Balven also laughed. “Well, there is that.”
Daylon was silent for a moment, then stood up and went to the north-facing window near his most trusted adviser and half brother. Putting his hand on Balven’s shoulder, he gave him a look that Balven recognized instantly as the silent question: What should we do?
Balven said, “I’ll send two men to Beran’s Hill tomorrow.”
Daylon nodded. He had no doubt they would be two agents in Balven’s secret little corps of spies and assassins. Daylon knew roughly who those men were, but he had long ago stopped worrying about every detail of those tasks he entrusted to Balven.
Without another word, Balven left his half brother to ponder the fate of people and nations.
Beran’s Hill was fully awake as Catharian and Sabella entered the outer limits of the town. They wore nearly identical robes, his a bit more tattered than hers, bearing the crest of their order over the heart. Catharian’s hood was tossed back, exposing his bald pate to the morning sun. Sabella wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, grey from road dust, but otherwise sturdy. Each held a staff in one hand—to aid in climbing and self-defense—and travel bags slung over their shoulders.
They wended their way through Beran’s Hill. Sabella tried not to gawk, but until recently she had never seen more than a handful of people in a single place. Despite her attempts at remaining calm, colors and sounds made her want to glance this way and that, glimpses of things unimagined in the quiet confines of the Sanctuary fascinating her.
As a child, her talents had been detected by one of the few surviving members of the order, and she had been secreted with that woman, and two or three others, along the way. She had flashes of memory of the greater world, but nothing more than a child’s impression of sounds, smells, textures, voices. There had been a large man—though as a child probably all men looked large to her—who had carried her for what she recalled as a long time; he would hum to keep her calm, and she remembered when he occasionally whispered in her ear or kissed her cheek, his whiskers would scratch. She could call up the sensation of that rough scraping on her face and she found that memory reassuring.
She remembered being put aboard a small boat and spending a long time in the dark with everything around her swaying, almost certainly in the hold of a ship. She recalled flashes of other people calming her, and odd smells, but little else. A dusty ride on a creature she now knew was called a camel, but she had not seen one since. It had been very hot, and she remembered being thirsty, but little else.
Then the rest of her life had been in the Sanctuary, the original, ancient Hall of the Guardians, all but abandoned ages before as the Flame Guard spread and took root in Ithrace. Once those massive stone halls had been the seat of the Flame Guard, but in her lifetime it had become a refuge, a place of hiding, while those living there had but one task: to find the surviving Firemane child.
All she knew beyond that she had learned from history, stories, and what others had told her.
Until this journey, she hadn’t fully realized how cloistered her existence had been, how little she truly understood of what she had been taught. She had been raised in a secret world, one unknown to every person she passed today, and this realization alternately filled her with delight and fear, for if anyone could guess who she and Catharian were under their disguises, that person could only be an enemy.
Catharian took notice of her taking in everything around them and said, “Are you all right?”
Eyes wide, Sabella spoke softly. “So many people!”
“Wait until you see a real city,” he replied, smiling. At that moment he suddenly realized what this young woman had been subjected to in aid of the Flame Guard. He felt a stab of regret. It had been deemed necessary, but he had never considered the toll it had taken on Sabella and the others.
“I wish my sisters could see this!” she said in a half whisper.
For a moment Catharian was at a loss. She had been brought to the Sanctuary as a small child, perhaps no more than four or five years of age, a foundling. Then he realized she was speaking of the other Seekers. All he could manage to say was “Perhaps they will one day.”
Sabella impulsively gripped Catharian’s arm with her free hand, giving it a familiar squeeze, as if she was trying to convince herself everything she saw was real. “What am I to do here?”
“We watch. We listen. We wait.”
She looked up at him and nodded.
“Mostly we spend time apparently looking for a suitable place for a shrine, one that might be given freely, as we have no coin with which to pay. Say nothing and watch as I negotiate with a false promise of divine blessings, possible rewards later, or some other payment in kind: you will learn much about how people are.” He smiled. “Most will say no outright, or promise to consider our plea. That should keep us free to roam around and talk to people.” He paused, opened his shoulder bag, and removed a bowl, handing it to her.
“What do I do with that?”
“You hold it. You are a Sister of the Order of Tathan, a novitiate. My apprentice. Instead of being my beggar boy, you are my beggar girl.”
“What do I do?”
“Mostly say nothing, watch, and hold that bowl out. Occasionally kind people will drop coins into it.”
She appeared amused by that. “I can do that.”
“We’ll speak more about this when we’re sure we’re alone, but there are a few things to watch for, things that could prove critical.”
“The . . . young man?” she asked.
“He is the most important, but we know now who he is and where he is, so it will be easy to ensure we don’t lose track of him again.”
“How is it easy?”
“If possible, we will be staying at his inn.”
He pointed down the street, and there, a short distance away, was the Inn of the Three Stars. He led her to the doorway and motioned for her to follow him.
Stepping inside, Catharian saw that the inn was empty, save for Hava standing behind the bar attacking the dust with a clean rag.
She smiled. “Welcome,” she said.
Catharian nodded and adopted a serious expression and offered in a deep voice, “We are travelers, relying on the generosity of those we meet, sent by our order to seek land for a shrine.”
Hava laughed at the false monk’s theatricality.
“Hava, this is my acolyte, Sister Sabella.” Sabella nodded in greeting, a gesture Hava returned. “I wondered if we might drink from your well?”
Hava chuckled and said, “Help yourself. You know where it is.”
Catharian and Sabella passed through the kitchen and out the back door, paused to glance around the completely rebuilt stabling yard, then went over to the well. Catharian pulled up a bucket of cold water, and both drank their fill. “Let’s see what we can find out,” suggested the false monk. “There have been great changes here since I last passed through. Watch and listen.”
Reentering the inn through the kitchen, Catharian smiled as he said to Hava, “This inn . . . it’s been rejuvenated.”
“We put in a lot of work here,” said Hava.
“Some time back,” Catharian said to Sabella, “I first passed through with a young man named Declan and his friend Ratigan.”
Hava said to Sabella, “My husband and I bought this inn from Declan’s fiancée.” Hava paused for a moment, then asked Catharian, “You met her father, Leon?”
“I met him,” said Catharian. “I spent a night out in the barn, then continued my journey south. His daughter sold you this inn?”
“Bandits murdered him, burned the inn, and abducted Gwen and another girl. Declan and the other men of the town, and a skilled archer named Molly, fetched the girls back safely after dealing with the bandits.” She recounted the story as she had heard it, then said, “So, you’re seeking land?”
“If possible,” said the false monk. “We serve the Harbinger, and as members of the Church of the One we’d like to secure land for a shrine,
perhaps one large enough for a poor monk and his assistant to shelter in while they attend to the needs of the faithful.”
Hava laughed, and when Catharian’s face betrayed confusion, she said, “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at your needs. It’s just that I’ve traveled a bit and some of the faithful have larger needs than a small shrine.”
The humor was lost on Catharian and Sabella. Hava realized that her memory of Church clergy frequenting brothels owned by the Powdered Women was leading her into a conversation she was better off avoiding, so she waved away the comment. “Never mind, brother.”
“Eventually the Church will build a proper house of worship, but that will be left to an episkopos or his deputy to decide, not a lowly monk.”
Hava addressed Sabella. “My husband and I first learned of this place from Declan . . . we were horse trading with my father . . .”
She launched into the tale of how they had come to purchase the inn, and finally when she finished, Catharian asked, “Would you know of someone who might be inclined to sell off a small piece of land, somewhere near the edge of town, at not too expensive a price? Perhaps even as a donation to the Church?”
Hava laughed. “Not personally, but I’ll ask around.”
“Then you have my thanks.” He turned toward the door. “We’ll return tomorrow.”
Hava saw that Sabella was staring at the kitchen and realized that while making their way to the well, they had had to pass the food waiting to be prepared for the day. Taking in the young girl’s frail appearance and travel-worn clothing, she asked, “Have you eaten?”
Sabella was caught off guard and glanced at Catharian as if asking permission to speak. He nodded, and she shook her head. “We ate yesterday, some dried fruit and a bit of hard cheese.”
Hava shook her head at the folly of people motivated by beliefs she could not understand. “We can’t have you starving to death.” She cast a disapproving glance at Catharian, then said to Sabella, “Sit and I’ll bring you something.” She waved at the empty table closest to the kitchen.
“Why, thank you,” Catharian said. “You’re most generous.”
With a half smile, Hava said, “Usually he waits until my husband or Declan is here, then plies them with tall tales and they ply him with food and drink.” She turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
As they sat down, Sabella whispered, “That’s the one, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The woman he has sex with.”
“Huh?” Catharian was taken aback.
“There’s an . . . energy . . . a glow.” Sabella shrugged. “I don’t know what to call it. It’s not like the energy I feel from him, but . . . perhaps because they’re together, I sense her.”
Catharian held up his hand and softly said, “We’ll talk about this later.” Wondering what he might have gotten himself into bringing along this totally unworldly girl into what could easily become a center of violent conflict, he began to doubt his choice, even though her ability to sense the Firemane youth’s whereabouts was vital. Pondering this, the false monk sat in silence, waiting for Hava to bring food.
Sunrise saw two weary young men ushering a wagon out through the northern gate of Marquenet as the city awoke. The day before Declan had discovered that while there was a good choice of inns for him and Hatu, finding a safe spot for the wagon and Hatu’s goods had proved impossible. Those with large stabling yards were full, and the rest provided no place to keep a wagon. Finally, the sergeant of the keep, who knew both young men from their previous visits, permitted them to put the horses and wagon in the baron’s stabling yard, as long as they stayed with them.
So, not for the first time, they had slept under a wagon, but for the first time in a city. While it was quiet compared to the day’s tumult, the city at night still produced unexpected noises, especially coming from within the baron’s keep and the barracks, where men changed guard every four hours. Both Declan and Hatu awoke several times, only to recognize a sound a moment after waking, then attempt to return to sleep. Hatu had prided himself on being able to sleep aboard a ship at sea and in other noisy places, but he discovered it was new sounds that were disturbing his slumber.
Hatu cast a glance back at his cargo, a selection of fruit not readily available in Marquensas, guaranteed to stay fresh for a week or more in a good cold cellar—at least that was what the fruitmonger promised. Several looked interesting, being unknown to Hatu despite his relatively wide range of travel. He was dubious about a fuzzy green item the monger called a “gooseberry,” but he was promised that once the skin was off it would prove delectable.
He also had several large rounds of hard cheese, again unlike the local varieties, and a few smaller sacks of nuts and some jars of spices listed by Hava, but still only occupying a small part of the wagon’s capacity.
Declan proved quiet this morning, content to drive the wagon. Hatu was left to his own thoughts and discovered himself again torn by his almost impossible situation.
He had been told that Coaltachin, the nation of spies, thieves, murderers, and other assorted criminals, no longer demanded his loyalty. Yet he still worried over the part he now played as a spy on behalf of that nation. Here he sat, aboard a wagon bumping along the road back to a town he barely knew, to a wife who was his in name only, to play the part of an innkeeper, but mostly he was concerned over the message he had sent yesterday, what it meant, and what his part would be. Master Bodai’s last instructions had released him from his obligation to the Council of Masters, yet he was still enmeshed in whatever business they had in this far-off barony, and Hava’s presence more than anything made it clear they were not done with him, or he with them. It was a nagging contradiction.
He might have no official duty left to those who raised him, but he felt an urgent need to send that report to Master Bodai—not to aid Hava, who couldn’t leave town alone without arousing suspicion, but because he also felt obliged, and the only explanation he could find for this feeling was because he had endured a lifetime of obedience.
It was also clear from what he had discussed with Hava that someone would be taking over Master Facaria’s crews, so he couldn’t even be certain who Hava’s new boss would be. If it was Master Kugal, Hatu was certain that an order for his death would eventually reach Hava, since Kugal blamed Hatu for his grandson Donte’s death. If it was another master, he might also want to see the heir to Ithrace dead, or he might simply order Hava home, leaving Hatu without her for the rest of his life. All these thoughts rolled through his head as the wagon rolled through the countryside.
After traveling for almost half an hour Declan said, “What?”
Hatu turned his head. “What?”
“You’ve been silent for longer than I’ve ever known you to be. You look lost in thought, and not a good one from the look of you. You worried about something?”
Hatu realized he had somehow let his guard down with Declan. He shook his head slightly. “Just having a bit of a moment, wondering about whether I’m cut out to be an innkeeper.”
“Really?” asked Declan. “You didn’t seem to hesitate when the opportunity appeared.”
Hatu gave a shrug. “Traveling with Hava’s father . . . was difficult at times. At his age he . . .” He let the words trail off. “I was getting more work and less . . .”
“Thanks?”
Hatu gave an emphatic nod.
Declan kept the team of horses moving smartly down the road, while maintaining a pace that wouldn’t exhaust them by noon. “How’d you meet?”
Hatu and Hava had concocted a story that maintained several key points of truth; they had decided any inconsistencies could be explained away as simple faulty memory. “I was an orphan, scraping along in a town called Bidwitty, in Materos. I saw Hava and Bodai at the market square and . . .” He laughed. “I think I was in love with Hava from childhood but just didn’t know it. Somehow I convinced Bodai I could be useful and he let me come along with him as he traded.
&nb
sp; “One thing led to another, and after a while Hava and I just . . .” He shrugged. “Truth to tell we’re not even properly married.”
Declan feigned surprise.
“I should have told you before.”
Declan laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Hatu did not have to feign looking embarrassed. His uncertainty about Hava did make him feel self-conscious. He was almost sure she loved him, but he was sure she didn’t love him as much as he loved her, and he did not know if her love for him would outweigh her duty to their homeland.
“I just didn’t know if that sort of thing was important around here,” he said, trying to sound both amused and concerned.
“Really?” Declan said. “Well, Gwen and I will wed at the midsummer festival, and no one cares that she’s been living with me since the inn burned down.”
Hatu looked relieved. “That’s good to know. I’ve been to some places where that sort of thing is important.”
“Really?” repeated Declan. “I haven’t traveled much, just from Oncon to here, and up to Copper Hills and back. Most of the people around here are like those in Oncon, pretty much not worrying about other people’s business.”
Hatu reflexively glanced around and realized the folly of it, as there was no one else on the road. “The Church seems to be.”
“Seems to be what?”
“Worrying about other people’s business.”
“I suppose so,” said Declan. “Still, if you and Hava are going to wed at the festival, you won’t be the only couple living together to do so, and a couple of the gals will be with child.” Declan shook his head in disbelief. “Why some people would care . . . it’s beyond me.”
Queen of Storms Page 9
