"I'm here on business," the young sailor stated easily.

"What business is that?" Aysel demanded.

"I need to speak with the captain."

"Cap'n's not here," Aysel said. His eyes remained flinty hard with challenge and anger. He raised his voice even louder. "Essme!"

The serving girl looked back at the broad sailor, and every head in the tavern snapped around to watch what was going on.

"What?" she asked.

"I asked if you wanted me to stand up for you in this matter of ill charity. A man should not be so cavalier as to spurn a woman's offered charms."

The serving girl appeared hesitant, then finally waved the offer away. Jherek got the impression she wasn't sure how much of the action was still play.

"It's no bother," she replied. "I claim no foul. After all, he's just a boy, not like one of the real men that fill this room."

The tavern goers shouted in glee, banging their empty and not-so-empty tankards down on their tables. A number of jests and curses filled the air at Jherek's expense.

Clamping his jaw tight, Jherek struggled to rein in his anger. Since being driven from Velen, having his identity and home stripped from him by circumstance, he'd been aware of the dark anger that had filled him, but it had been mixed in equal parts with the sense that he'd somehow deserved every bad thing that had happened to him. Evil clung to blood. That was believed by most people, and even Jherek admitted there was some truth to it.

Maybe he didn't deserve a home as other people did, and maybe one of the most feared and hated pirates of Faerun was all the family he'd ever had, but he didn't deserve Aysel's treatment. The man was more on his level. Jherek rested his hand on the worn hilt of his cutlass.

"Is Captain Tynnel here?" Jherek asked, pushing himself above the anger that swirled within him.

"Why?" Aysel demanded.

"I was sent to get a message to him."

"By who?" the big man asked. "Sabyna? She seems to be the only one you talk to these days. Always running after her with your nose up her skirts."

A tremor filled Jherek's arm and he barely stilled himself from drawing steel against the man. "Have a care," he said softly. "I'll not have her honor trampled while I'm standing nearby."

"Her honor?" Aysel guffawed, seeming genuinely amused. "She's a damned ship's mage, boy. She's used to men of the sea, and their ways. You jump on deck with your manners and your baby face and think she's just as virginal as you?"

Thunder crackled ominously in the back of Jherek's mind. He felt the precious control Malorrie had trained into him coming unhinged. His fingers felt like wire meshed around the cutlass's hilt. He tried to ignore Aysel's coarse words.

"If you see the captain, let him know I was looking for him."

He took three steps back, out of reach of the big man's battle-axe, stepping around a table to put between them as well, then turned and walked away. He made himself release the cutlass.

"She's known men before, boy," Aysel called after him, "better men than you."

Every word cut into Jherek. He tried to force them from his mind.

"These past few days," Aysel continued, "I've tried to understand what it was she sees in you besides that courtly manner and those smooth features, but damn me if I've been able."

Jherek walked, breathing deeply, searching desperately for the control that Malorrie's training had given him.

"One thing I want to know, boy," Aysel roared.

Jherek was almost to the door, but not out of earshot.

"I want to know if she's as good looking naked as I've thought she was," Aysel said.

Anger took Jherek then, snapping to life the way a candle wick took to flame. He made himself reach for the door as his breath tightened and turned cool in his throat.

"I look at her," Aysel said, "sometimes with the sun behind her and you can just about see through some of those clothes she wears. I see enough, then I go back to my hammock and think about her."

The tavern crowd urged him on, asking rude questions and making ribald statements.

"I imagine how she looks," Aysel croaked, "all sweaty from being used hard, and the way she smells. Like a woman instead of those fragrances she wears. And then I-"

The sailor got no further.

Jherek turned, slipping through the distance separating him from Aysel like a barracuda. He left the cutlass sheathed because he didn't think the big sailor would have time to bring the battle-axe up to defend himself. In fact, Aysel seemed stunned, barely beginning to react as Jherek vaulted to the tabletop and threw himself at the man. He flung his arms wide, taking in all of Aysel's broad frame. The bigger man wrapped his meaty arms around the young sailor as they slammed backward.

Aysel's breath whooshed out of him when he hit the floor, and his grip on Jherek broke. The young sailor pushed himself up and drew back a fist. Raw emotion burned through him. He seized Aysel by the hair with his free hand, knotting his fingers securely.

"Poke your fun at me, Aysel, and talk of me without respect, but not the lady. A lady's honor is her own, and I won't stand by while you defile it with your words." He hammered the man in the face, putting all his strength into the blow.

Aysel's head snapped to the side and blood gushed from his split lip. He roared with inarticulate rage, shoving against the floor with his hands and feet in an effort to dislodge Jherek.

Drawing his arm back, Jherek set himself to strike again. Before he could, rough hands wrapped around his arms and face, pulling him off Aysel. Jherek struggled against the three men that held him, tearing free of their grip. He turned to face Aysel again.

Aysel recovered quickly, pushing himself to his feet and fisting the haft of the battle-axe. Blood dripped down his swelling lips, turning his smile crimson. He wiped them with the back of his free hand and looked at the bloody smear.

"By the gods, you little bastard," the big man declared, "now that you're going to die for!"

"Your song is beautiful."

Turning from the westering sea spreading out from Waterdeep, Pacys looked down at the speaker.

The priest Hroman looked up at him. A sling held his right arm, broken in the raid on the city. A healing potion would have quickly righted it, but even Waterdeep's vast stores had been hard pressed trying to save lives. Even Hroman's own abilities to heal himself through prayer had been given to the makeshift hospitals scattered throughout the city.

"Thank you for your kindness," the bard replied. His fingers caressed the yarting's strings, making bridges and notes soundlessly, though his ear could hear every one through the touch of his fingers. "It's only one of the many songs that will be sung about the battle for Waterdeep… nothing unique." He felt bad about sounding so bitter. "Forgive me, my friend. I must sound very selfish in light of all that these people have been through."

The streets around the Dock Ward teamed with a number of extra wagons pressed into service on behalf of the Dungsweepers' Guild. Debris filled several of the big carts, and their drivers headed them toward the Rat Hills while others came back for more. Their wheels clattered across the cobblestones, a constant undercurrent to all of the other activity filling the dock.

Out in the harbor, fishing vessels plied the waters with nets, sieving in the dead and the wreckage left from broken and burned ships. Not as many of the ships as had at first been feared had been lost during the attack. Even the damage to the waterfront along Dock Ward was reparable once new wood was brought in.