been at least three days since her last meal, a bowl of half-boiled millet and some salt pork.
She was thirsty as well, and knew she had been given a cup of water some time the day before, but now she had to fight the urge to splash bilge-water up to her face and drink. There were spells used by the more gifted in her Order that could purify water, even it was said a few for the creation of food, though she had never met a Knight-Adamant who could achieve that. She wryly thought it would save so much time and coin if you could just whistle up a side of beef, some steaming potatoes, and a flagon of ale.
She sighed and felt her head clear. She had been left unattended for a long period of time as far as she could tell; but at least she was more lucid than she had been when taken captive. She had ridden to the shore with her captives and then someone had struck her hard across the back of the head, and she had awoken in this hold, stripped of her arms and armour and chained to this wall. But at least this time she had not been raped and thrown off a cliff.
She stretched and realized that her body didnt hurt as much as it had the day before. She still had aches and sore spots all over her body, as well as raw wrists and ankles from the chafing of the chains. She sat back, extending her legs as far as the chains would allow, not too far. At least she could sit with knees bent and her back against the hull. She closed her eyes and turned her mind to a healing focus she had learned early in her training.
Soon her body tingled and she felt energy coursing through her. She hadnt felt like this since her last encounter with a healing sister of the Temple of Dala. She kept her eyes closed despite an urge to open them from surprise, and returned to her prayer, sinking into the feeling of wellness as she had been taught. It was a healing bath of the Goddesss powers, and she let it wash over her and consume her. She felt pain slip away, felt the fear slip away, and finally felt contentment seep into every fibre of her being.
At last even this feeling slipped away and she regarded her wrists. The chafing had vanished, and her skin was intact. What bruises she had been able to see in the faint light allowed into this room by the single lantern hanging at the rear of the hold seemed to have vanished as well.
That was surprising.
She was, though, a worshipful devotee of the Goddess and even if Dala had taken pity on her faithful servant and healed her, there were far more impressive miracles recorded by the temple. Sandreena had just never expected to be on the receiving end of even a little miracle. In fact, she often thought the Goddesss main means of instructing her daughter were by pain, obstacles, and frustration.
She sighed, feeling better than since her captivity, though she was still hungry enough to eat a hanging side of beef, raw. She stretched a little and found she was still weak and sore despite her healing magic. She sat back and thought about it. She knew shed healed fast before, and she had survived a nearly lethal encounter with the Black Caps, thrown off a cliff onto rocks below in the surf. Up till now she had considered her survival a matter of luck. But perhaps it was more than luck. Perhaps it was the Goddesss gift.
She let out a long sigh. If only there was a spell to make shackles fall away. She was sure there was, but it was probably the province of the worshippers of Ban-ath, the God of Thieves.
The hatchway above opened and a rope ladder was lowered. From the shaft of light she deduced it was somewhere near mid-day. The skinny, pockmarked man came down the rope ladder again, and Sandreena began a mild meditation in anticipation of another beating.
Another man followed the first, the robed man she had encountered on the road where Ned was murdered, and behind him a third. Something different was about to happen and Sandreena readied herself for death, if that was the Goddesss will. For one second she had an irrational urge to hit Amirantha one more time, and she let that go and the warlocks image was replaced by an image of Grand Master Creegan. For a moment she was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of loss at the idea of never seeing him again. She forced herself to breathe slowly.
The three men came to stand before her, and the third man, the one shed never seen before, said, Release her.
The pocked man produced a key and unlocked her shackles. The third man was portly, though she suspected there was muscle underneath the fat given how nimbly he had come down that ladder. He had a gravelly voice, and a nondescript face: round with brown eyes, a small nose, and a small mouth. He said to her, Can you climb that ladder?
She stood up slowly, and found that her healing magic had given her enough strength not to stagger. I can, she said, her voice sounding hoarse in her own ears.
Come, is all the man said. He turned towards the ladder. The other two men, the one who had questioned her and the one she had met on the road, stood one on each side, ready to respond if she tried anything. Realizing she was still too weak to fight effectively, she judged it best to come peacefully. Besides, she knew they had weapons secreted upon them and if she was to try for an escape, up on deck was better than here.
She walked slowly to the rope ladder and climbed up. As she reached the hatch above, two rough-looking sailors hauled her out onto the deck. She blinked at the bright afternoon sun after all the time she had spent in the hold. She appeared to be on a ship anchored offshore, amid a fleet of other ships, all in the process of being unloaded. There was a seemingly endless traffic of boats rowing to and from the shore, where a throng waited to haul the cargo up onto the beach. There, a camel caravan waited. As her eyes adjusted to the light she decided she was somewhere in the Bitter Sea between Ranom and Durbin. There was no other sea coast on Triagia that she knew of with blowing dunes and she seriously doubted she had been at sea long enough to be anchored off the coast of Novindus or Wiñet.
She walked slowly to the rope ladder and climbed up. As she reached the hatch above, two rough-looking sailors hauled her out onto the deck. She blinked at the bright afternoon sun after all the time she had spent in the hold. She appeared to be on a ship anchored offshore, amid a fleet of other ships, all in the process of being unloaded. There was a seemingly endless traffic of boats rowing to and from the shore, where a throng waited to haul the cargo up onto the beach. There, a camel caravan waited. As her eyes adjusted to the light she decided she was somewhere in the Bitter Sea between Ranom and Durbin. There was no other sea coast on Triagia that she knew of with blowing dunes and she seriously doubted she had been at sea long enough to be anchored off the coast of Novindus or Wiñet.
Twenty armed men were arrayed in a circle around her and another dozen sailors were scattered through the rigging watching. The majority of them wore some sort of black headgear: hats, kepis, berets, or flop hats. She was certain she was in the hands of the Black Caps.
The third man said, Come, and moved towards the stern of the ship. He entered a cabin in the sterncastle with two armed guards posted outside the door. Inside there was a table with food and wine on it. Eat, he told her.
She hesitated only for a moment, then sat down and began to tear at the roast duck. She sipped the wine and pushed it away. In her weakened condition she knew wine would quickly go to her head. She asked, Can I have water?
He clapped his hands and one of the guards looked in, sword drawn and ready for trouble. Bring water, her host said and the guard disappeared. He was a hard looking man, despite his ample girth, perhaps forty or fifty years of age, but there was nothing about him that wasnt dangerous. Shed seen his kind before, a stout man of jovial humour who could turn murderous in a moment and never lose his smile. He moved easily as a trained warrior might move. She saw scars, many of them, tiny ones on his hands that told of brawling and one on his neck where someone had almost taken his life. His eyes were dark as he studied her. His features were classic Keshian, but not Trueblood. He could pass for a man of the desert or any of the smaller cities around the Overn Deep. His accent was slight, as if he had travelled and spoke many languages.
They sat in silence waiting until a minute later the guard appeared with a large pitcher of water and a mug. Sandreena ignored the mug and drank straight from the pitcher. She hadnt realized how thirsty she had become chained in that hold.
The wine not to your liking? asked her host.
Im weak enough that two mouthfuls and Ill be drunk, said Sandreena.
He chuckled. Ive always admired one thing about all the martial Orders, no matter which god or goddess they serve: no matter the circumstance, youre always ready to give up your life for a higher cause, and to ensure youre able to do that, you remain sober.
Ive had my drunken nights, said Sandreena. She could feel strength returning to her as she wolfed down the food.
No doubt, said the man. He waited until she slowed her eating, then said, To business. I have a proposition.
She put down the bowl of potatoes she had been devouring. Yes?
He sat back and looked at her. I believe we have some common interests.
Her eyes widened. Go on.
Do you know who we are?
She paused, then said, I believe you to be part of an organization called the Black Caps by the people who live near the Peaks of the Quor.
As good a name as any. He gazed out of the window, then said, We are what is left of a very large organization that has been reduced to what you see here, a small band of desperate men and women. Let me indulge myself in a short history, if I may.
Three hundred years ago, a baker by the name of Shamo Kabek resided in a small town a days wagon ride from the City of Great Kesh. He and his two sons were plagued by a tax collector who had designs upon Shamos young wife. Despite appeals to all and sundry, the tax collector continued to make unwelcome advances. One day returning from the mill with his weeks flour, Shamo found the tax collector had assaulted his woman, in front of two very small and frightened boys.
Sandreena frowned; this story was designed to appeal to a member of her Order, she knew, but what did it have to do with her current situation?
Shamo confronted the tax collector. He was Keshian Trueblood, Shamo was not. Shamo assaulted the man and was sentenced to carry out hard labour for twenty years.
As is common in such circumstances, he never lived long enough to regain his freedom, dying in a mining accident six years later. But he left behind two very angry little boys. The man paused and poured himself a flagon of wine. When they were little more than boys, the two slipped into the tax collectors house and cut his throat while he slept. Apparently someone else in the household awoke, for the next morning a city watchman found everyone in the house dead. The boys had been fast, efficient, and merciless. The tax collectors wife, daughter, small son and three servants all paid the ultimate price for the tax collectors uncontrollable lust.
Thus were the Nighthawks born.
True? asked Sandreena.
True enough. There may be an embellishment or two. The boys may have ambushed the tax collector on the road and hit him over the head with a rock for all I know. But that is what we are taught when we pledge to the Brotherhood of Assassins.
Youre Nighthawks?
Nighthawks, yes. Black Caps as well. And we have several other names as well when it suits us. I am Nazir and my title is Grand Master, much as your Creegan is in your order.
Rumour is you were wiped out some years back in northern Kesh.
A rumour that suited our purposes. He sighed. We were for nearly two hundred years a very small organization. While it may seem a great many people in the world need killing, in fact there are far fewer than you might think; and even more to the point, there are even fewer who are willing to pay for the service. But there are always enough that a handful of trained killers can make a decent living. For years we traded on our reputation and made a good living. When we were not out plying our trade, we lived in a small town in the North of Kesh, the name I will not share in case this discussion does not bear fruit. We had families; we trained our sons, and our daughters were permitted only to marry those young men we brought into the Brotherhood.
A hundred years ago that changed. He sighed as if it were a personal memory he was recounting, instead of lore. What do you know of the Pantathians?
Sandreena paused. She had eaten too fast and her stomach was starting to object. She sat back. Little. A race of serpent men, had something to do with the Great Uprising of the Dark Brotherhood, something like that?
Something like that, he said dryly. Sandreena could sense that something in this man was profoundly tired, almost defeated. He continued to look out of the window as he said, They are an interesting people.
Are? I was told they had been obliterated.
Yes, you would hear that. He turned to face her. The Pantathians were a created race, raised up from snakes by a being named Alma-Lodaka, of a race called in their tongue the Valheru. Our lore speaks of them as the Dragon Lords.
Now he had her full attention, her meal forgotten. Few know about these things.