of the hard men in Frauk’s crew. “I don’t like to eat alone.”
The dwarf squinted up at him and asked, “Where ye hail from, lad?”
“Velen,” Jherek answered.
“Aye, the city o’ ghosts.” The dwarf nodded and ran his fingers through his beard in contemplation. “Seen a few of them there on occasion meself. Ye are flesh and blood, ain’t ye, lad?”
“Aye.” Having grown up with the ghosts in the city, and having been schooled by Malorrie, a phantom himself, Jherek took them as a matter of course.
“Just checking. I’ve grown somewhat more careful in me old age. I don’t like to eat by meself either, so I’ll let ye stand me to a bowl of Lady Alyth’s famous stew if ye’ll let me stand ye to a drink.”
Jherek stepped over, held out his hand, and said, “I’m Malorrie of Velen, journeyman shipwright and able-bodied sailor.”
He hated to lie, but was afraid that stories of the young sailor Jherek, who bore the tattoo of one of the Sword Coast’s most notorious pirate crews, might have beat him to Baldur’s Gate.
“Khlinat Ironeater,” the dwarf replied, clasping Jherek’s arm in a viselike grip, “of the Daggerford Ironeater blacksmith clan. Able-bodied sailor and gemologist. Proud to meet ye, lad.”
“Aye,” Jherek said. “I’ve heard of the Ironeater clan. The cargo ship I crewed on transported clasps, hinges, shields, and other things they turn out in Daggerford.”
“That’s them,” Khlinat stated proudly, puffing out his chest. “Near to busted my old da’s heart when he found I’d fallen in love with the sailor’s life. Seafaring is not something most dwarves would be about if they followed their natures, ye know.”
Jherek nodded. He’d only heard of a few dwarven sailors and seen even fewer.
“Well, come on then, swabbie,” the dwarf said. Time’s a-wasting and we’re going to need to shoulder our way in amongst sullen and starved hostiles if we’re to get our victuals this night. Men are working hard here as a result of them sea devil raids.” Khlinat turned smartly on his peg leg, the wood thumping against the docks. He called out to a passing lamp boy who held a lit lantern at the end of a stout pole. “Lad, we’d be after hiring ye to guide us to the Elfsong Tavern.”
As Jherek followed the dwarf and the lamp boy through the dark streets of Baldur’s Gate, he found he was looking forward to sharing eveningfeast with the dwarf.
Traveling with the caravan had been arduous work. They’d herded wagons through broken lands while racing the sun and pitching camp against the coming night. In between, they’d fought off the numerous ore and goblin hordes that had come out of the Cloud Peaks and the Wood of Sharp Teeth to prey on the fat caravans that were overfilled with cargo and understaffed by mercenary warriors.
Frauk, the caravan master, had told them that two out of every seven caravans were taking huge losses or being captured by the raids. Pirating took the wherewithal to get a ship, by purchase or by capture, but anyone with a knife in hand could become a raider on the land. Fewer warriors wanted to take the risks inherent in overland travel because it was getting as dangerous as the seaways.
That was why the merchants had been so generous to Frauk when they’d reached Baldur’s Gate. After starting out in Athkatla broke and leaving the last of his coin with the priests of Lathander there for tending his wounds, Jherek now found himself quite flush.
They followed Bindle Street south along the docks as the lamp boy weaved in among the laborers and night crowd that had gathered around the smaller offices where black market business was done between the large warehouses. An uneasy feeling draped Jherek, and he stopped to look back into the harbor to his right.
In the distance he spotted the old Seatower of Balduran thrusting up on the opposite side of the harbor. It housed a barracks and naval base, part dungeon and part fortress.
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