The Archmetamagician: The Weave Collapses Again

Early in the morning, clear and resonant bugle calls rang out from outside the window.

Anser rolled over. Gentle sunlight happened to fall right on his face, warm and soothing, carrying a faint tickle.

He sat up and stretched lazily. His body immediately came alive, feeling wonderful—brimming with vitality, with a sensation as if he would never grow tired.

Knock, knock, knock…

He got up and opened the door. Bratt was standing outside, his face full of excitement. ”Come take a look—two warships have arrived in Silver Scale Bay!”

”Warships from where?”

Anser followed Bratt into his room. Looking out through the window, he could indeed see several more sailing ships anchored in Silver Scale Bay.

He picked up the spyglass and swept his gaze around, focusing on two medium-sized sailing ships. Along both sides of their hulls, rows of cannons were arranged neatly. Although they were covered with waterproof tarps, their outlines were still clearly visible.

At the top of the sterncastle, a large blue flag bearing a silver star and crescent moon fluttered in the wind.

”These are Waterdeep’s cruiser patrols—two or three ships make up a small flotilla…” Anser’s tone carried a hint of excitement.

The cruiser patrols were mainly responsible for patrolling the Sea of Swords, ranging north to Neverwinter and south to Nelandher, cracking down on piracy and smuggling to ensure the safety of merchant traffic.

This small flotilla was likely here to support Baldur’s Gate. As an important ally of Baldur’s Gate, Waterdeep would certainly take action.

The reason Anser was so stirred was that relations between Waterdeep and Amn were poor—not only because of commercial rivalry, but also due to historical causes.

Amn had once assassinated Waterdeep nobles. The grudge between the two sides ran deep. And Amn was profit-obsessed—so long as money was to be made, it would do anything, especially in the slave trade; its hands had even reached Waterdeep’s Skullport.

But Waterdeep classed slave trading as a first-degree felony. On a first conviction, all property was confiscated and the offender was exiled for life to the Trollbark Forest. Repeat offenders were executed on the spot, and their souls were sealed within the magical prison known as the ”Tomb of the Iron Anvil.”

With Waterdeep’s warships alongside, who would dare conduct slave trading so brazenly?

”As soon as they arrived, Silver Scale Bay seems a bit calmer,” Bratt sighed.

Anser adjusted the spyglass and locked his gaze onto the Sea Shark, where the deck was bustling, as if they were moving cargo or supplies.

”They’re going to run.”

”Who?”

”The Sea Shark. There’s an eighty percent chance it’s a slave ship too.”

”At a time like this, Waterdeep probably wouldn’t target them, right?” Bratt asked, puzzled.

”That’s not necessarily true.” Anser smiled faintly. The Waterdeep he knew was not so rigid-minded.

Just then, a rapid thudding of footsteps came from outside. A moment later, Darla’s figure appeared in the doorway. Seeing the door wasn’t closed, she gave the doorframe two quick thumps.

”Have you packed up? Hurry and go eat breakfast. After you eat, come with me.”

”All packed.” Bratt answered at once.

”Be quick—we leave together at eight.” Darla gave Anser a playful smile, then turned and went downstairs.

”Let’s go.” Anser waved a hand.

They didn’t have much—one large backpack each. Quite a few of the items were things Bratt had bought just yesterday.

Nornoth was responsible for carrying the luggage; everyone else only brought weapons and personal belongings.

There were not many people in the dining hall. They ate a little casually, and only after stepping outside did they realize that everyone was gathered at the garden gate.

Six or seven elf attendants, along with two guests—one big and one small—were all carrying luggage, though most of the elves only had a single backpack.

Little Claira stood beside Kafka. When she saw Anser, her eyes curved into crescent moons as she smiled. But then her expression stiffened. With one hand on her hip and the other beckoning toward Anser, she said, ”Hurry up, hurry up—we’re waiting just for you…”

The crowd burst into laughter. Only Darla covered her face with both hands. Anser did not need to guess whom Little Claira was imitating.

”Coming, coming.” Anser glanced at his watch; it was not even eight yet.

He lifted Claira up and placed her onto the saddle, while he himself walked along with the others.

The group chatted and laughed as they headed toward the docks, the atmosphere very relaxed.

”Your sister… why isn’t she here?” Anser looked around once and did not see Gwyneth.

”She’s always stayed here. This place is our home. This time I’m mainly seeing Claira off…” Kaleno explained.

They were all from Paros City. This was also why the mention of this city by slave traders made Gwyneth particularly uneasy.

Paros City lay more than a hundred kilometers north of Baldur’s Gate. It was dependent on Baldur’s Gate and was a port city where many races lived together, with humans making up less than twenty percent of the population.

It was said that this place had originally been just a small fishing village, inhabited by a group of slaves who had narrowly survived shipwrecks. Fearing that slave traders would come after them again, they formed an organization called ”Paros” to protect themselves.

Then, as it continued to protect itself, Paros gradually became a regional power. After earning the favor of Duke Ravengard, its momentum of development surged, attracting many surface races to settle there.

However, this place was not a good harbor. The population was only about twenty thousand, and trade was not particularly developed. Its advantage was excellent public security.

A merchant ship belonging to Paros, the ”Quesser”, made two round trips to Baldur’s Gate every month, and each time it would stay in Silver Scale Bay for one day.

The attendants of Moonshadow Quelin would take this opportunity to rotate home.

Previously, the sailing schedule had been uncertain, so Kaleno could not say much. Because something had happened in Baldur’s Gate, whether the ”Quesser” would still come, and when it would arrive, were both uncertain.

”When will it set sail?” Anser asked.

”Not sure.” Kaleno shrugged. ”This is the first time the Quesser has docked at Silver Scale Bay since the disaster. But don’t worry—when it docked at dawn, my sister already spoke with them. They can take people aboard.

”My sister is one of the investors in the Quesser. She still has that much say.”

”Mm.” Anser nodded slightly. It seemed that Gwyneth held considerable status in Paros; not just anyone could buy into an official ship of this kind.

When they reached the docks, they could see from afar a sailing ship with a distinctive style.

The ship was more than forty meters long, slender in shape, with both ends sharp and curved like crescents, giving a sense of lightness.

It did not have the long continuous deck of a galleon. There were few cannons on the deck. Below the deck were the cargo hold and the crew’s living quarters. There was no forecastle, only a three-tiered sterncastle.

The berth of the Quesser was surrounded by many people, but all were stopped by the crew, and no one was allowed to board.

As soon as Kaleno arrived, the crew briskly lowered the rope ladder and took the group aboard. Throughout the entire process, there were no questions or checks at all; they were clearly very familiar with one another.

”Quesser” comes from Elvish and simply means ”elf.” However, not all of the crew were elves. There were humans, halflings, half-elves, gnomes, and dragonborn as well—a real hodgepodge, giving the ship a truly distinctive style.

The rooms on the ship were all very cramped, with four people to a room. Even Kaleno was no exception.

According to him, conditions like these already surpassed ninety percent of merchant ships and warships. On most warships, sailors did not even have fixed bunks; they would sling a hammock beside a gun carriage or on the lower deck to sleep, then stow it away during the day.

Little Claira wanted to stay with Anser, but Darla forcibly carried her away. She cried and fussed for a while. It was not very convenient for a grown man to take care of a girl, and the two were not father and daughter.

Nornoth was far too large and could only stay on the deck. It floated around everywhere, mooching food and drink from the crew. Whenever it saw something tasty, it wanted to take a bite. In fact, it was not hungry—just curious.

This was when the usefulness of the Westwind Horseshoes became apparent. Gravity was dispersed by a levitation field, so even with Nornoth’s size and weight, the deck would not be damaged.

After giving it a few reminders, Anser went alone to the stern and silently observed the Sea Shark several hundred meters away.

Tap, tap, tap. Unfamiliar yet light footsteps approached and stopped on the deck several meters behind him.

”That is a slave ship.” The voice was very low, carrying a trace of weathered age.

”I know—the Sea Shark of the Nashivaar Family.” Anser turned to look at the newcomer.

It was a male elf, more than half a head taller than Anser. His build was strong but not bulky. He had brownish-tan skin and light brown eyes. His age was hard to judge, but he did not feel young.

”My name is Salian, captain of the Quesser. I’ve heard Gwyneth mention you. You’re even more hot-blooded than I was when I was young.” The male elf’s smile was highly infectious, naturally putting people at ease.

”Am I? I didn’t exactly go looking for trouble.” Anser raised an eyebrow, not entirely agreeing.

The dice rotated slightly and popped up Salian’s information:

[Salian, Wood Elf, Level 6 Ranger (Hunter)]

”But there’s fire in your eyes.” Salian walked to the rail. His large hand came down heavily on the railing as his gaze fixed on the distant Sea Shark. ”Do you want to… pull a job?”

”Huh?” The sudden burst of underworld slang made Anser freeze for a moment.

”Do you know what matters most in naval warfare?” Salian’s gaze grew distant.

”Artillery range?” Anser recalled the shocking scenes from films of sailing warships lined up and exchanging broadsides—tests of nerve and decisiveness.

”Artillery isn’t as important as you think.” Salian raised a finger and gently shook it. ”Naval warfare… of course it comes down to who can run faster!”

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