The Yellow Silk Read online

  In Windswept Altumbel

  A tremendous, squealing trumpet cut him off as Black Scratch plunged into the fray. In the cramped confines of the tavern, the boar couldn’t exactly charge, but with his massive weight behind him, a lumbering rush was enough. People scrambled to get out of the way of his tusks and hooves; someone fell and was simply trampled. Tycho dived across a table for safety. He dragged a knife out of a sheath at his belt—as if the little blade would do any good—but Black Scratch was headed straight for one target.

  Li stared at the oncoming mass of bristles and tusks for only an instant before gathering himself and leaping high, grabbing for a wax-encrusted iron chandelier overhead and tucking his legs up tight….

  From the mean streets of Faerûn.

  From the edge of civilized society.

  From the darkest shadows.

  The Rogues

  The Rogues

  The Alabaster Staff

  Edward Bolme

  The Black Bouquet

  Richard Lee Byers

  The Crimson Gold

  Voronica Whitney-Robinson

  The Yellow Silk

  Don Bassingthwaite

  Also by Don Bassingthwaite

  DARK MATTER

  By Dust Consumed

  For Michael and Emily

  Month of Marpenoth,

  Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)

  Timbers groaned and Lady Swan, a caravel out of the port of Telflamm in Thesk, lurched again. Fa Pan lurched with it, slamming hard into a rough wall. Wood scraped the flesh of his arm. He thrust himself back to his feet with the butt of his spear and staggered on along the narrow passage. Sounds echoed down from the deck above. Shouts and screams: the brave sailors of their ship, the foul pirates of the black-sailed hulk that had loomed up out of the cool autumn night. It was impossible to tell who was doing the screaming and who the shouting; the echoing sounds carried only chaos and death.

  He knew—the captain knew, all of Lady Swan’s crew knew—what the pirates were after. Down in the hold were bales of fine silk and eastern spices, the wealth of a trading expedition. How the pirates had known about the cargo and what route Lady Swan would take across the Sea of Fallen Stars was another question. The grim set of the captain’s mouth had said much. There was a traitor among his crew.

  Fa Pan ran. He had been permitted to stay above when the pirate ship was first sighted because of his fighting skill, but his companions, nothing more than merchants, would still be huddled in the cabin where the captain had ordered them to take refuge. If they remained there, they would only be trapped when the pirates came. Better they faced the foul outlaws bravely!

  A hatch opened somewhere. Air came rushing through the passage. Another night it might have brought a welcome breath of fresh air. Tonight it brought the smell of death, a worse reek than the usual stifling stench of the ship’s bowels. It was cold, too. A sorceress led the pirates, her spells calling down sleet to sweep the ship’s decks and waves of ice to make wood hard and brittle. The fighting above was treacherous, as bad as anything Fa Pan had ever seen in years as a soldier. The pirates barely seemed to notice, but just threw themselves into the struggle in a slipping, sliding frenzy.

  They were madmen. Fa Pan didn’t know where he and his companions could go to escape them, but fighting had to be preferable to huddling in the dark. “Jen! Wei! Te Chien! Yu Mao!” he yelled ahead down the shadowed passage. “Open the door! We need to help! Nung—”

  His voice died on his lips. Fa Pan came to a stop so sharp that he nearly tripped over his own feet. There was a dim light ahead, splashing out from around a cabin door that stood ajar. The captain had ordered his companions to keep their refuge dark and their door closed tight. They would not have disobeyed. Fa Pan’s stomach rose. He stepped forward silently. Spear ready to thrust, he pushed against the cabin door with one booted foot.

  It swung open to carnage as bad or worse than that on deck.

  The glow of a tiny, magical crystal that Wei prized turned the cabin into a wash of nightmare images. Fallen bodies cast horrid shadows. Blood mingled with the darkness to draw those shadows out into unnatural, oozing, weeping shapes. Almond eyes that had gazed on the splendors of the Great Empire of Shou Lung and the wonders of the Golden Way stared blankly at the rude wood of barbaric Faerûn, far from their home. Fa Pan clenched his jaw. The pirates had already come for the merchants of Shou.

  But how? He had passed no one in the passage. Breath hissed between his teeth. The traitor among Lady Swan’s crew. Someone could have hidden down here before the attack with the intention of eliminating any resistance from below deck. But if that was the case, then the traitor might—

  Afoot scraped on the floor behind him.

  Reflexes trained in the army of the Emperor sent him diving forward, twisting as he fell to bring his spear up across his body. The weapon jammed in the narrow confines of the doorway, but it was enough. A heavy blade bit into the spear shaft instead of him. Fa Pan kicked out blindly. His foot met flesh and produced a grunt of pain in the shadows. A second lashing kick, though, found only air as his attacker whirled away down the corridor. Fa Pan pulled himself to his feet using his own jammed spear as leverage, wrenched the weapon free, and ran after him. “You!” he shouted. “Stop and face me, murderer!”

  He couldn’t have said what language he spoke. His mind was clouded by rage. Ahead of him, the killer of his companions thundered down the passage, a vague form just out of spear’s reach in the shadows. Fa Pan could see that he was a muscular man, though, a wicked blade clenched tight in each hand. He tried to remember who among Lady Swan’s crew might fit that description, but his thoughts could only focus on one thing. Revenge. The big man must have realized that as well; even when the rocking of the ship sent him staggering from side to side, he didn’t slow down.

  Neither did Fa Pan. As his attacker leaped for the short, steep ladder that led to the deck above, the Shou lunged and thrust. His attacker kicked up, getting out of the way of the spear’s sharp point just in time. The move sent him sprawling gracelessly through the hatch, however. Fa Pan snatched back his spear and swarmed up the ladder before his enemy could recover enough to launch a counterstrike. His attacker was rolling over onto his back. Fa Pan stabbed his spear down. “Die, treacherous—”

  His spear froze in midthrust. There was light above deck, magic conjured by the pirate sorceress to illuminate the struggle. The radiance was broken by the chaotic, shifting shadows of sailors and pirates, but for the first time, Fa Pan saw the face of his attacker—smooth, noble, almond-eyed. Shou. And familiar.

  Fa Pan gaped. “Yu Mao?” he breathed. His colleague, a man he had traveled with for the months it took to journey from east to west, looked up at him. He was smeared with blood: clothing, arms, hands, weapons—a pair of wide-bladed butterfly swords. Shou weapons. Fa Pan had seen him practicing with them almost every morning! Knotted around his thick neck was a black scarf. Black like the sails of the pirate ship. The traitor hadn’t been among the crew of Lady Swan at all.

  Fa Pan hesitated.

  Yu Mao didn’t. Big hands opened, dropping his swords, and reached up to seize the shaft of Fa Pan’s spear just behind the head. Shoulders as wide as a westerner’s tensed and heaved to the side. Fa Pan’s feet slid on a deck still icy from the pirate sorceress’s spells even as Yu Mao used the momentum to pull himself up and around. His leg snapped up into Fa Pan’s belly from beneath. Air exploded out of Fa Pan’s lungs. Gasping, he stumbled back and felt the shaft of his spear slide from his grasp. Yu Mao shouted something in a western tongue. All around them, pirates looked up then jumped back. A tiny childlike figure—one of Faerûn’s halflings, though surely the wickedest Fa Pan had ever seen, with one eye cover
ed by a leather patch—called something out in return, but all Fa Pan could understand was Yu Mao’s answer.

  “He’s mine.”

  His gut twisted. The shaft of his captured spear thrust at him, but Fa Pan managed to dodge back. Yu Mao thrust again. And again, forcing him back across the icy deck. From the corners of his eyes, Fa Pan could see that the battle was almost over. There were more pirates standing than there were sailors. Pockets of combat were dying out; some of the surviving sailors were even starting to throw down their weapons in surrender. They might hope for mercy from the pirates, but Fa Pan couldn’t see any hope of mercy from Yu Mao. The other Shou’s eyes held the mad glint of bloodlust. Fa Pan gulped air and gasped, “Yu Mao—why?”

  His feet hit something soft and heavy. A fallen body. He staggered, tried to recover.

  The spear shaft cracked against his side then snapped up against the underside of his arm. Numbing pain washed through him. It was all he could do to stay upright and stumble back a few more slippery paces. His attacker stalked after him, spinning the spear around sharply and reversing it in his grasp. Before Fa Pan could dodge, Yu Mao lunged. Fire lanced through Fa Pan’s shoulder. The force of the blow knocked him back; he slammed into the ship’s rail then jerked forward a step as Yu Mao ripped the spear back out of his flesh.

  Fa Pan gasped against the shock. His good arm groped for the rail to hold him upright. He managed to focus on Yu Mao. His former colleague was surrounded by pirates, just another one of their number. “Why?” Fa Pan choked. Yu Mao spat.

  “You wouldn’t understand.” He lunged again, spear out.

  Fa Pan threw himself backward onto the ship’s rail—over the ship’s rail. For a heartbeat, it felt as if he were balancing on the narrow wood, caught by hands of the spirits between ship and sea. Then the balance shifted and he fell.

  He hit the water hard and sank deep. Light vanished, choked off by the night and the dark water. Already cooling with the season, the water had been further chilled by the sorceress’s spells. The shock of it stung his wound and he screamed, a lungful of air exploding into a cloud of pale bubbles. The cold brought a kind of calm as well, though, a soothing, weightless suspension. Fa Pan hung there for a moment, eyes half-closed, mind half-dazed, as the last of his air trickled away.

  And when his lungs ached with emptiness, he opened his eyes, gazed up at the glow of the sea’s surface, and drew in cold water.

  Family legend held that his great-great grandmother, a famous beauty, had attracted the notice of a spirit of the bright little river that ran through her hometown. Her dalliance with the spirit had not been long, but it had brought the touch of the spirits to her bloodline—a touch that included the ability to breathe water as easily as air. Fa Pan hadn’t made much of the strange ability since he had been a child; most of the time, it was easier to live without revealing himself as one of the spirit folk. Certainly he had never told Yu Mao. That ignorance was probably the only reason the murdering traitor had let him get as close to the rail as he had before striking. Fa Pan was safe in the water—for the moment, anyway.

  He kicked his feet, propelling himself back up to the surface, and lifted his head cautiously into the air. The sounds coming from the ship’s deck now were shouts of triumph, punctuated only briefly by wails from the survivors. The battle was over. The pirates had won. Yu Mao still stood beside the rail, as if surveying the results of his treachery. He wasn’t alone for long. A second figure joined him—the pirate sorceress. The two embraced. Fa Pan recognized her now. He had seen Yu Mao with her and that wicked-looking halfling in Telflamm! Traitor to Lady Swan, traitor to his companions, traitor to Shou Lung—for the love of a woman? He choked back a groan.

  Yu Mao had been right. He didn’t understand. But if Yu Mao had wanted to destroy everything and everyone that might send news of his treachery back to his homeland, he hadn’t quite succeeded.

  Trying to board Lady Swan again or to sneak aboard the pirate vessel would be suicide. He was wounded and the pirates had him outnumbered. There was no way he could exact retribution on Yu Mao himself. The goods of the trade expedition were only silk and spices—losing them was nothing. His life and his witness to Yu Mao’s treachery were more important. There were those who had to be told of what happened here. The choice between shame and retribution would be theirs.

  Fa Pan let himself sink back into the comfort of the water. They had glimpsed the northern coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars earlier in the day. His wounded arm dragging awkwardly, Fa Pan began the long struggle for shore.

  Month of Hammer,

  Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)

  The door of the Wench’s Ease slammed open without warning—slammed open so hard that it almost tore off its worn hinges. A crowd came pouring out of the tavern and into the cold winter night. No, not a crowd. A mob. Women and men, fishing folk of Spandeliyon, shouting loud enough that the screams of the thin man being dragged roughly out of the Ease were barely audible. “No!” he pleaded. “No! It was an accident! It was an accident, I swear—”

  His screams ended in a thick grunt as someone punched him hard in the gut. A cheer went up from those closest to him. Those farther away muttered their disappointment and tried to push closer. In the crush, the mob’s victim twisted free and made a desperate break for freedom, dropping to the slush and mud of the ground and trying to scramble away between his tormentors’ legs. He didn’t get far. The mob surged around him, kicking and stomping.

  Tycho Arisaenn, curly black hair on his head and three days’ of dark stubble on his face, slipped through the crowd and up to the door of the tavern. Most of the Ease’s customers were outside now—the sole occupant of the doorway was a broad-hipped matron who leaned against the doorpost with a sour look on her face. Those few customers still inside yelled at her to close the door and stop letting the cold in. She ignored them. Tycho slid up to her. “Oloré, Muiré,” he said, rubbing his hands together. Even inside thick mittens, his fingers were chilled. “Quiet night?”

  The woman spat into the muck.

  Screams turned into shrieks. Tycho turned to look. The mob’s victim was up again, bloody but still struggling. Six pairs of arms held him firmly, though, and bore him aloft through the crowd to the massive, old tree that stood in the yard outside the Wench’s Ease. Tycho’s breath hissed through his teeth as he realized what they meant to do. He took a step forward, but Muire’s heavy hand snapped out and grabbed the leather of his coat.

  “It’s too late,” she said.

  “Rope!” called someone. “Get rope!”

  “Here!” A coil came hurtling out of the mob. Practiced hands caught it and looped it quickly then threw the looped end up and over a thick, scarred branch. Someone else grabbed it as it fell back down. The screaming man was thrust forward and the noose cinched tight around his scrawny neck. He looked up, eyes wide.

  “Mercy!” he gasped. “Give me Tyr’s justice!”

  The woman cinching the noose slapped a rough hand across his face. “It’s dockside justice for you, Ardo, and may your traitorous soul sleep tight in Umberlee’s cold arms! A man who would turn on a mate deserves no better!”

  Ardo’s protests vanished into the roar of the crowd as the woman stepped back and snapped one arm into the air. Four burly men hauled sharply on the free end of the rope and Ardo was wrenched up to dance with the snowflakes on the night wind. A cheer went up with him. The front ranks of the mob darted forward to yank on his kicking legs with arms muscled by days of hauling nets and pulling oars, hastening Ardo’s ignominious departure from the world. The men and women who couldn’t get close enough to participate yelled encouragement and toasted their triumph with tankards of the Ease’s dark ale.

  Muire sucked on her teeth and glowered. Tycho glanced sideways at her. “What happened?”

  Muire snorted. “Word is that Ton didn’t just fall overboard from his and Ardo’s boat last tenday. His body finally washed up today. His throat had been slit. Nobody could have
done that but Ardo.” She jerked her head at the mob and the skinny man’s swinging body. “Bad night for him to come drinking.”

  “Bind me.” Tycho tucked his hands up into his armpits and frowned. Off at one edge of the mob, a small cluster of men stood by themselves. At the heart of their cluster was a lanky thug in a dark-red tunic, a heavy fur mantle over his shoulders for warmth. Tycho nodded at them. “Lander’s here, Muire.”

  “A man can drink where he wants. Even Lander.”

  Tycho gave her a thin smile. “Did you know that he and Ton had a … let’s say a ‘common friend’ who wasn’t too happy when Ardo didn’t want to pick up Ton’s debts? Has Lander been doing much talking tonight?”

  “Some,” said Muire in a quiet voice.

  “Funny coincidence, Lander and rumor both coming ’round to the Ease tonight,” observed Tycho. “With both Ardo and Ton gone, I wonder who’ll be taking their boat.”

  Brawny arms came up and folded across Muire’s broad chest. “You might want to keep that sort of thinking to yourself, Tycho, or Ardo won’t be the only one on the tree. I wouldn’t want to lose a good musician and a good customer in one night.”

  “That’s a lovely sentiment.”

  “Ardo left an unpaid account.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough that I wouldn’t have minded a piece of his boat, too.” Muire uncrossed her arms and stepped back into the smoky warmth of the tavern. Tycho followed—or at least started to. “Where do you think you’re going?” asked Muire.

  “Inside where it’s warm. It’s cold out here, Muire!”

  “It’s where your audience is.” An arm swept around the dim interior of the Wench’s Ease. “I can’t pay you if I’ve got no customers and right now they have other things on their minds. Get the crowd back in and you can come with them.”

  “You’re not going to have a good musician for long if my fingers fall off from frostbite!” protested Tycho. He started forward. Muire thrust him back. Tycho gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he said. “You want them calm?”