Mordan looked at him with a tired expression. “I’d be at Fort Zombie right now if she hadn’t dragged us in there! And what did we find? Nothing.”
“Nothing?” echoed Tarrel, looking at his sack. Although it still only looked half-full, it contained almost enough to fill a cart.
“And then she smashes that damned altar and brings the place down on our heads! And for what? Religion? What good is her religion to her now? She can’t even say its name!”
“And whose fault is that?” said the Brelander. “Or have you forgotten how she got that way? You’re lucky she hasn’t killed you just for being a Karrn.”
“I’m sure she’ll try,” Mordan shot back, “just as soon as I stop being useful.”
Tarrel stared at him.
“Look,” said Mordan, with quiet intensity, “She’s not the only person bad things ever happened to in a hundred years of war. There are no losers, no winners—just survivors. And she’s just another survivor.”
“She’s entitled to some justice.”
“Justice?” Mordan’s laugh was hollow. “Everyone is entitled to justice—but how many are going to get it?”
“She will,” vowed the half-elf, “if I have anything to say about it.”
“Oh, of course!” spat Mordan. “Because her father’s a general and can afford to hire a fancy Medani inquisitive!”
“No,” replied Tarrel, his voice dangerously quiet, “because what happened to her shouldn’t have happened to anyone. Because someone chose to do this to her—and because …”
“Because you’re getting paid,” said Mordan. “Admit it!”
Tarrel clenched his fists for a long moment, then forced himself to relax them. “Whatever you say, hero boy,” he grated. “You can sit here and contemplate the unfairness of life as long as you like. I’m going to get some sleep.” He got up, and went below deck.
Mordan leaned his head back, looking at the stars as they appeared. After a few minutes, Decker stuck his head out of the cabin.
“What was all that about?” he asked.
Mordan let go a long, hissing breath. “Human stuff,” he said. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Hard to understand, too,” muttered the warforged.
“Hey. Decker?”
“What?”
“Do me a favor. He’s got a wand—fires some kind of light. I think it ran out of power. Once he’s asleep, could you take a look at it?”
“Sure,” said Decker. “And maybe you should get some sleep, too—I’ve noticed you fleshies get unpredictable when you need it.”
When Mordan awoke, the boat was no longer moving. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked out to find they were moored at a jetty on the edge of Flumakton. Cursing, he went up on deck. Fang was pacing along the landward side as usual, and Decker was sitting on the roof of the cabin, looking intently at the iron defender.
“How long have we been here?” Mordan asked.
Decker swiveled his head to look at the human. “A couple of hours,” he replied. “I didn’t wake you because I thought you needed to sleep. You were a bit erratic before. Your lady friend came back before dawn—she’s asleep in her box now. Oh, and I looked at your friend’s wand. I couldn’t do anything with it, but I think I know someone who can.”
There was a pause as Mordan absorbed the stream of information. “Where is Tarrel?” he asked.
“He went off into town as soon as we got here. Didn’t say where he was going.”
“Thanks,” said Mordan. His stomach grumbled. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any food on board?” he asked.
Decker looked at him blankly. “Food?” he said. “No, no food.”
Mordan headed down the gangplank. “If Tarrel comes back before I do, tell him to wait,” he said.
Decker went back to staring at Fang.
Like Karrlakton, Flumakton had seen better days. During the war, it had been a base for the powerful fleet that protected the Karrnathi side of the Cyre River, as well as the main river port serving Fort Zombie and the rest of the southern frontier. The river fleet was still here, although much reduced in strength. Its purpose now was to patrol the river and deal with anything that came out of the Mournland. The massive fortifications of the fleet harbor still dominated the southern end of the town, showing the marks of a century of war, but the boats moored there were fewer and smaller. The stormships had been moved north to Scion’s Sound and Karrn Bay, to deter any future attacks from Thrane and Aundair if the fragile peace should fail.
The commercial port, at the northern end of the waterfront, was better kept up than its counterpart in Karrlakton, but this had more to do with civic pride than economic reality. Flumakton had been hit just as hard by the collapse of river trade, but its citizens held on stubbornly in the hope of better times to come. Even so, some of the wharves were abandoned, and grass grew up in the cracks between the cobblestones.
Most traffic to Fort Zombie used the lightning rail from Korth and Atur in the west. However, the single road out of Flumakton led to the fort, almost fifty miles away, and was still used for those goods that were too bulky or too unimportant to travel by lightning rail.
