Arabeth dared to run her hand under the open fold of his shirt, her fingers dancing across his smooth skin to the rougher place where skin and tar had melded together, and it occurred to Maimun that he typically kept his shirt open just a bit more for exactly the reason of revealing a hint of that scar, that badge of honor, that reminder to all around that he had spent most of his life with a blade in his hand.

“You are a paradox,” Arabeth remarked, and Maimun merely smiled. “Gentle and strong, soft and rough, kind and merciless, an artist and a warrior. With your lute in hand, you sing with the voice of the sirens, and with your sword in hand, you fight with the tenacity of a drow weapons master.”

“You find this off-putting?”

Arabeth laughed. “I would drag you to your cabin right now,” she replied, “but they are close.”

As if on cue—and Maimun was certain Arabeth had used some magic to confirm her prediction before she’d offered it—a crewman from the crow’s nest shouted down, “Sails! Sails on the horizon!”

“Two ships,” Arabeth said to Maimun.

“Two ships!” the man in the nest called down.

“Sea Sprite and Quelch’s Folly,” said Arabeth. “As I told you when we left Luskan.”

Maimun could only chuckle helplessly at the manipulative wizard. He reminded himself of the pleasures of the journey, and of the hefty bag of gold awaiting its completion.

He thought, too, in terms bitter and sweet, of Sea Sprite and Deudermont, his old ship, his old captain.

“Aye, Captain, that’s Argus Retch or I’m the son of a barbarian king and an orc queen,” Waillan Micanty said. He winced as he finished, reminding himself of the cultured man he served. He scanned Deudermont head to toe, from his neatly trimmed beard and hair to his tall and spotless black boots. The captain showed more gray in his hair, but still not much for a man of more than fifty years, and that only made him appear more regal and impressive.