Queshem nods at the question. The people I be wishin' to scry be Jolis Raffles and the man who I last saw him with. His return might go a long way to stablizin' Bag Island and right a wrong that I were a part of. I thank ye for yer help Ysilde and I no think that I'll be needin' anything else from ye, at least fer a bit.
Queshem and her crew head back to Slipcove and the beach. To her relief the slaver ship has departed, apparently not damaging anything on the way out. Part of her had been afraid of a last minute attack while she was away. The distant sight of the black ship slipping over the horizon was a weight off her already burdened shoulders.
The locals seem to be setting up a feast, or at least a party that evening. Food supplies are low, but Queshem shares out some of what they have, so at least there is something on the plates and in the cups. The halflings are still nervous however, and while they allow Queshem's sailors to attend the party, her crew keep to themselves, off to the side. Polos does his best to keep the various drunks of either side apart from each other. There is a brief moment of togetherness when Thasa plays music and Xiakon, who has a surprisingly good signing voice, entertain both halves of the event. Onshore the night passes in what seems a decent imitation of the warm glow of camaraderie.
On board ship, Queshem talks things over with Parcell about setting up the go-betweens of Quent and Slipcove. The old pirate impresses the need to be open about it, hoping that a show of force will keep the rakasha at bay. As he puts it, 'a slaver only understands one thing. Violence.' Tound agrees, suggesting that Bag Island perhaps buy some ships in Quent using island wealth as collateral?
Oddly, Issa avoids Queshem that evening, for whatever reasons of his own. Instead he spends time with his relaxing men, although not partaking of any drink himself.
Queshem drinks sparingly, a few battles won for Bag Island, but the war was still ongoing and she was very aware of how the future of the pleasant isle hinged on the strategy that she had convinced the residents to follow. Whatever happened next was on her shoulders.
Starra's got ships and she knows what the value of the Island be. Might be best fer this protection to be a part of the contract between her and Issa fer setting up the mining extraction she muses before moving on. She didn't really care about the details of the horaclum mining, she just wanted Starra's wealth put to work defending Bag Island while the other Pirates took care of raiding and attacking the weakened Rakashas.
The next day, Queshem goes with Polos and Draflo to Ysilde's tower, but she also calls on Issa to come with her.
First she scrutinizes the halfling, wondering what was going through his mind about the new reality his people were in.
Then unless something spooks her she says Do ye want to come with me to Ysilde's tower. There be something that might be of interest to ye. Of a sensitive nature.
Queshem finds Issa near the docks, supervising repairs to the once extensive quays and piers of the town. The month of being exposed to both the weather and the ravages of daemons have left the facilities quite damaged indeed. But even as Queshem watches, she sees new boards being sawn, posts being planed and stone piles being shuffled about. Whatever else, these halflings knew how to work. There is a busy feeling in the air, like a beehive in spring.
At her words Issa looks slightly surprised, but pleased, saying, "I was wondering what you and the wizard were up to yesterday. I'm...I'm glad you invited me. Shows you have nothing to hide. Yes, I'll come."
With Issa, Polos and Draflo, they cross the green hills to Ysilde's tower. The day is bright and warm, with barely a cloud in the sky. A good omen for divining?
At the base of Ysilde's tower they find, somewhat to Queshem's surprise a shelter, a sort of solid canopy or tent, providing a large space of shaded ground. Under it is a table, a few chairs and Ysilde. The wizard is busy reading a thick tome ad doesn't notice them coming up. Queshem notes some items sitting on the table, bowls of water, mirrors, other arcane devices. Clearly the elf wizard intended on working down here instead of in her tower. Compared to the first time Queshem visited, perhaps the academic has upgraded security.
Queshem quirks her eyebrows Well ye did have a bunch of the most suspicous of yer people hangin' around. We might find out something that be best kept away from gossip. she takes a deep breath. Ye'll see soon enough.
At the tower Queshem hails Ysilde Thank ye fer agreeing to see us again. Hopefully it'll be the last time we bother ye for a bit. She retrives the bits of body parts Gnarea kept marked Raffles and Magnar. These be the two that I was hopin' ye'd be able to scry. Raffles and the man who took him.
Ysilde looks up from her book, her passing annoyance slowly receding. The elf stands up, brushes off her robes and nods, "Indeed. My studies have been dreadfully delayed due to all of this late unpleasantness."
Taking the rather unwholesome items, she places them next to a bowl of water. She bends over the still reflection, passing her hand over it and muttering arcane words. Draflo pushes forward, clearly hoping to witness all she can. Still bent over the diving wizard says, "Queshem step over here. I made some adjustments to the spell, I think you will appreciate it..."
Queshem takes a place directly across the small table, bending over. At first the inquisitor feels a bit silly, standing outside in a grassy field staring into a bowl of water, the song of morning birds in her ears and the feeling of a fresh breeze on the back of her neck.
Then, Ysilde waves her hand across the water, whispering something. The water ripples then...changes. It grows dark and Queshem feels drawn to it, as if her head is being pulled down closer to the suddenly rippling surface. Her senses are...stretched, as if expanding. The birdsong and warm summer day fade away, replaced at first by blackness, deep and dark enough to make Queshem's heart quail.
Slowly it changes and familiar things take it's place. The smell of old stale water, wet wood, creaking timbers under pressure. The hold of a ship? Dappled darkness, shifting with the waves....Queshem can almost feel the hot, humid air on her skin, as if she was there. The darkness starts to clear, revealing something like a dark oil painting, a portrait in her mind...A halfling sitting on a heavy barrel, head bowed, hair unkempt. Face in shadow but yet Queshem has no doubts...Raffles, captured and prisoner in the bowels of some ship.
Then Ysilde speaks a word and the vision vanishes, like smoke in a morning breeze. Suddenly the birdsong is back and Queshem's neck twinges from leaning over the water so long.
At her side, obviously excited Draflo whispers, 'What did you see?"
Not just see... smell Queshem says slowly as she comes out of the vision. Raffles be prisoner in the hold of a ship. she looks up at Ysilde Can this tell us where? the person bein' scryed be? Either way if ye could do th'other one? Magner.
Dralfo looks surprised, "Smell?" She glances at Ysilde who smiles and says, "I have refined the spells to also permit limited transfer of other sensory inputs such as olfactory and audio information. I am pleased it has worked so well."
When Queshem asks about where the person is Ysidle shrugs, "People in motion are extremely difficult to pin point, doubly so those at sea. If they were on land, chained to a wall the task would be trivial. However, as things stand..."
She waves a hand and a rolled up paper springs to life, spilling out over the paper. It is a passable map of the Shackles, with hundreds of tiny inked islands. The academic ponders the map for a time, then pulls out a small brass ruler, measuring distance and (for some reason) looking up and squinting at the sun. After a time she says, "I believe he is near this spot. Note I said believe, it is not s surety, due to the entropic nature of magic and the motion of the sea."
Her finger rests near a small star of land labeled Raptor Island.
Queshem takes a deep breath. Everything keeps coming back to that damn Island Yer scholarship and mastery are truly wondrous she says And that is more than I could have hoped fer. Do yer know much about Raptor Island?
The young captain chews on her lip. She badly wanted to get Ysilde to spy on Magner but if Magner was still imprisoning Raffles and detected that he was being scryed on it would ruin the element of surprise that she cherished so much... If he wasn't then he could wait. Making restiution was more important to her than seeking revenge.
That be all Ysilde. Thank ye fer the knowing and the demonstration. Are ye sending yer findings to yer old colleagues to be recorded fer prosterity? In any case we do need to be goin'...
Ysilde shrugs at the name, "Not much, I have never bothered with the trivial matters of the local pirates. If I recall, it is an island dominated by jungle undergrowth and various unusual wildlife, some of it quite primeval. Many of the pirates use it as a punishment, to maroon a person there for some crime. Quite barbaric as most practices are in this place. Frankly, if it were not for the favorable viewing conditions I would long have moved to more civilized climates."
Issa frowns at this, but say nothing. Clearly he knows better then to argue with the elf scholar.
Could be ye could help make Bag Island more civilised Ysilde. Queshem comments mildly to the elf Us shorter lived races learn real fast and I think in a mere decade or two ye could set up a school that'd churn out halflings and others capable of real divertin' conversations on star charts and figures and such. she cocks her head. Could be an amusing diversion and a little break from yer research yeah?
To Issa she says I'm headed to Raptor Island after setting up matters in Quent as we discussed. Ye saw as well as I did what Raffles be goin through and I'd head straight there if Bag Island didn't need alliances. Raffles won't trust me though since I were the cats paw that most directly got him turned back to being a prisoner in a stinking hold so could ye send a representative of yours to come with me?
She ticks off the criteria for the representative.
Someone ye trust, Someone Raffles knows to tell him what be happening here, Someon who can start negotiations on yer behalf in Quent and wouldn't mind a bit of a sailin' adventure that could end up real lethal. She grimaces And if that person don't hate me guts then that'd be grand as well.
Ysilde inclines her head graciously, "You mentioned this idea before, of taking on some pedagogues. It has some merit, of course. My correspondence with your friend Dralfo has been enlightened on several points, even if only to get an amateur's viewpoint." Draflo rolls her eyes but smiles. 'However," Ysilde goes on, "Such students tend to be so short lived. How can a mortal being truly contemplate the heavens? But I will give it more thought. Perhaps Bag Island can be made a beacon in the dark..."
Issa rubs his chin, and for a moment there is a strange gleam in his eye, "I have half a mind to go myself." But then it fades, "But I have too much to do here, to rebuild, to keep off the attacks of the slavers. You spoke true, that they may soon have their own problems to deal with, but I still expect raids."
"I'll think about it and ask for volunteers when we get back to town. You'll have someone to take with you."
The trip back to Slipcove goes well enough, the bright day around them. Despite the occasional sign of destruction, a smashed bee hive, a savaged tree, a burned out wood cutters hut, it is hard to imagine just a few days ago this green land was being ravaged by daemons. It was like a bad dream, slipping behind them like a distant wake.
That evening Queshem gets the crew ready to sail. They have manhandled the supplies onto the beach and into the eager hands of the inhabitants. While the end of the siege means they can scavanage for food freely, rations promise to be tight in the town for some time to come. Queshem's food will prevent starvation and illness but some belts will need to be tightened. Even as Queshem orders the last shore party back aboard however, she can see small fishing skiffs heading out into the bay. At her side Polos nods approvingly, "Industrious folk, aren't they? I wonder if they were always like this under Raffles or just hard times call for them to be like this?"
Soon it is just Queshem and Polos on the beach, the last whaleboat readying to leave. The day is sinking into a warm dust, the first stars emerging overhead. Out of the growing shadows Issa appears, two other halflings with him.
As they come up, Queshem gets a good look. One is younger, with a smooth skinned face and a long mop of curly brown hair. His clothes while dirty and torn like everyone's else, seem finer then most, better made. He has a feather stuck in his cap at a rakish angle. The young man gives Queshem a broad wink as he comes up.
The other man is older, face sunburned and weathered. One eye is covered with a rough eyepatch, the wound looking new, with fresh scar tissue edging the area. His step is firm and strong however, showing a wiry strength, although he carries a stout walking stick in one hand. The visible eye is dark and unfriendly.
"I have two volunteers, Captain." Issa says, looking oddly pleased, "I figure you can choose between them. You know what you want." After letting Queshem get an eyeful he beckons her over a little way, out of earshot.
Once they are alone he says, "The younger one is Bellows Topsail, who thinks he is quite the rogue and adventurer. Normally I wouldn't offer a fop like him, but and..." he drops his voice, "Solid rumor has it he is Raffles illegitimate son. Or so everyone claims. Might help you get the old man on side."
He gestures, "The other is Dartomir Greenglass, a long standing family in these parts. Stubborn, intelligent and frankly blames you for everything that has happened on the island. He won't betray you or anything like that, but you won't be having too many smiles on deck."
Issa looks at Queshem speculatively, 'Which do you like?"
Queshem sighs. Greenglass. Don't think young Topsail will do ye much good when negotiatin' with Starra, or with not getting underneath our feet asea. Sailing be serious work, not a flight of fancy. she gets a speculative look on her face though.
she turns to Bellows. Looks like ye want to get out and be dashin'. Well that's not what I'm providing. I expect everyone aboard my ship to pull their weight and prove their worth. Ye haven't done either with yer wink and yer feather. But ye'll certainly see a lot more of the Shackles if we come on. Tell ye what Bellows. I can take ye on, but as a swabbie and ye'll be put to work and expected to follow orders. If ye prove yerself useful by the time we get to Quent ye can stay with us as we sail onwards. If ye don't we'll dump ye there and ye can make yer own way back. That be assuming that ye even get there. This no be a joke and the threat of death be real on the deep. If that be acceptable to ye then come aboard.
Then to Dartomir. Master Greenglass thank ye fer agreein' to come with us. From how ye move it seem like ye have experience asea? Then I don't need to tell ye what to expect. Would ye be comin' on as a crewmember with wages or strictly as an observer fer Bag Island?
When Queshem offers Topsail a berth, hard work and fair day's wage, he first looks confused. The young halfling glances from Issa (who is obviously trying to hide an amused grin) to Greenglass (who reveals nothing), then back to Queshem. "You can't be serious. A deckhand? What, you'll have me coiling rope and scrubbing the deck?" Then he suddenly gets a knowing gleam in his eye and rubs his chin. He glances at Greenglass again and nods knowingly, as if figuring something out. 'Ah, I think I understand" Then he bows with a flourish, sweeping his feathered cap to the dusty ground. "Of course, I accept this humble position."
Issa rolls his eyes and suppresses a snort.
Dartomir eyes Queshem gravely and says, "I have sailed a few time, in my youth. Not with Raffles, but I too am a freed slaves from the oarships. I won't get in your way." he spares a glance at the seemingly overly pleased Bellows. "I'm coming as an observor and guide, to help bring back Raffles, the true ruler of Bag Island back. I'm not here to help you on whatever mad quests you are up to. I am doing this as a favor to Issa and Raffles, not to you." His words are cold, but not angry, a man used to speaking his mind.
Queshem steps fowards as Topsail bows and pushes his neck down so the young halfling ends up with his face in the dust. She squats down to consider him as he tries to struggle up. Ain't much bowin' on a ship. It leaves ye unbalanced ye see and that ain't a good thing on a rollin' ship. Now this be the least humiliatin' thing that'll happen to ye if ye come aboard my ship and don't accept a chain of command that ye will be very much at the bottom of If Bellows responds with anything other than actual humility she'll reject him.
To Greenglass she nods and says I can't offer ye yer own berth but ye'll have a cot close to the ship's scholar and the sickbay so ye can carry out yer duties.
Topsail spits out dirt as his face slams into the ground. Sputtering he half rises, blinking dust out of his eyes. "How...How dare you? I went along with your stupid charade, doing you a favor. I could tell you wanted me but didn't want to offend Greenglass. And this is how you repay me? Insult me in front of all these others?" Half kneeling, half crouching Topsail actually lashes out, trying to grab Queshem, grunting with exertion.
He fails miserably and misses the inquisitor entirely, merely throwing himself even farther off balance.
I'd offer to take some other young, halfling that'd be willing to work hard and learn she says to Issa as she walks awayBut I think Bag Island needs those more'n The Deadly Bolt does. I hope to see ye soon Issa, I do think Slipcove be in good hands.
Queshem walks away, leaving the foolish young man int he dirt. She has a feeling he would be shouting curses if he didn't think it was 'below his station'. Greenglass watches her during this entire interaction with hooded eyes, face hard to read. She isn't sure if she passed this 'test' or not.
At the seashore Issa nods, "I will do my best. I wish you fair sailing and a quick return with good news. We need all the support Quent can offer, I hope you weren't overestimating your contacts there. I want to see your ship before the black sails return..."
The next days pass in a haze of busy work for Queshem and her crew. The trip back to Quent goes smoothly enough, the crew happy for the storm of events to have subsided slightly. No slaver sails dot the horizon, no mutinies, no weird weather events. The only unusual note in the cruise is Dartomir Greenglass who is just as stolid and unfriendly as he appeared to be on land. The halfling doesn't get in the way, clearly knowing the stern from the bow, but doesn't offer any help on his own. Always watching, Greenglass's dark eyes seem to sweep the deck, seeing each and everyone. Despite a few attempts, no one seems to be able to punch through his crusty shell, not even Thasha (although the tielfing also seems troubled herself about something). As far as Queshem can tell Dartomir doesn't crack a smile the entire time, even at Pokinmbell's usual antics.
Docking in Quent though just means a new type of work. As quick as she can, she enters into negotiations with Starra, Greenglass and herself as middle-(wo)man. Despite the inevitable complications, the prospect of so much profit does much to grease the wheels of the deal. Greenglass, still dour as ever, is quite capable and drives a hard bargain. Queshem is pleased to see that Starra is more concerned with getting the mining going then seizing the largest percentage for herself. After only a four days of long back-and-forth meetings, they emerge with a trade deal equitable to all.
Meanwhile Queshem has had her crew busy at work, spreading the news of Bag Island and the weakness of the slavers. The rumors do not always go according to plan, at first, when a few pirates simply take this to mean that Bag Island is ripe for invasion and plunder. However, at Queshem's mention, Starra put the word out that Bag Island (or at least Slipcove) is under her protection which quickly quashes enthusiasm for raiding Bag Island. The Rampore slavers have few allies, doubly so in (by Shackles standards) civilized Quent. Parcell notes, with satisfaction, that he has heard of several gangs of pirates planning on attacking the slavers.
So it is with a feeling of a job well done that Queshem finds herself outside the House of Stolen Kisses, that temple of Calistria crossed with information broker house. The imposing building is just as fine and ornate as the last time she visited, with laqured wood walls and elegant silk hangings barely shifting in the tropical breeze. Heavy-set guards patrol the exterior, keeping away those who might not pay the proper price for the wealth within.
Queshem barely reaches the front door when a willowy woman emerges. "Ah, Queshem of the Deadly Bolt. We were hoping you would honor us with your presence. Please, a room is already set aside for you.
The woman waves a hand, indicating Queshem step into the shadowed building.
Queshem blanches internally but tries to keep a straight face. She'd quite liked being just another ship captain in the Shackles as she surreptitiously tried to build support for her true agenda. That anonymity had allowed her a heck of a lot of freedom. The invitation, gracious as it was, marked more than anything else that those days were well and truly over. She was a known quantity now and the true powers of the region had started to take note of her. She felt like a sloop travelling through higher windsthat no longer had the cover of night to allow it to slip by the Ships of the Line surrounding her.
That be mighty generous of ye. she says with a nod as she starts to enter. Though ye do have the advantage of me...
The woman's face is impossible to read, an enigmatic mask schooled from long practice. Queshem gets the feeling the willowy woman be good at cards, if she had a mind too.
"Indeed." The woman says simply, incling her head politely. She doesn't offer a name but instead leads Queshem into the House of Stolen Kisses. The main room is the same expanse of fine woods, expensive silks and delicate perfumes Queshem recalls, full of shadowy shapes of people in various positions. The inquisitor doesn't have much time to look however as she is led to a side door. The door is a breathtaking work of art, enameled and painted porcelain inlaid with carved jade which glimmers in the dim light. This door alone was worth more then Queshem's entire ship and crew.
The willowy woman opens it with a muttered word and murmurs, "The High Priestess Dindreann awaits you inside, Captain." She doesn't lead the way, merely holding the door for Queshem.
The room inside is lit by a soft red light and the sweet smell of incense and sandalwood wafts through the doorway.
Queshem takes a deep breath and nods at the woman before stepping into the heart of the wasp's nest. Felt like she was stepping into a spider's web though.
She rubs her thumb and index finger together in a silent prayer to Abadar as she goes through.
Praying to Abadar here was a strange thing, and not only because this was a temple to another god. Abadar was, to Queshem at least, a god of locked doors of secrets kept, of truth and justice. But here, in this shadowy place, secrets were mere coin to be spent and traded at will and all the doors had keys to the highest bidder.
Queshem ventures in, doing her best to hide her trepidation. The room itself is beyond opulent. Silk hangings obscure the ceiling, creating tasteful curtains of gossamer making the true size and scope of the space impossible to guess. The floor was a mosaic of colored glass, glittering in the soft light, an image of the Savoring Sting in the act of passionate love. Soft couches and chairs litter the space, each looking richer and finer then the last. One glass table is covered with assorted drinks, ranging from red Taldane wine to harsh Ulfen whiskey. A sideboard holds several burning sticks on incense, gently scenting the room.
Near the center of the room, on a round cushion, a voluptuous woman of middle years is sitting, open book in one hand. It is hard to see details in the dusk-like lighting, but Queshem does her best. The woman is wearing the tight-fitting and revealing clothes of her church, the black and gold stripes of Calistira. A cascade of dark hair hides most of a elegant, pale neck. Her jewelry, ranging from a hair net of pearls to a necklace of burning rubies, is a king's ransom.
As Queshem enters, the woman stands up, laying the book aside. She is tall, taller then Queshem (which is rare enough). Her eyes flash green, catching some glint of light for a moment. "Ah, Captain Queshem. Excellent. Please, have a seat. I am High Priestess Dindreann." She waves a hand at the various couches and divans. "Wherever and however you wish. Do you desire refreshment, something to eat perhaps?"
Queshem finds Thasha on deck, the evening after the last round of negotiations. In her hand, the inquisitor clutches the final trade deal behind Starra and Bag Island, and a profitable one with enough of a finder's fee to allow Queshem to start looking for a new ship. Maybe not enough to buy a battleship, but enough to double her current fleet of one. Just as important, Starra's first ship, full of mining and exploring supplies, is already packing to make the trip to Bag island. Greenglass seemed pleased and indicated he'd like to go home with Starra's vessel if possible. Queshem gets the feeling the morose halfling wants to put his back to her as soon as possible.
The teifling looks pensive, staring up at the darkening city of Quent. As the sun sets, lights come on in the pirate haven, ranging from grubby taprooms with greasy gambling tables to the official counting rooms of the great plundering cartels. High above are the row of mansions where the richest and most powerful dwelt, such as Starra, Thasha's commander and friend(?).
When Queshem comes over the young woman shakes her head and smiles, wanly, "Good evening, Captain? Everything well with the trade agreement? I hope Greenglass is a better negotiator then he is comrade."
Oh he be a fine comrade Queshem replies. He just no be our comrade. She joins the tiefling in looking out over the city, a city that she had actually managed to influence a tiny bit. Hopefully in a way that brought some good to Bag Island.
Ye've seemed troubled over the last little while Thasha. What be the worry? We've done well on the expedition... both fer Bag Island and fer Starra as well. As fair a trade as could be hoped, yeah?
The teifling is silent for a moment, eyes sweeping over the city. After a long moment she says, "You have impressed me, Queshem. Irrois assigned me to watch you, make sure you were honest and likely to uphold your end of the deal. Seemed like an easy job, frankly I was looking forward to some adventure. Well, we got plenty of that didn't we?"
She flashes a quick smile to Queshem but goes on more soberly, "I....I'm worried Queshem." She pauses, the concern on her face more clear then ever. "Not about Bag Island, you seem to have helped them a great deal and I'm proud to have been part of that."
Another long pause, the only sound is the crew readying the ship of the night, the last of the gulls heading for nighttime roosts and the gentle slap of the water on the hull.
Slowly Thasha says, "What do you do when you doubt someone you trust?" Her eyes are bright and blue in the deepening twilight, looking otherworldly for a moment. "How do you decide when someone is no longer who you thought they were?"
Well... Queshem says more worried about the bard's state of mind rather then the object of her worry, which was obvious. In my limited experience of such... it be better to deal with it one way or th'other before the person tosses ye into the drink to drown and takes off with yer boat.
She sighs. Though that be a very specific situation that might not apply to ye. She's quiet for a second.
Ye're worried about Starra ain't ya? she says quietly looking up at the heights of Quent. She be having some obsession?
Thasha's voice is puzzled, although she doesn't make eye contact. "Obsession? Why do you ask that? Did she indicate something to you during your meetings? I wasn't there for many of them, trade arguments aren't really my to my taste."
Somewhere nearby a ship's bell tolls the hour, sounding soft and exotic in the growing shadows. A low laugh then when Thasha adds, "Someday I'll need to hear the full story of the mutiny, Queshem. I fancy it would make a good song, assuming we livened it up a bit of course."
Ah she was just fine during the negotiations. We all got or will get richer that be as certain as these things can get. She gets odd though when I mention Abadar, or faith. She's changed since yer early days together I take it?
Thasha laughs, a slight edge in it. "I don't hide it very well, do I?' She sighs, turning to face Queshem fully. Even in the dim light of evening, it is clear to see worry and concern on the young woman's face. "Despite my role as part spay, I was never good at keeping a secret."
"But yes, Starra is different. Not just all of this with you and Bag Island. For years now she seems to have changed.....ever since she 'retired' to live at Quent." Thasha laughs, that same bitter note there. "Which was shocking by itself. Who would imagine Irrois Starra settling down? On dry land? Becoming a collector and merchant?" The teifling snorts and leans on the gunwale, looking out at the now dark city.
"Still, she was never that strange until now. She sent me on this mission to watch and judge you, and that is fair enough. Hardly unusual to send someone you trust with a new business partner and besides, you obviously needed the help. Not that we knew we'd be facing a literal Horseman of the Apocalypse. But now that I am back..." She turns to Queshem, doubt in her bright burning blue eyes. "She has asked me so many questions, about you, the ship and the crew. Asking me to break my trust and promises to you, to essentially betray you."
The bitter tone in her voice becomes plain as she goes on, "Although I guess you already suspected I could not be trusted. You told me very little beyond what we needed to survive so Starra's pleas and pointed questions haven't gotten her far."
Queshem nudges Thasha as she meets the tielfing's gaze. Ah I told ye everything 'bout what I was up to pretty much the first day. Everything I've kept from ye's been things that I've found out in The Shackles.
She pauses. I came expectin' it to be pretty much just a matter of pirates and privateers y'know? Convincin' the powers that be that they'll make more money chargin' taxes and tolls on trade rather'n chasing down the trade ships fast and hardy enough to think they'd be able to make the run from the Inner Sea to Sargava and back. But I keep on getting swirled about by things far deeper and darker than I would have ever imagined. There's somethin... out there that people would sacrifice anything for. I don't know what it is... but it's there.
There is another pause. Ye can't serve two masters Thasha. If ye have to choose between Starra and yer conscience, then ye'll have to make a choice between one or th'other and live with the consequences, and there be consequences both ways. Ye can't walk a tightrope forever. I don't envy yer position. It's not one I've found myself in yet, Thank Abadar.
Then the young captain grins. Though Mebee there's a way for you to walk that rope for a little while longer...
Thasha cocks her head, "What do you mean by that, Captain? Walking the tightrope longer....do you have something in mind?" Her tone is a mix of interest and suspicion as if she would love for Queshem to show a way out but not really expecting one.
Well.. ye know Starra be wanting to pry into me affairs, and ye know that me business ain't concluded on Bag Island and that I be sailing off fer revenge and rescue. Why not spy on me for her fer the next voyage as well? When we're out to sea we'll lay all our cards on the table to each other. And then when we're back in Quent, which will be weeks if not months, ye can decide then whether it be something that Starra should be knowin' about or not. One last adventure before ye have to decide.
The teifling is quiet again, this time for so long Queshem wonders if she said something wrong. The shadows grow as twilight shifts to full night, and the stars blossom overhead, endless as grains of sand on the beach.
Then Thasha says, "Can I tell her you said that? Maybe I leave out the part where we talked about who I should trust but the past where you promised to tell me what you have been hiding....it might be just the incentive she needs to trust me again." The bard sighs, "I've always hated lying."
Queshem raises her eyebrows. You already had a row with her then? Sure ye can say that if ye think it'll get ye back in her good graces if that's what ye wish. What's she after though Thasha? What'd she want to know about us? Th'fact we be bloody Sea Dragons tryin' to turn the Shackles Abadaran probably be old news fer every rumour monger in Quent by now.
Thasha grimaces and looks away muttering, "I told you I'm not good at this." When Queshem asks though, the tielfing is evasive saying, "It is hard to tell, really. I have the feeling she doesn't want me to know what she is really after. That's the part that worries the most, the old Starra would never have tried to keep a secret from her crew, not if she could help it."
She sighs and adds, "It probably has to do with those deep and dark things swirling around you? Probably the very things you have avoiding telling me. Both of you are too smart and good at hiding your plans from others..." Bitterness again.
Queshem grins at Thasha's discomfort. If it makes ye feel any better I'm heading to the House of Stolen Kisses to try an' trade fer more information and THAT place I definitely be over me head in. the captain looks up again, this time at the sky rather than the upper reaches of Quent. There always be something greater, to contend with or be comforted by.
She looks back at Thasha. It's not a bad thing ye know. To not be good at bein' at keeping secrets. They weigh ye down, not a good thing when yer trying to keep yer head above water.
Queshem gives herself a tiny mental shake as she is addressed. She was still thinking like a First Mate, comfortable dealing with those a step or two away from being truly in charge. But as the High Priestess reminded her she's a Captain now. She wasn't an Admiral, but dealing with them was a part of her job now.
She feels like she should curtsey but she never learned how so instead she snaps out a precise salute before grinning. Moving to a chair close to a drink that she can at least vaguely recognise she says.
Thank ye for yer hospitality High Priestess, this be unexpected fer someone of my station.
Once the High Priestess beings to sit she follows suit perching on the edge of the chair to keep from falling into its folds like some fat nobleman. She briefly worries about stains before dismissing the thought. There was a LOT of magic being employed here, prestidigitation the least of it. That was probably enough.
Dindreann accepts the salute with a nod of her head, no smile on her lips. Queshem realizes this is a woman used to dealing with everyone from former nobility turned pirate to wharf rats climbing up the hawser hole. There was probably not much this woman hadn't seen while...plying her trade.
"You do not expect politeness from the servants of the Savored Sting? From the rumors I hear, it is the followers of the Reaper of Reputation that should beware of you, not those of my faith." With practiced grace that reminds Queshem of a dancer (or a talented boy in the yardarms), Dindreann takes a seat. Languidly she takes a glass of bright red wine from a side table and sips it.
Looking over the top of the crystal she goes on, "So, how may I be of assistance to you, Captain? We provide....many forms of diversion and amusement, if you desire." The High Priestess smiles, showing bright, perfect teeth. "But I doubt such an accomplished woman needs our help such mundane services. Is this perhaps connected to the considerable commercial affairs taking place in the home of Irrois Starra?" Her tone is light, conversational, as if talking about the day's catch at the waterfront or the latest play.
I would say people who cross me should beware of me generally no matter their faith. Queshem says carefully pouring a bit of the alcohol into a fancy glass and taking a sip to be polite. It was strong. Not tryin' to boast ye understand, just speaking a truth.
I think me dealings with Starra be proceeding to both our mutual benefits in truth, which be the best kind o fair dealing Abadar be praised. To be honest I were not expecting to meet someone with as much influence as ye so I'll start with what my overall aim before we get down to the details. It may be that I'll be telling ye things ye already know but I am a Sea Dragon, sworn to Abadar, and me purpose in the Shackles be to make the sea routes between Avistan and Garund safer fer travel. I've been travellin' to places that I felt would be amenable to such stability afore I ran afoul of Gnarea on Bag Island. Would yer house perhaps look favourably on efforts to create a Shackles through which more trade, and wealth, would flow?
Dindreann nods her head as Queshem takes the liquor, 'You have excellent taste. I find most sea captains select the whiskey or gin. Few choose the elven brandy, although I warn you...it is quite potent."
The priestess shrugs slightly, rolling her shoulders delicately, "Luckily, I have no intend to cross you or become your enemy, Queshem. But your reputation does precede you as a formidable woman. Exactly the type of people I prefer to deal with, to be honest."
She leans back in her cushioned chair, an unconscious sensual motion but her eyes are sharp. Queshem gets the feeling this woman's mind never rests, never misses a beat, regardless of what her body may be doing. Eventually she nods, "I had guessed as much, of course. A worthy goal, if I do say so myself, if a lofty one. The Shackles have been an anarchic borderland since time immemorial. Then again, it seems foolish to underestimate you as your foes on Bag Island seem to have."
She spreads her soft, pale hands in front of her, "I have no quarrel with your goals, Queshem but ti is not my place to judge in any case. I am a listener, a purveyor of information, a sharer of secrets. Nothing more, nothing less."
I been finding that which secrets I choose to share, and which I choose to keep buried be making far more of a difference then where I choose to aim the bolts from me crossbow. Queshem says matter of factly. I were wondering if I can draw something for ye, and then if ye could tell me more of it.
The Priestess of Calsitra smiles knowingly, "Its is easier to recall a loosened bolt then a slip of the tongue, I can vouch for that. My business would be quite less risky otherwise."
She cocks her head at Queshem question and her smiles broadens, "Dare I hope for an art display? I have no such talents myself and quite enjoy watching others who have such skills. Shall I call for an easel and oils? or will paper and ink suffice?" Dindreann stands up, crosses the room with fluid strides. In a moment she is back, handing Queshem a stack of papers and several expensive looking quill pens.
Sorry to disappoint ye. They say tell stories far better'n than I draw. Queshem says as she traces out as best she can the runes decorating the bronze box and Starra's home.
She gives the paper to Dindreann. I can tell ye where I've found these if ye tell me what the bloody hell it represent.