Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Masters who no longer command crews or govern towns, but just fish and watch sunsets—that’s being retired.”

  “Master Facaria?” asked Hatu.

  Nodding, Bodai said, “And Master Zusara, soon.” Taking another bite, he talked around the mouthful. “It’s better than ending up dead, which is what happens to most masters of Coaltachin.”

  Hatu ate quickly, finishing his food and drinking the last of his wine.

  Bodai did likewise. “I imagine you have many questions, so let me tell you a few things to save us both some time.”

  Hatu nodded.

  “You are the last remaining child of the Firemane line, which I imagine you know already. The baron must have told you?”

  Hatu nodded again.

  “He had no reason to keep it a secret from you, though it would be best if it was kept a secret from others.”

  “For a secret, quite a few people seem to know,” said Hatu dryly.

  “True.” With a sweep of his hand, Bodai indicated the people nearby.

  Hatu looked around and noticed that some were glancing in his direction, while others were actually staring at him.

  “What?”

  “When was the last time you put dye in your hair?”

  Hatu winced. “Weeks.”

  “The sun brings out the gold-and-copper shine,” said Bodai. “It’s all right. We’ll be long gone before the unique quality of your appearance alerts anyone who might potentially harm you.”

  Hatu felt little by way of comfort in that reassurance.

  Bodai took another drink from his cup, then said, “Well, time is fleeting, so let me continue. I am a member of the Flame Guard. I infiltrated the gangs of Coaltachin when I was younger than you are now. It took long planning, and I took the place of the real Bodai, who was a son of a master . . .” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll give you the full story some other time. I was a pedagogue, what you would call a preceptor, in other words a person who teaches, a teacher.”

  Hatu chuckled. “That is hardly a surprise.”

  “It was fortuitous that the real Bodai and I resembled each other and the father of the true Bodai was, shall I say, inattentive to his own children.” He took another drink, and Hatu did as well. “By the time I reached Coaltachin, enough years had passed that those who knew the real Bodai well were either dead or . . . years fog the memory.” He signaled and a woman came to their table and refilled both cups.

  Hatu took a long drink and said, “I’ve had many different wines, but this . . . ?”

  “The same people who call what we ate a small beast of burden call this ‘blood of fruit,’ which I guess is as good a name for mixing wine, water, and fruit as any.” Bodai smiled. “In any event, by the time I reached Coaltachin I had learned to speak the language flawlessly, knew enough of the real Bodai to fool all but his closest friends—but they were conveniently killed when we captured him. Even his father accepted me, though I doubt he knew as much about his son as I did by the time we disposed of the lad.”

  Hatu was hardly surprised by any of this. Ruthlessness had been drummed into him during his training.

  “From there it was merely a matter of working my way up from crew leader to gang leader, and eventually I took my ‘father’s’ place after disposing of a pair of older brothers—the real Bodai had confessed to wanting to kill them himself, so I was merely carrying out his wishes, in a manner of speaking.” He shook his head in mock regret. “The father . . . well, I would not be the first gang boss in the Kingdom of Night to arrange for my ‘father’s’ demise.

  “The rest of my story is of little concern to you, until the time when you were rescued from the battle known as the Betrayal. One of our agents used every gift at her disposal to flee the villa where the last Firemane king’s family resided, and to the best of our knowledge no one else with a drop of Firemane blood exists. Your father and his father were both surprisingly devoted men who had children only with their wives. Highly unusual among nobles, I must say, but it’s not completely unheard of.

  “What was unexpected was that Baron Dumarch would arrange for you to be reared by the nastiest society of cutthroats, thieves, assassins, and thugs on that side of Garn.” He spread his hands. “Still, it may have served. Without training, the power within you might have destroyed you, and though you were hardly trained as your father or the Flame Guard might have wished, at least the preceptors of Coaltachin beat discipline into you, and that prevented you from killing yourself and others.”

  Hatu felt a warm feeling starting to rise in him. He was not sure if it was emotion or a combination of the fruit wine and the midmorning sun. He said, “There were times . . .” His thought drifted away. It had been a long voyage and he was far more tired than he had thought. He glanced around as the warm feeling continued to rise and saw what Bodai had meant. It was very pleasant sitting here next to this tiny landing, with trees swaying in the breeze, seabirds wheeling above, and the sun warm on his face. “What about you? You’re a master. Won’t someone come looking for you?”

  “I will not be the first master of Coaltachin to venture on a mission, never to be heard from again. Not often, but it has happened before. As far as anyone back there knows, I departed on a ship in a small port just across the Ilcomen border with Marquensas. If Denbe hadn’t gotten word to me, the next day that ship would have been heading for Coaltachin. I sent a message home that I was returning north to see what was afoot with the raids, then got a smaller ship with men loyal to me and the Flame Guard, and here we are.” He sighed. “The Council will get word of the assault on the western coast of North Tembria and will assume that at some point I was a casualty. And I may return to Coaltachin, if fate demands, with an enthralling account of my narrow escape and heroic survival.”

  “What next?” Hatu asked.

  Bodai pointed. “See that ship?”

  Hatu looked where Bodai indicated, taking notice of a ship resting at anchor. It was a much larger ship than the one he had arrived on, and it was anchored a short boat ride offshore. Hatu saw that it had three masts, twin foresails, and a large gaff spanker, all neatly furled. Several men were moving on the deck and in the yards, so Hatu assumed it was making ready to sail. He saw a large rowboat heading toward the dock.

  “Denbe is already aboard and, along with the best fighters we have left, is making ready to start the last leg of your journey.”

  Hatu started to speak but really didn’t care to, so he just nodded, then yawned.

  “When the tide turns, we shall be on it. We will cross a stretch of ocean known as the Border to get you to the safest place on Garn. When we are under way I can answer all your questions and make you understand why it’s vital we save your thankless hide. You may have been content to be an innkeeper—until the masters of Coaltachin decided to be done with you—but in truth you have a larger role to play.”

  Yawning again, Hatu glanced at the two men who stood slightly off and behind Bodai. “And these two large fellows are to make me go with you?” His eyelids were getting heavy.

  Bodai grinned. “They’re going to carry you to that approaching launch because you’re not going to be able to walk once the drug I put in your wine takes hold.”

  Hatu tried to say something, but the words fled. Then he lost consciousness.

  Declan parried Sixto’s thrust and moved to his right. He anticipated Sixto countering to that side and had his blade ready as a looping blow came his way. The clang of metal blades was one of many noises permeating the marshaling yard of the baron’s keep, as laborers hurried to complete repairs and improvements at their lord’s command. Everyone worked as if an attack was coming at any minute, so they worked from first light until dark and then by torchlight.

  Declan felt his right shoulder loosening by the day but kept practicing with his left hand. He was growing adept at fighting with either hand now. He crouched, readying himself for a second attack.

  As the sparring continued, Declan man
aged to hold Sixto at bay, a considerable achievement compared to his previous lessons, in which he was usually smacked with the flat of a blade within a few minutes. Sixto had been a demanding tutor, barely giving Declan any measure of consideration, and the young smith had bruises all over his left shoulder, side, and back to show where he had failed to counter a blow.

  Suddenly Declan became aware that something had changed. He stepped back and put his right hand palm out, indicating that he was disengaging.

  “What?” asked Sixto.

  “Listen.”

  Sixto paused, then nodded. Both men held on to their weapons and moved rapidly toward the gate to the keep. In the background, behind the cacophony of the workers, something in the sounds of the city below had changed: there was a swelling of distant voices, and the tone was one of alarm.

  As they reached the gate in the outer wall, they could hear a rising tide of noise from the far side of the city moving toward them. After the relative quiet of Marquenet over the last week, with most of the city’s residents having fled east, this was disturbing.

  “What do you think?” Sixto said. “An attack?”

  “No,” replied Declan. “If it was, we’d have heard an alarm by now.”

  Moments later two riders came racing into view from the direction of the eastern gates. Both were mud spattered and one had bloodstains on his tabard, visible even from where Declan and Sixto stood. Their exhausted horses wheezed for breath as they raced past the gates toward the keep.

  Soldiers ran from all corners of the marshaling yard shouting questions. The horses were wobbly legged, and Declan reckoned both were probably ruined by their headlong gallop.

  “The east?” asked Sixto as the men hurried into the keep.

  Sergeants restored order and the horses were led away, while Declan said, “They came from that gate, so yes.”

  “We’d better get ready,” said the older fighter.

  “Why?”

  Sixto looked around and said, “Either an attack is coming or we need to go to where they came from.”

  “We?” asked Declan as he moved alongside Sixto to where the mercenaries had been housed.

  Sixto glanced around. “The baron will certainly send someone should those who fled east be at risk. We aren’t soldiers, so we won’t be tasked with building these fortifications. But we are fighters and a fight is coming.” He paused and put his hand on Declan’s right shoulder. “I hope this is healed, because you will need both good arms very soon, my friend.”

  They gathered up their jackets from the ground where they had left them, and as they moved toward the barracks Bogartis appeared. He shouted to the men in his company, “Get ready. We ride in fifteen minutes!”

  “You were right,” said Declan. Then he said in a tone that didn’t sound complaining, but just curious, “Why us?”

  Sixto gave him a mocking grin. “Who else? We have fresh horses and we had a much gentler time returning from Beran’s Hill.” He paused, then added, “Of course, we were there during the fight, and these soldiers were not, but apparently that doesn’t matter. Still, we did rest a bit while these lads are close to exhaustion from all the work.” Declan conceded that there were few soldiers who hadn’t been laboring from dawn to dusk in improving the city’s defenses. He’d been impressed with how hard the garrison was willing to work for the baron. The mercenaries had been given lighter duties, mostly scouting and running messages, and Declan had spent a lot of time simply healing his injury.

  Seeming almost pleased to be doing something besides sitting around waiting for an attack, Sixto pulled his gauntlets from his belt and slapped Declan’s chest with them. As he put them on, he said, “But mostly, my friend, we get paid to fight, and to die.”

  Declan had no response to that. He just followed Sixto into the barracks to gather up their gear.

  17

  Voyages and Disasters

  Hava moved to the bow to get a better look at their destination. After getting around to inspecting the previous captain’s quarters and having all his clothing and most of his personal belongings either spread among the crew and former prisoners or thrown over the side, she had discovered a few very welcome items. Besides a badly hidden chest of gold coins and some gems worth more than any thief from Coaltachin could imagine seeing in one lifetime, she had found a rare and precious spyglass. The brass tube slid out to a length that allowed distant viewing, while compacting down again to fit in a pocket. She was using it now.

  “What am I seeing?” she asked George.

  “The port of Cleverly. The island is named Caladose, and this is the most likely port for a heavy trader like this one to put into.”

  “Odd name for a town,” she remarked.

  “I have no idea who named it,” he replied, “but it’s clever insofar as you have to be coming straight in as we are to land safely. Lots of reefs and shoals around here that can rip out the bottom of a deep-water ship like this. Most vessels this size will anchor offshore and use barges or longboats to offload their cargo.”

  “I wasn’t planning on getting too close or offloading a large part of our cargo,” she said. “Just enough to have a reason for being here and a chance to poke around and get some information. So this is probably this ship’s original destination?”

  George nodded in the affirmative. “Probably is the word. That much wealth below says this was a special shipment, intended for a very powerful and important individual or group. This is the busiest port in the northern reaches of the Border, and maybe we would have headed farther south.” He shrugged and then added, “But I doubt it. Captain George would have been anxious to offload all these trade goods and collect his fees.”

  Hava laughed. “His fee was to have his throat cut and be tossed overboard.”

  George shared the black humor. “I suspect the rest of us are in danger of that fate as well.”

  “If someone is worried about one of your boys speaking about this booty, almost certainly. As I told you, the two sicari seemed concerned about Captain George knowing a little too much about where they came from. So, what can you tell me about Cleverly?”

  George said, “I’ve put in here a few times, so I can suggest some people you can trust. Too many of those who claim to know things—”

  “Tell you what they think you want to hear for a price,” finished Hava. She realized again that the training she’d received had led her to understand how such scams worked. If George could cut down the time spent digging up possible information about where Hatu might have been taken, that was a gift from the gods.

  “Yes,” said George.

  “Thank you. I’ll take you up on that offer. I’ve got Sabien in the hold choosing what we’re going to fence here. We’re only selling enough to offer some explanation as to why we’re here: actually I’m here for information.”

  George nodded. “I see that.” He paused for a moment; then he said, “You’ve not told me what sort of information you need, or what exactly brings you on this sojourn to the Border Ports. If you don’t want to, fine, but the more I know, the better I can help.”

  She glanced toward the island, which was now resolving into an image she could see without the spyglass. She collapsed it and stuck it into a pocket in her jerkin, a red thing embroidered with silver thread that she had found in the previous captain’s trunk. Her first reaction had been amusement; then she had decided to keep it. By the time she’d finished taking over that cabin, she found she actually liked the gaudy garment. After a close inspection, she had discovered that not only was it a lurid fashion choice, but it was replete with useful hidden pockets—including a space inside to secret a pair of small blades—as well as numerous equally useful outside pockets.

  “It seems keeping you alive was a good choice, George.”

  Her first mate laughed. “I couldn’t agree more, Captain.”

  Hava said, “What do you think of Sabien?”

  “He’s loyal to you, if that’s what you’re asking
. He’s a smart, strong man, and he seems to have no desire to leave.”

  “Good. That’s why I made him third mate. How many do you reckon want to leave?”

  “All of the oldest prisoners, which doesn’t surprise me. They are not cut out for a life at sea. As for the rest, they have nothing to return for, unless they want to try to rebuild their old lives out of the ashes, which they all seem too smart to believe possible.” He sighed and shook his head. “When I was a young man I believed I knew all the answers, but life taught me otherwise.” He stared off toward the island for a moment, then added, “And of course the very young, too; they’re fortunate, as the older folks are willing to take them in.”

  Hava immediately thought of Meggie, who was barely old enough to be considered a woman. “What are they going to do if they don’t come with us?”

  “There are villages and towns scattered through these islands, so anyone who doesn’t settle here can find somewhere nearby. This is a mixed community of people who were born here and those who have landed here and stayed. If you are honest and can work, someone will give you a chance.”

  Hava realized there were limits as to how much she could protect those who had fallen under her care, and she knew that fretting over those limits was futile. “Very well.” She considered and then added, “Give anyone who leaves a few coins, enough to get them by, but not so much they become targets.” She was surprised to find her eyes becoming moist. “Take a moment and advise them all about not revealing too much about their money.”

  “Aye, Captain.” George left to carry out her instructions, leaving Hava alone with her thoughts.

  She fought back rising anger, frustration, and a pang of guilt: torn between rage over needing to find her husband and a deep sorrow that she didn’t even know the names of two of those three children she had turned her back on in Port Colos.

  Declan found the ride east a relief in a strange way. He knew they were out courting trouble of the worst sort: unexpected trouble. The road from Marquenet to Ilcomen was supposed to be relatively safe to travel, especially with a large company of soldiers accompanying the baroness and her family, as well as a sea of refugees, while the invading forces were all supposed to be north of the city. Yet something unexpected had occurred, and he knew those riders hadn’t raced back to the city because the baroness had forgotten her favorite dress. Still, Declan welcomed the change, as sitting around allowing his shoulder to heal, with only his fighting practice with Sixto to interrupt the monotony, was taking its toll.