Free Corsair by Richard Baker

Absently he lifted his hand to his cheek.
    “I think that young woman is fond of you,” Hamil remarked. “I suppose it’s understandable. You have an unfair advantage, since you gallantly saved her from a fate worse than death. Damn the luck!”
    The swordmage shook his head. “I don’t know. Even if you’re right, well, how many times can I rescue her from pirates?”
    Hamil rolled his eyes. “Trust me, Geran. It’s a good start.”
    Geran tried to put Nimessa Sokol out of his mind. He looked over at the carpenters engaged with the work on the mainmast. The stepping of the mast was almost finished, but it would take hours to rig the stays, the braces, and the heavy tackle for the sails. “There isn’t much more we can do here. I need to check on the provisioning order at Erstenwold’s.”
    “A fine suggestion,” Hamil said. They paused to speak with Worthel, the ship’s first mate—a wiry Red Sail shipmaster of middle years from Tantras, one of a dozen Red Sails who’d volunteered to sail under the harmach’s banner. After advising him to keep an eye open for Galehand, Geran and Hamil left him to oversee the rest of the mast repairs and headed down the gangplank to the crowded wharves or Hulburg.
    Compared to some of the other cities on the Moonsea, Hulburg was small and rustic. Laborers from a variety of foreign lands almost outnumbered the native Hulburgans. As they walked north up Plank Street, Geran and Hamil passed dwarves in their heavy boots and iron hauberks, Mel-vauntians and Thentians in the doublets and squared caps that were the fashion in those cities, and all sorts of clerks and scribes and armsmen in the colors of the various merchant companies who had concessions in Hulburg. In the ten years Geran had been away in the southern lands, Hulburg had filled up and overflowed. Even after five months he was still getting used to the sights and sounds of this bustling, broad-shouldered trade-town that had mysteriously replaced the sleepy little town of his youth.
    They passed several groups of foreign laborers standing around on corners or waiting by storefronts—waiting for work, or so Geran guessed. People came to Hulburg from all over the Moonsea to seek their fortunes, since the timber camps and mines of the foothills offered a chance to earn a wage. They were poor, desperate men, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with tattered cloaks and threadbare clothing. Some had spent their whole lives drifting from one city to another, wandering Faerun in search of some place to call home.
    When they crossed Cart Street, Geran noticed a commotion to his right. A band of a dozen dirty men in ragged cloaks marched down the center of the street, pushing other passersby aside. Most carried cudgels or short staves, with knives or short swords thrust through their belts. Their left hands were wrapped in gray strips of cloth with a broad, sooty smear across the back of the hand. Townsfolk muttered and glared at them as they shoved through the crowds, but the ruffians paid them no mind.
    Geran tapped Hamil’s shoulder to get his attention. “Cinderfists,” he said in low voice. “I don’t think I’ve seen them in the mercantile district before. What are they doing here?”
    “Looking for trouble, as far as I can tell,” Hamil answered. He looked around. “Just as well there aren’t any Moonshields nearby. I think we’d have front-row seats for a riot.”
    The two paused and watched the gang members pass. Most of the other people in the street hurried on by, avoiding the eyes of the Cinderfists and steering well clear of their path. Geran stood his ground, which earned him a few hostile glares from the ruffians. But he and Hamil were both well armed, and their clothes marked them as men of high station; the Cinderfists either knew who Geran was, or weren’t quite so bold as
    to accost gentlemen in the middle of Hulburg’s trade district. Geran met the eyes of one Cinderfist, a tall, lank-haired fellow with bad