The Docks of Carnivale

A Seven Century Old Precedent Is Broken...

Late spring in Alaecia always brought crowds of ships from the far corners of Aerith, welcoming them to the cradle of the civilized world with the scents of gardenia and lilac nestled among the lush emerald hills and quiet vineyards that dotted the eastern coast and culminated in a nest of shimmering stone and marble towers that stretched out of the surrounding verdant hills and reached into a sky as rich and blue as the sea below. No matter where one came from, Alaecia always felt like home.   Tall ships from even the most distant parts of Aerith waited in the harbor, sometimes for days on end, to unload cargo and passengers into the city of Azura. Their fluttering sails and banners rippled with color, mimicking the churning sea beneath them. They gathered in tight clumps connected with planks and rope bridges, forming what any seasoned sailor knew as Bridgetown. A constant celebration more than an actual town, ships that wished to participate moored alongside other vessels so the passengers and crew could mingle, share food and drink, or simply exchange stories as they waited to dock.   The Stormrider bobbed lazily on the gentle current, away from the revelry of Bridgetown and farther still from the docks. A strange though elegant vessel, the Stormrider had the lean and graceful lines of an elven made ship built for speed and agility, coupled with the human attention to dependability found in the hard woods and steel bracing that held the hull together. The sails and rigging always earned the ship equal measures of admiration and confusion. Its masts were set at a steep pitch, leaning back over the quarterdeck and forecastle. From them, ultralight sails of layered silk were pulled taut, forming a canopy over the masts and rigging and giving the entire ship the appearance of a diving bird of prey. From the stern rose two smaller sails, spread open like a noblewoman’s fan, allowing for tighter turning even under the most severe conditions.   Peering into an outstretched spyglass, Dartimen Silvernight sat hidden in the ship’s rigging as he carefully scanned the harbor. He paused only to swat at the errant strands of antique gold hair the wind kept setting down in his face. He scowled from under the brim of his hat and rubbed his chin.   “Still at it, eh?” Brimstone Steelhammer trudged across the deck, watching Dartimen study the shoreline. Brimstone was something of an oddity among his dwarven kinsmen. Lean and lanky by dwarf standards, he could easily have been mistaken for an average looking, though short, human. Unlike other dwarves who took great pride in the length of their beards, Brimstone kept a rough, short cropped beard and sideburns that hardened the lines of his square cut face and constantly furrowed brow. What clothes he wore that weren’t covered in dirt or grease had holes worn or torn into them. He pulled a short cigar from the center pocket of the leather apron folded around his waist, struck a match on the railing, and puffed away. Dartimen had been acting funny all morning and it was finally getting on his nerves.   “You don’t even know what I’m looking at.” Dartimen lowered the spyglass and pulled the hat from his head, fussing with the brilliant blue plumes that extended from its pinned up brim. His lean build and slender pointed ears belied his lineage. Half elves were not unheard of, but half breeds were often looked upon with disdain, particularly when their elven blood ran to Iorill, the kingdom of the Wood Elves. The old prejudice never bothered him. Dartimen took it in stride. He was what he was and that was good enough for him.   “You’re staring through that contraption hoping against hope that this is the first Carnivale where the Royal Guard forgets to check shipping manifests or that they’ve stopped spot checking crates altogether.” Brimstone blew a thick plume of rich cherry scented smoke across Dartimen’s field of vision. “You’re watching the same unloading process you watched yesterday and the day before that. Nothing’s changed, and in a matter of days we’ll have to explain away our little problem down in the cargo hold to the customs officer where we’ll fail and end up hung at dawn. How’s that? Am I close?”   Dartimen stood and stepped carefully through the web of ropes. He peered again through the spyglass without so much as a glance at Brimstone. “Why would I be worried about that?”   “Why? No reason at all. We only have a cargo hold full of stolen antiques and an ugly painting somehow worth more money than you or I will see in three lifetimes. If we run, every privateer under Avindor’s flag will chase us from one sea to the next. So we have cutthroats at our backs and the hangman’s noose in front of us. Fine work, captain. Fine work.” Brimstone rolled his eyes and tipped his ash into the sea.   Dartimen smirked. His sapphire almond shaped eyes sparkled in the sun and hinted at the mischief he chose not to share. “…and in a few hours that’ll all be Rand’s problem.”   Dartimen and Brimstone were not brave. Nor did they need the money. This particular job had been bad luck, a last minute proposition to avoid the penalty for winning one too many games of King’s Gambit against an unsavory crime boss from Avindor. They usually kept clear of lesser scoundrels, but when the cards called, it was hard for them not to answer. Stealing from the Stratforde Museum of Natural History had been easier than expected, but stealing something was only half the challenge. The greatest headaches always came with unloading the merchandise.   With a heavy sigh Brimstone closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sky, enjoying the sun on his face. “How long you think?”   Dartimen snapped the spyglass shut with a frustrated clack. He rapped his thumb against the brass tube as he made some mental calculations. “Any other time of year I’d say two days, but with the loads they’re trying to move, five. Easily.”   Brimstone huffed and picked at a nick in the wood. “Good. Five days should be plenty of time for you to come up with a forged manifest or a reason why the cargo hold is full of museum property.”   “I’ll think of something.” Dartimen grinned and flipped the spyglass end over end in his hand. “Opportunity has a way of showing up when you need it most. We’ll be fine.”   Brimstone shook his head and turned away. “Great. I’ll be below deck coming up with an alibi. Let me know if you figure out how to explain to the customs agents why it’s perfectly alright that our ship is full of stolen antiques.”   “They don’t know they’re stolen, at least not yet. Stratforde is four weeks behind us, and that’s assuming favorable wind. We have plenty of time before word gets out here.”   Brimstone sniffed at the rising smoke. “Whatever you say. But all the fast talking in the world won’t work on those customs officers. They know you, and moreover, they know anything you’re hauling isn’t, well…” Brimstone chuckled. “Isn’t always yours, now is it?”   Dartimen smiled as he focused again through the spyglass. “I’m not saying it won’t be fun.” His smile faded.   “So why are you still watching them unload?” Brimstone barked.   “Something’s…” Dartimen’s voice crept out slowly as he tried to decode what he was seeing. He adjusted the view and focused on one of the ancient carved stone piers. At the midway point in the harbor were slips reserved for the sloops of larger vessels that risked grounding themselves in the shallows and had to remain anchored in deeper water. One slip stood out. Empty during peak docking hours.   “What’s wrong?” Brimstone opened one curious eye, but Dartimen waved him off. “It’s probably nothing.”   Brimstone glared. “Don’t give me that. What is it?”   “Something’s not right.” Dartimen shook his head slowly. He lowered the spyglass and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm. He felt a flutter in his stomach. Something was wrong.   “What is it?” Brimstone leaned over the railing, squinting at the shore. He dismissed Dartimen’s concern with a wave.   Dartimen handed him the spyglass. “Look at the docks and tell me if you see anything unusual.”   Brimstone took the spyglass and scoured the shore. The harbor was alive with merchants, shoppers, and travelers. Brilliantly colored tents dotted the shoreline. Flags and banners wavered in the gentle breeze, climbing up the heights of marble towers that marked the homes of the wealthy. At their base the piers stretched into the harbor like bleached bony fingers. Everything was as expected except for one glaring gap. Where a laden merchant ship should have been crawling with longshoremen and customs officers, there was nothing.   “There’s an empty slip!” Brimstone’s jaw dropped. “There’s no way…” He raised the spyglass again.   Dartimen steadied the end and pushed the lens toward the center of the docks. Twelve formally adorned and armored Vassian Royal Guardsmen stood at attention. Before them Brimstone saw a thin elderly man in long flowing robes of midnight blue and silver, the ceremonial vestments of a Chaplain of the Cathedral of Light. Beside him stood a tall, beautiful woman in elegantly fitted blood red plate armor and gossamer chainmail, holding a long spear adorned with roping ivory cast in bronze, a Maiden of the Sisters of the Thorn.   “They’re just standing there.” Dartimen’s surprise was obvious. The lack of space for unloading was the entire reason ships had to wait in Bridgetown.   Dartimen hopped onto the deck and leaned against the rail. “Somebody’s still expected. The Council of Saints meets in a day or two, right?”   Brimstone lowered the spyglass and nodded. “Aye, but any Cathedral Ambassador would have been in the city for at least two weeks. Nobody arrives the day before a Council meeting. It’s all an act, sure, but it’s a private audience with the Hierophant. No noble would skip that.”   Dartimen stared at the open ocean. He couldn’t say why, but a very bad feeling crept into his stomach. Nothing about today felt right. For a moment he considered taking his chances with Avindor’s privateers. He glanced at Brimstone, who now shared his apprehension. The dwarf was back to searching the harbor for answers.   “Boss, let’s get out of here.” Brimstone’s voice dropped. “I don’t like this.”   Dartimen sighed. “I’d like nothing more. I don’t want to stay for this fiasco any longer than necessary. Once we dock, I’m dropping the stone off with Rand and then we’re gone.”   “When’s Jessa getting back?” Brimstone muttered.   Dartimen sat on the railing and crossed his arms. “She went to Bridgetown for supplies. She should be back soon.” He paused, catching sight of a ship approaching out of the corner of his eye.   Brimstone felt Dartimen gently push the spyglass to the right. An elven style clipper rolled lazily on the churning sea. “Ahh. The Hammershark. That’s Rand’s boat, isn’t it?”   “Yes it is. And he’s already in the city.” A voice softly gilded with a Lyan accent interrupted them.   Jessa Kane climbed up the rope ladder onto the deck. She was tall and pretty and no more than twenty five summers old, her dark auburn tresses swaying in the sea breeze and hiding half her smiling face. She wore hand stitched leather pants that stopped at her knees where a pair of well worn thigh high boots with exposed heels and toes took over. Steel plated elbow guards matched her fitted cuirass adorned with scraps of plate and chainmail. An old but well loved broadsword with colorful feathers hung from her back.   Behind her a young sea elf girl, over a century old, a mere teenager by human reckoning, leapt onto the deck with a drawstring sack of provisions and oddities. Her hair, bleached blonde by the sun, was tied into a dizzying array of buns and looped braids adorned with shells, beads, feathers, and other tiny gifts of the sea. She wore an equally chaotic mix of clothing, including leather leggings, an oversized silk shirt tied off at the bottom revealing a gold belly ring, and an old captain’s jacket with the sleeves torn off. She trotted across the deck and shot Dartimen a cold glance.   “Rillian, you said you’d be reading in your bunk.” Dartimen ignored Jessa and fixed his attention on the girl.   Rillian stuck out her tongue. “At least somebody is teaching me something useful.” She beamed at Jessa before snapping back to Dartimen. “Thanks, Jessa!” She vanished below deck.   Jessa smiled. Dartimen stared in disbelief.   “Anyway, Rand’s been in Azura for at least…”   Dartimen cut her off. “Teach her what?”   Jessa huffed. “How to stay out of trouble. Something you should try.”   Dartimen rolled his eyes. “Stay out of trouble? Rillian is too fast with a knife and too eager to use it to be a damsel in distress.”   “Rillian can’t keep sitting things out. She’s too much like her father.” Jessa set the sack down and shook her head, knowing he wouldn’t listen.   Dartimen looked away, his heart suddenly heavy. “If Riven knew I’m letting her tag along he’d never forgive me.” Rillian reappeared, performing her best act of ignoring him, climbed into the rigging, and began to read.   “I know Riven wanted you to keep her safe, but you can’t expect her not to get interested in this life. Not on this ship.”   “A few pointers won’t make a difference. I owe them both that much.” Dartimen nodded and turned back to the sea. “So Rand is already here?”   Jessa gestured toward the Hammershark. “While we were in Bridgetown, I ran into Caele Fessar. We talked and he mentioned hearing a rumor that Rand was hosting a high stakes game of King’s Gambit tonight, which isn’t strange by itself.”   “He’s a card player. A bad one, but he likes it.” Dartimen cast a casual glance at the Hammershark before turning back to the water. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”   Jessa noticed his focus had drifted and knew he was only half listening. She sighed. “Word is there are a lot of Black Sparrow guildsmen gathering in the city. They’ve been here all week.”   Brimstone wandered over, rubbing his chin. “I seem to recall the last time you crossed paths with the good Captain Deepsea, he screamed something about cutting off your hands if you ever set foot on his ship again.”   The bay shimmered in the midmorning sunlight. Gulls circled. Waves rolled. Then they stopped calling. Silence fell.   Dartimen felt the wind shift unnaturally. The air temperature dropped and the warm breeze turned cold. A deck mage was at work.   “Jessa,” Dartimen said cautiously.   “I know.” Jessa’s eyes narrowed as she sensed the disturbance.   Brimstone scrambled up to the aft castle to scan the sea. Dartimen leapt onto the railing and searched for the source of the shifting wind. Jessa closed her eyes and concentrated. Steel gray clouds gathered and eclipsed the sun.   Rillian climbed down before the last shreds of light vanished.   “What’s going on?” she cried.   Dartimen scanned the horizon, but the light was gone. “I don’t know yet. Get below deck.” The ship dipped sharply and he nearly lost his grip. “Jessa…!”   Jessa heard nothing. Her mind slipped into the void she used to sense magic. Swirling tendrils of pulsing blue energy animated the invisible wind as it spread across the sky, the pulse growing brighter and thicker every moment.   “Whoever is doing this is getting closer!” Jessa yelled.   Dartimen grabbed Rillian and pushed her toward the cabin door. “Stay here until I…”   “Boss!” Brimstone’s cry cut through the storm.   Rillian slipped from Dartimen’s grip and dashed up the stairs. Dartimen and Jessa followed. They met Brimstone at the ship’s rear where he stood motionless, pointing into the tempest.   From out of the darkened sea a large galleon glided effortlessly through the churning whitecaps, pulled by sails of deep crimson. The wood of the phoenix shaped figurehead and the ship’s hull was dark and matte, as if deliberately charred.   Dartimen squinted through the gale and traced the lines of the mast, past the mainsail and the crow’s nest. Then he saw it. A simple banner bearing a family crest, the seal of a nation. A brilliant gold phoenix adorned the flag, its head staring coldly to the right through a narrow suspicious eye, four thorny roses clutched in its talons.   “I don’t believe it…” Dartimen whispered.   Jessa winced as her fists clenched. Only Rillian spoke.   “Who is it? Who is that?” She hid behind Dartimen and gripped his shoulder.   “The Baron…” Jessa choked.   Rillian felt Dartimen tense and her fear doubled.   “Areeott…” Dartimen’s eyes widened as the ship slipped silently past. “That ship is from Areeott.”