“No one holds a wizard fast,” Kensidan replied. “Theirs is the most selfish and self-serving of professions.”

“Some say that Greeth has cheated death itself.”

“Death is a patient opponent.”

Suljack blew out a frustrated sigh. “He consorts with devils!” he blurted. “Greeth is not to be taken lightly.”

“I take no one lightly,” Kensidan assured him, a clear edge to his words.

Suljack sighed again and managed to calm himself. “I’m wary of them, is all,” he explained more quietly. “Even the people of Luskan know it now, that we five high captains, your father among us, are puppets to the master Arklem Greeth. I’ve been so long under his thumb I’ve forgotten the feel of wind breaking over the prow of my own ship. Might be that it’s time to take back the wheel.”

“Past time. And all we need is for Arklem Greeth to continue to feel secure in his superiority. He weaves too many threads, and only a few need unravel to unwind his tapestry of power.”

Suljack shook his head, clearly less than confident.

“Thrice Lucky is secured?” Kensidan asked.

“Maimun sailed this morning, yes. Is he to meet with Lord Brambleberry of Waterdeep?”

“He knows what he is to do,” Kensidan replied.

Suljack scowled, understanding that to mean that Suljack need not know. Secrecy was power, he understood, though he was far too emotional a thug to ever keep a secret for long.

It hit Suljack then, and he looked at Kensidan with even more respect, if that was possible. Secrecy was the weight of the man, the pull that had everyone constantly leaning toward him. Kensidan had many pieces in play, and no one saw more than a few of them.

That was Kensidan’s strength. Everyone around him stood on shifting sand, while he was rooted in bedrock.

“So it’s Deudermont, you say?” Suljack asked, determined to at least begin weaving the young man’s threads into some sensible pattern. He shook his head at the irony of that possibility.