“Bear’s men are nervous, but they’re not smart enough to plan anything if they think they might lose out on what we’ve taken. But they’re still jumpy. You don’t cross someone like Bear and sleep soundly.”
Knute nodded, then said, “If everything’s secure, there’s some wine and ale below. Break it out.”
“Aye, Captain,” said the man, his grin widening. “A celebration, eh? That will take the edge off.”
Knute returned the grin, but said nothing.
Within minutes the noise of celebration emanated from below. For hours all Knute had heard was an ominous silence punctuated by the sound of rhythmic rowing, oars groaning in their oarlocks, wood creaking as the hull flexed, and the rattle of tackle and blocks in the rigging. Now the murmur of voices arose, some joking, others surprised, as men made the rounds of the rowing benches with casks and cups.
One of the pirates looked at Knute across the deck and Knute shouted, “See that those aloft go below for a quick drink! I’ll take the helm!”
The pirate nodded, then shouted aloft as Knute made his way to the stern of the ship. He said to the helmsman, “Go get something to drink. I’ll take her in.”
“Going to beach her, Captain?”
Knute nodded. “We’re coming in a bit after low tide. She’s heavy as a pregnant sow with all this booty. Once we offload, when high tide comes in, she’ll lift right off the beach and we can back her out.”
The man nodded. He was familiar with the area near Fishtown; the beaches were gentle and Knute’s plan made sense.
Knute had chosen a slow-acting poison. As he took the helm, he calculated that he’d be coming into the beach by the time the first men began to pass out. With luck, those still alive would assume their companions were insensible from drink. With even more luck, the wagoners he had hired out of Krondor wouldn’t have to cut any throats. They were teamsters working for a flat fee, not bully boys.
Knute had piled one lie atop another. The wagoners thought he was working for the Upright Man of Krondor, the leader of the Guild of Thieves. Knute knew that without that lie he would never control them once they saw the wealth he was bringing into the city. If the teamsters didn’t believe a dread power stood behind Knute, he’d be as dead as the rest of the crew come morning.
The sound of the water changed, and in the distance Knute could hear breakers rolling into the beach. He hardly needed to look to know where he was.
One of the pirates came staggering up the companionway from below and spoke. His speech was slurred. “Captain, what’s in this ale? The boys are passin’ . . .” Knute smiled at the seaman, a young thug of perhaps eighteen years. The lad pitched forward. A few voices from below shouted up to the deck, but their words were muffled, and quiet soon descended.
The oars had fallen silent and now came the most dangerous part of Knute’s plan. He lashed down his tiller, sprang to the ratlines and climbed aloft. Alone he lowered one small sail, shimmied down a sheet, and tied off. That little sail was all he had to keep him from turning broad to the waves and being smashed upon the beach.
As he reached the tiller, a hand descended upon Knute’s shoulder, spinning him around. He was confronted by a leering grin of sharpened teeth as dark eyes studied him. “Shaskahan don’t drink ale, little man.”
Knute froze. He let his hand slip to a dagger in his belt but waited to see what the cannibal would do next. The man was motionless. “Don’t drink ale,” he repeated.
“I’ll give you half the gold,” Knute whispered.
“I take all of it,” said the cannibal, as he drew out his large belt knife. “And then I eat you.”
Knute leaped backward and drew his own knife. He knew that he was no match for the veteran killer, but he was fighting for his life and the biggest trove of riches he would ever see. He waited, praying for a few more moments.
The cannibal said again, “Shaskahan don’t drink ale.” Knute saw the man’s legs begin to shake as he took a step forward. Suddenly the man was on his knees, his eyes going blank. Then he fell face forward. Knute cautiously knelt next to the man and examined him. He sheathed his knife as he leaned close to the cannibal’s face, sniffed once, then stood.
“You don’t drink ale, you murdering whore’s son, but you do drink brandy.”
With a laugh Knute unlashed the tiller as the ship swept forward into breakers. He pointed it like an arrow at a long, flat run of beach and as the ship plowed prow first into the sand, he saw the three large wagons sitting atop the bluffs. Six men who’d been sitting on the shore leapt to their feet as the ship ground to a halt in the sand. Knute had ordered the wagons not be brought down to the cove, for once loaded they’d be sunk to their hubs in sand. The teamsters would have to cart all the gold up the small bluff to the wagons. It would be hard, sweaty work.