Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  Then someone spoke, and his attention shifted. His sense of wrongness disappeared as people finished eating. He was suddenly empty again, as that momentary pang of something missing vanished into the nameless void within him. He stared into the distance, as if trying to recall something.

  Moments fled and someone took his food bowl from him and the cup from which he drank well water, and someone said, “It’s time to go.”

  He stood and followed them outside and began to help remove the nets from the rack and return them to the boats. For a brief instant he wondered why they had put them on the racks rather than just leaving them in the boats, then that question fled.

  Donte readied his gear along with the other men; then they pushed the largest boat, holding a dozen men, into the surf. These villagers had spent their lifetimes fishing, and they did what was needed without hesitation, knowing exactly when to jump into the boat. Donte was only a moment behind them. He had quickly learned the skills of the fishermen and felt a distant stirring of something akin to pride at this accomplishment.

  In short order their boat was outside the breakers, and a pair of villagers remained at the oars to keep the boat from drifting back toward the beach, while the rest readied the nets.

  Old Macomb smiled as he looked at Donte. “This was quickly done. We’ll wait until the waters churn, which means the shoal of bottom-wallowers are feeding just below the surface, then we’ll cast the nets and haul in the catch.” He nodded toward a large square box athwart the center of the boat, leaving room for only one man to pass on either side. “We’ll dump the catch there and go home.”

  “Only one cast?”

  “By the time we dump and cast again, they will be gone. It’s why they are so hard to catch, but also why they fetch such a good price.”

  “Assuming they are actually there,” said another man with a dry chuckle.

  Macomb shrugged. “If they’re not, we try again tomorrow.”

  Another man said, “And the night after.”

  Old Macomb gave a theatrical sigh. “Or until we hear from one of the villages north of us that they’ve already passed.”

  Donte wasn’t quite sure why the men seemed amused, so he just nodded and waited. One of the others explained quickly that there was a special “scooping” technique they’d use, as the fish would start their feeding near the bottom and work their way up and then turn to migrate up the coast when they were close to the surface. Drop the nets correctly and scoop, and the fish would swim into the nets quickly. If the nets were filled, the profits from this one catch could equal a half year’s earnings for the village.

  The water lapped the sides of the boat as it sat relatively motionless, held in place by expert rowers. The gentle rocking of the boat was in counterpoint to the rise and fall of the combers as they moved toward the shore, forming breakers. It would have been almost soothing, had the boat not been crowded with men keeping a keen watch on the surface: the tension in the air was palpable.

  A burst of bubbles on the seaward side of the boat was the first sign, and suddenly a massive creature erupted from beneath the waves. Wide shoulders and thick arms were attached to a very humanlike chest and abdomen, which turned into a fishy tail that swished from side to side as the creature kept itself above the surface. The face had gill-like slits where a nose should be. No hair grew on its head and its eyes were dark, with amber irises like those of a fish. Its skin was almost fish-belly white, and its expression was a mask of anger.

  The men recoiled, two knocking those behind them into the water, and a shout arose.

  Suddenly Donte heard a voice in his head. Awake!

  Abruptly memories flooded into his mind, almost driving him to his knees with a pain unlike any he had felt before, as if lightning were exploding in his brain, ripping through his body down to his feet, vanishing into the water below the boat.

  He cried out in agony, trying to focus on the creature, which he now recognized as a “swimmer,” a magically changed man who had been transformed into a near-mindless servant of the Sisters of the Deep. Just the thought of those witches turned his stomach, and he swallowed hard to keep the bile in his throat from being vomited out.

  Then the pain vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving not even an echo of torment.

  In his head the voice shouted, You must hunt! Find the other! Go!

  All around him, the men in the boat were begging gods they had not prayed to for years to spare them.

  Donte felt control return.

  Without hesitation, he pulled out his belt knife and leaned forward, slashing the swimmer across the throat. It was a move so swift that those in the boat with him didn’t even register his act for long moments.

  The creature’s eyes widened and crimson blood fountained out of the wound, then its eyes rolled up into its head, the tail’s swishing ceased, and it fell back into the dark sea, vanishing below the surface.

  Donte shouted after it, “No one tells me what to do!”

  For a brief moment, silence gripped everyone in the boat, then a babble erupted as the terrified fishermen all tried to speak at once. One of the men who had gone over the side attempted to haul himself back into the boat, and Donte glanced shoreward to see that the other man had swum past the breakers and was wading onto the shore.

  “What was that?” shouted Old Macomb.

  “Water demon!” said another man. “Haven’t you heard the tales?”

  Donte drank in his returning memories, feeling twinges of emotion at the thought of his grandfather, Hava, and Hatu. Hatu! He was supposed to find and kill Hatu!

  Looking out to sea, Donte muttered, “Like hell I will.”

  Old Macomb reached out and tugged at Donte’s arm. “Do you know what that thing you killed was?”

  “It was once a man,” said Donte, and instantly every man in the boat could sense the change that had come over him.

  “You’ve got your memory back,” said Macomb, a statement, not a question.

  Donte nodded. “I must leave.”

  Macomb returned the nod. “Yes, you must.”

  Without further discussion, the men gathered up the nets and turned the boat toward the village.

  Across a vast expanse of water, deep below the surface in a cave illuminated by glowing lichen, a small group of women gathered near one who sat as still as a rock, her eyes staring into the void. Then she blinked, shook her head, and said, “It is done.”

  The old woman named Madda asked, “He is awake?”

  The other old woman, named Madonna, nodded once, then said, “He has his mind back . . .” Then slowly she smiled. “And he thinks he is free of us.”

  5

  Celebration and Murder

  Hatu hurried to clear the mugs and plates, as four wagoners moved away from the table. The inn was doing steady business as the midsummer festival approached. A few relatives from smaller villages in the area were visiting family, and the usual business of travelers moving through the northern portion of the barony continued unabated.

  Since returning from his journey to Marquenet with Declan, Hatu had begun to get into the rhythm of managing an inn, and not for the first time he thanked whatever deities cared to listen for giving Hava an instinct for organizing their day around the needs of the inn.

  Hatu was no fool, but it took him a while to sense things that came almost immediately to Hava, from what to shop for and when, to the precise moment at which to vanish into the kitchen to wash, prepare more food, or whatever other task demanded attention. What he had to realize logically, she intuited.

  He carried his load of dirty plates and mugs into the kitchen, where Hava was doing a fast inventory of what was there and what needed preparing. She gave him a quick nod and asked, “Are you all right out front? I need to watch the stove.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  “No problems,” he said with a smile. He contrasted the solidity of their lives in the town of Beran’s Hill with the chaos they’d lived before comi
ng here and was certain he could happily live out his days as an innkeeper with a wife and, possibly someday, children.

  He shook his head slightly, a gesture she didn’t notice, his own admission that sometimes he worried too much about things he didn’t understand. Eventually this question would fade or finally be answered, but wasting time on it would not make those waiting for drinks and food happy. One thing he had learned in the short time he had been an innkeeper was that keeping customers satisfied was paramount in this occupation.

  The demands of the inn took Hatu through the afternoon and into the evening without him being aware of the passing of time. Declan’s entrance with Gwen made him realize the day had passed, for the smith had closed his shop for the evening.

  Looking at Gwen, Hatu smiled and shook his head slightly, an expression of open admiration on his face. “I don’t know how you did this every day. I honestly do not.”

  Gwen laughed. “It was rarely this busy. You’ve already built a reputation my father only wished he had.”

  Seeing an open table near the bar, they moved to it and sat down, and Declan said, “We decided to come here so Jusan and Millie could have some privacy.”

  Hava came out from the kitchen, glanced around the room, then came to stand next to Hatu. She nodded a greeting to Declan and Gwen while Hatu smiled and said, “Privacy?”

  Declan looked annoyed while Gwen said, “The festival. Jusan wants to wed Millie—”

  “But she hasn’t said yes,” finished Hava.

  Gwen nodded.

  “It’s making the boy crazy,” said Declan with a slight scowl. “It’s showing up in his work. He’s not paying attention to details.”

  Gwen put her hand on Declan’s arm, in a gesture suggesting it wasn’t time for his complaints, and said, “She’s uncertain.”

  Hatu started to say something, thought better of it, and glanced at Hava. She said with a shrug, “I thought it was taken for granted. Obviously I was wrong.”

  Declan said, “Everyone did.”

  “Except Millie,” said Hatu.

  “That’s the problem,” said Gwen. “Jusan was smitten the moment he set eyes on her, but she . . . she’s been through a lot.”

  “So have you,” Declan said softly.

  Gwen glanced at him with an expression that mixed gratitude with a hint of annoyance. “I’m not Millie. She was always a timid girl, even before she came to work here. She was just beginning to . . .” She fought for words.

  “She had stopped jumping at every loud noise,” supplied Declan. “She was getting used to being around people. She was . . . likable.”

  Gwen shook her head at Declan’s choice of words. “She was always likable.”

  Hava said, “She was getting over her shyness?”

  “Yes,” said Declan, as Gwen nodded. “That’s what I was trying to say.”

  “Badly,” Gwen added with a rueful smile.

  Hava laughed. “Maybe Millie just wants to be asked properly, not taken for granted.”

  Gwen nodded, indicating Declan. “This lout asked my father’s permission to pay court.”

  Hava stole a sidelong glance at Hatu, who said, “I did with Hava’s father.” Then he stopped speaking, since embellishing the lie of who they were and Bodai being Hava’s father was risky.

  Gwen said, “Millie’s got no family to ask, and I just supposed he’d asked her . . .” She laughed. “Did he?” she asked Declan.

  Declan said, “I thought he did.”

  “Men,” said Gwen to Hava, who nodded emphatically.

  “Well, at least these two were trained right,” said Hava with a laugh.

  Declan and Hatu exchanged looks that suggested they had had enough of this conversation. Hatu asked, “You two staying for the evening meal, or just something to drink?”

  Declan looked to Gwen, who said, “Millie and Jusan may need a lot of time to sort this out, so we’ll stay for supper.”

  “An ale?” asked Declan of Gwen.

  “I’d rather that wine Hatu fetched up from the city, assuming you still have some left?” she asked him.

  “Still a few bottles. I’ll bring up more next time. I didn’t think we’d sell so much.”

  “Better stock up even more,” said Gwen. “Much bigger turnout for the festival this year. Not just outlying farmers, but a lot of strangers.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Hatu. He glanced around the room, both to see if any of his customers needed attention or someone new had entered. “I may have to hire someone, at least to help out around here while I head down to Marquenet for more of that wine and other supplies before the festival.”

  Hava said to Gwen, “I keep forgetting to ask about this festival and the wedding. I’ve seen weddings in a few places, but is there a traditional garb, or . . .” She shrugged. “If you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” said Gwen. “We’ll talk when it’s not so busy. No special dress, but you’ll be expected to wear a flower garland . . .” She stopped herself with a laugh. “Later when it’s less busy.”

  Hava smiled and nodded. “I better see to the kitchen.”

  “And I need to clear some tables,” said Hatu.

  Declan rose and said, “Let me lend a hand. I have something to ask you.”

  Gwen nodded as Declan looked to see if she objected, and Hatu tried not to laugh as Gwen remained, sipping her wine and apparently content to have Declan clear the tables. They were already acting like many married couples he’d met in his travels. Since fighting off the bandits on the road, Hatu found himself viewing Declan as more of a friend than anyone else who wasn’t from Coaltachin.

  A group of six travelers had left a moment before, so Hatu appreciated the help clearing away mugs and plates. At the sink behind the bar, Declan said, “Have you had any word from anyone about those two men who were here before our last trip to Marquenet?”

  “No,” he replied. “I think I heard they may have headed out to Port Colos.” He studied Declan’s face for a moment, then asked, “Why?”

  “Just that the baron’s man was curious as to why they were here.” Declan paused, collecting his thoughts. “He suspects something; I don’t know what.” He looked around the common room, to see if they would be overheard, then added, “He wasn’t surprised, I guess is what I’m trying to say. I said, ‘These men turned up,’ and his reaction was ‘Oh, so they finally did,’ or something like that.” Declan put the last of the mugs into the sink to soak and said, “There is something going on, and I have a bad feeling about it.”

  Hatu’s mind raced. He couldn’t share what he’d done, communicating with his masters in Coaltachin that agents of other powers were investigating Beran’s Hill, or that he served masters in distant nations. So he said, “If the baron thinks something is important about those two, I guess that means there is, right?”

  Declan nodded. “And those two”—he lowered his voice—“baron’s men . . .”

  “Billy and Tucker,” supplied Hatu.

  “They’ve been gone a bit, too, right?”

  “Left the day after the other two.” Hatu’s expression was thoughtful. “I think they headed for Port Colos as well.”

  Declan gave a wry chuckle. “I think the baron judged what I told him to be worthy of further investigation, enough to send his own men in disguise.”

  Hatu quickly washed the mugs in a barrel of soapy water, then dunked them into cleaner water for a rinse, and set them upside down on a drying rack. He motioned with his head as he picked up the bucket of rinse-water for Declan to follow him.

  He dumped the water into a runoff gully he had dug to take such wastewater down the hill behind his property, then quickly moved to the well. As he cranked the handle to haul up a bucketful of fresh water, he said, “Which means the baron doesn’t want us to push this further, I guess—right?”

  Declan picked up the larger rinsing bucket and placed it on the edge of the well. “I suppose so.”

  Hatu filled it with fresh water a
nd Declan chuckled. “Leon only changed the rinse-water when the customers complained about the ale tasting like soap.”

  Hatu grinned in return. “How often was that?”

  “Not often,” replied Declan. He started walking toward the kitchen door. “I think because he never used much soap.”

  Hatu laughed aloud at that, and once inside at the sink, he quickly finished rinsing the mugs. He and Declan returned to the table as Hava moved past them into the kitchen.

  Hatu raised an eyebrow and she said, “It will quiet down soon, I think.” She was gone before he could reply.

  Hatu and Declan returned to Gwen, and soon, as Hava had predicted, it began to quiet. She returned, and the four friends had a relatively leisurely supper, Hatu having to leave only twice to see to customers.

  They spent two hours dining and chatting, discussing the small matters that seemed important to the residents of Beran’s Hill. Gwen seemed genuinely intrigued by gossip and rumors surrounding various people Hatu and Hava barely knew. Declan appeared attentive, but Hatu suspected it was more a matter of satisfying Gwen’s need to be heard than any genuine interest in the topics. Hatu and Hava both listened closely, their interest being more about picking up hints of more significant matters than who was stealing berries from a neighbor’s yard, who had bought a new horse, or who might be cheating on a spouse.

  As the evening wound down, Declan said, “Jusan and Millie must have sorted whatever it is they need to sort by now. But one way or another, work is building up and I need sleep.” He and Gwen stood up.

  Hava and Hatu rose as well, and Gwen said, “And we need to plan for the festival. It’s only a week off.”

  Hatu said, “I was going to ask about that. Do I need to open the inn after?”

  “Not right after. There will be food and drink brought by people from the whole town on the meadows, but afterward some people will want to continue their celebration, so the inns in the town open. My father was always the first to do so.” A momentary sadness crossed her face, then she brightened. “Nothing gets done on festival day, and not a lot more the day after,” she added with a slight laugh. “Between now and then I suggest you stock up on as much ale, wine, and whisky as you can fit in here. This festival is going to be twice the size of last year’s, I think, and that was the biggest I’d ever seen.”