Declan had been working since he could remember. His earliest memories were in the smithy with Edvalt, his fascination with the art of swordcraft awakened very early. He couldn’t remember many days when he hadn’t worked. Even on those days he wasn’t in the smithy, he had gathered fruit, helped a fishing crew, or just done some other useful task. He was not the sort to lie in the sun for an afternoon nap.
Bogartis had recruited replacements for the men he had lost at Beran’s Hill and rode ahead of a dozen of his men. That left another eight back in the city, and they would arrive in whatever time it took for them to join up with whomever else the baron was sending. Declan knew little of warfare beyond weapons and fighting so had no real sense of why things were being done this way. He considered asking one of the other men if he knew why the company was being split, but decided he’d wait for a calmer moment.
They had been riding for an hour and were now moving slowly past the straggle of citizens of Marquenet who had been among the last to leave, with their heavily laden carts and wagons and their animals already nearly exhausted. The people who watched them pass were silent, perhaps out of fatigue or fear.
A short time after passing the first refugees, Bogartis held up his hand and the column halted. They were in a clearing between two stands of trees, at the northwest end of a stone bridge, under which flowed a river Declan had once crossed in a wagon belonging to his friend Ratigan. Yet the entire scene was alien, and Declan didn’t understand why it appeared so different today. Perhaps it wasn’t; perhaps he was, he thought. His life had changed out of all recognition.
Declan looked past his captain and saw smoke in the distance. Trees blocked his view, and the road turned just a few hundred yards ahead.
Bogartis turned and shouted, “Sixto, you and Declan flank ahead, and hold up at the edge of those woods!”
Both men put heels to their mounts. Declan broke right and Sixto to the left. They passed the men in front of them, crossed the bridge, and rode swiftly to the indicated spot. Both were riding crouched low over the necks of their horses in case archers might be hiding inside the tree line.
Rustling ahead caused Declan to turn his horse toward the source of the noise and shout, “Someone’s coming!”
As he made ready to take on an attacker, Declan was surprised to see a young man holding the hand of a little girl come running out of the woods. The child screamed at the sight of the mounted swordsman, and the man swept the child up into his arms and appeared ready to dash back into the woods.
Declan shouted, “I won’t hurt you!”
The man stopped and looked at him.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Peter and we’re trying to get back to the city.”
“Back?”
“There was a battle on the road and we’ve lost our wagon.” He glanced over his shoulder.
“Is someone pursuing you?” asked Declan, looking into the dark of the woods behind Peter.
“Yes!” shouted Peter, picking up his little girl and running away.
Declan waved to Sixto, pointing down the road. “I’m going to go look! People are fleeing back to the city!”
Sixto looked back and saw that Bogartis and the others had almost caught up. He shouted, “Be wary!”
Declan urged his horse to a trot. Each yard they advanced into the woods, the air grew heavier with the haze of smoke and the acrid stench grew stronger. He rounded a curve in the track and saw in the distance what could only be a fire of some size. He slowed his mount. He could hear people passing on both sides of the road: there was no attempt at stealth. These were citizens of Marquensas fleeing back the way they had come, off the road for reasons that became increasingly clear as he progressed.
Wagons and carts cluttered the road ahead, and horses, donkeys, and mules lay dead in their traces. The contents of the wagons were strewn in every direction: piles of clothing, boxes and trunks spilling kitchen pots and tools. For an instant, Declan recalled how he used to mend such items for the villagers at Oncon, and that felt like another lifetime.
Then there were the bodies.
Everywhere he looked, in, on, and around the piled-up wagons and carts, people lay bloodied and burned. Some had been cut down where they stood, others chased down from behind, and some had died from the flames they had run from. All had been left where they fell.
Declan waited there, taking in the grim scene, feeling empty, and in less than a minute Bogartis rode up, motioning the men behind him to hold and rest for a minute. “This is brutal work,” the captain said.
Declan saw moisture in his eyes, but he didn’t know if it was from anger or the smoke.
Looking at Declan, Bogartis said, “I dread what may lie ahead.”
“Worse than this?”
Bogartis nodded, said nothing, and urged his horse on, motioning the men to follow as he slowly picked his way through the scene of savage slaughter. As he followed, Declan understood why those who had survived had run through the trees: this highway was a place of death to any who remained on it.
At last it became impossible to move forward. Bogartis signaled to his men to dismount and had the horses tied up.
On foot the carnage was even starker, as they had to walk carefully between the debris, trying not to step on human and animal corpses, and it wasn’t always possible to avoid them. Declan knew that at one time he would have felt repulsed by this, but he again found himself without feelings. His only thought was not to join the dead beneath his boots.
They reached a clearing and saw that this had been the heart of the battle and was the source of the smoke. What had been a large fire of circled wagons and carts was now mostly smoldering, though a few small blazes were still raging.
“Damn,” said Bogartis softly, and Declan instantly recognized the source of his frustration and anger. In the center of this defensive position, now reduced to burned wood, charred corpses, and dropped weapons, sat what was left of a single large carriage, the bodies of the animals that pulled it still bound to it by death after all tugs and straps had burned.
Declan recognized that carriage: he had seen it depart from the city only days earlier. Softly he said, “I thought them safely away.”
Bogartis nodded. Then he said, “They were trying to come back.”
The carriage and horses were facing Marquenet.
“They must have encountered something that caused them to turn around.”
Bogartis waved with his sword. “This. They ran into whatever army was plundering Ilcomen, and trying to get back they ran into this . . .” He shook his head. “Given the number of people on the road, I’m surprised they got back this far before being chased down from behind.”
Declan moved a little closer and saw the burned corpses of the soldiers who had died defending the baroness and the baron’s children. He didn’t need to look to know that everyone in Baron Dumarch’s family now lay dead in this small clearing on the road to Ilcomen.
He also realized that the army that had laid waste to Beran’s Hill and Copper Hills and all the coastal villages must have another force to the east of here.
Declan looked over at Bogartis, and the two shared unspoken thoughts as they imagined the baron’s reaction to discovering his entire family was dead. And then they wondered how any of them would survive with another massive army coming toward the city.
Hava led Sabien through the streets, looking casually into merchants’ stalls and the open doors of buildings, chatting about trivialities. She saw a woman of advancing years who was selling charms, the sort many sailors wore for luck at sea, and crossed to that booth.
Sabien glanced over and Hava whispered, “Say as little as possible.” He nodded.
“My friend here,” she said to the tradeswoman, “is looking for your best charm to ward off evil at sea.”
The woman’s weather-beaten face split into a smile showing surprisingly white teeth against her tanned skin. She had a good look at the big young sailor she saw
standing next to the oddly dressed woman. Hava noticed her take stock of her appearance and made a note to change that next.
“I have several, but this one”—she held up something that looked like a poorly carved jade fish—“will ward off all but the direst fate.”
“He needs it,” said Hava. “He won’t listen to me. Will you tell him it’s madness to sail west?”
The old woman’s eyes widened.
“He says he’s been promised double shares or something.”
“Are you mad?” the old woman asked Sabien, cutting off Hava. “Only those from the west can return there.” She lowered her voice, apparently fearful of being overheard. “Few ships have ventured beyond this point and none have ever returned. The claims by some that they have been west and come back are full of tales of monsters, vast cities of gold, and the usual nonsense told by those cadging drinks from others at taverns.”
Hava nodded. She’d come upon that practice many times.
Then the old woman leaned closer over her little table of charms. She whispered, “But if you are determined, you should have this trinket, one I have never offered to another.” She reached under the table into a small box and pulled out a figure of a fat little man, carved out of black stone. “You should take both.”
The haggling started, but Hava ended it quickly and moved away, thinking. The few hints here and there gleaned today led her to believe that there was a very powerful nation, or alliance of nations, that very much wanted to be left alone and that had the power and resources to ensure it was granted its privacy.
She wondered how this arrangement had come into existence: she’d come to believe that her own nation, Coaltachin, was unique in preventing others from knowing who or even where they were. Or that was what she had thought until now. But this appeared to be a trait shared with the Azhante. She wondered how they had achieved it.
She and Sabien finished walking through the market until they stood in front of a window bar on the outside of a building that the locals called a “cantina.” There were small tables and chairs nearby where those who purchased food and drink could consume them. As a former innkeeper—albeit for a very short time—Hava found the concept fascinating. Obviously, it had to be somewhere with constantly clement weather, but she could imagine the idea of—
She cut herself off from thinking how she could incorporate this into the Inn of the Three Stars. It was gone. Beran’s Hill was gone. Hatushaly was gone, and he was the only one of the three she might get back. A sense of nostalgia washed over her, but she refused to engage with it, so it passed through her instead. She would find her husband. She was determined.
She saw two men enter one of the many taverns dotted around the city of Cleverly, feeling instinctively that they were worthy of observation. “Wait here,” she said to Sabien. The way the old woman had taken note of her sailor’s togs made her realize she had been blind to the possibility of calling too much attention to herself. Her clothing choice was efficient, but it also made her look too much like what she was: a capable and dangerous woman. She removed her head scarf, handed it to the former mason, and then removed her sword. She’d taken to wearing a baldric, like most sailors who carried arms, as it was far easier to don or remove quickly aboard ship. “Put that on,” she said to Sabien. He did as ordered and adjusted his own belt knife so that it sat on the opposite hip.
Hava hurried down the street to a stall she had passed earlier. Her blouse was nondescript enough, plain grey linen with puffed sleeves and drawstrings at the cuff so that they could be worn as high or low on the arm as the wearer desired. The problem was her work breeches and boots. She decided on a large blue skirt that swept the floor, which would hide both. The vendor, a stout man with a balding head, expected a haggle but was pleasantly surprised when Hava paid the first price he named. As Hava returned to where Sabien waited, she judged it more than likely the vendor was thinking he should have asked for more.
On the way back she glanced down to ensure her boots were indeed not visible, and if she was careful not to stride out too much they weren’t.
She shook her hair out, then ran her fingers through it and returned to where Sabien waited.
“You’re a sailor in port who’s come off our ship,” Hava told him, “and I’m some street whore you’re trying to get drunk so you don’t have to pay me.”
He looked perplexed for a moment, then his face split into a smile. “We’re mummers?”
“No masks, and we can speak, but yes, we are acting.”
Sabien started to make a face and drop his shoulder, and Hava instantly realized the problem. “No,” she said, poking him hard in the chest with her index finger. “You’re trying to get me drunk, because you don’t want to pay me. I’m drinking; you’re only pretending to drink. Soon I will shout at you and you’ll get angry and get up and leave.” She glanced up and down the street. “Wait for me at that corner down there, at that big blue building. Understand?”
The sudden red staining his cheeks indicated that he did understand and was embarrassed. “Yes, Captain.”
“And don’t call me Captain in there.”
“Yes,” he replied, and she could tell he bit back the word captain only at the last instant.
She led him into the tavern and saw the two men sitting by a rear door, both watching the room. She laughed and wobbled a bit, then turned and pulled Sabien’s head down as if kissing him on the cheek, whispering, “Get two drinks and meet me at that table.” With a flick of her wrist, she attempted a giggle, which to her ears sounded forced and unconvincing. If only she had paid more attention in her studies with the Powdered Women.
She half walked, half staggered to the empty table on the other side of the door where the two men sat. One glanced at her for a moment, so she smiled at him seductively. He looked away.
She sat down and leaned back and waited for the two men to speak. Her frustration grew slowly as Sabien came over with the two flagons of ale. She nodded and whispered, “Sip slowly.” Then she made a show of taking a deep gulp while not actually swallowing any. The taste that lingered told her this was not a particularly savory brew.
She affected speaking to Sabien, but all her attention was on the two men. She was certain now that they were agents of some kind and that their purpose in this tavern had nothing to do with either drink or women.
While she and Sabien pretended to negotiate the price of her virtue, a few patrons passed through the curtained doorway between her table and the two men’s. By the amount of traffic, Hava assumed that must be where the privy was located.
After spilling most of her drink and judging that one ale wasn’t having much effect on Sabien, Hava dispatched him to fetch another round. When he did so, she noticed a change in the attitude of the two men. They were no longer scanning the entire common room of this tavern but were intently watching the door as if waiting for someone.
Hava had been trained since childhood not to dismiss these subtle changes in those being surveyed. She felt a returning pang, missing Hatu, not only for the obvious reasons, but because out of all the students at their school he had been the best at noticing the sorts of almost imperceptible change she sometimes overlooked.
Time passed slowly, and Hava decided it was time to provoke a response. She spilled her drink again, then shouted at Sabien, “Look what you made me do, you lout!”
The young man was surprised enough by the unexpected outburst—despite having been warned about it—that he looked genuinely taken aback. As he started to stammer, she shouted, “You’re trying to get me drunk to avoid paying me! Get out!” She slapped Sabien just hard enough to bring tears to his eyes from the sting, but not hard enough to injure him.
The blow caused him to leap to his feet, almost falling back over his chair, and as he blinked away the tears and his cheeks reddened both from the blow and from embarrassment, he said, “Fine!” He started to say something more, but a widening of Hava’s eyes told him to stop, so he just nodded
and yelled, “Fine!” a second time, and stalked out the door.
Hava made a show of adjusting her blouse and skirt, then took a deep breath and looked around the room slowly, until her gaze landed on the man closest to the door at the table she had been watching. “You boys looking for some fun?” she asked in a slurred voice.
Neither man graced her question with a reply. The one nearest to her simply held up his hand and made a shooing motion, not taking his eyes off the main door.
“Well,” she said with mock indignity. “I have to go piss anyway.”
She stumbled through the doorway and immediately moved to one side, so that she was separated from the two men only by the cloth curtain. She glanced around and saw that the outhouse was where she expected, a dozen yards away on the other side of an alley so that the stench wouldn’t reach the main room of the tavern. She would go down the alley to meet Sabien.
It was quiet enough that she should be able to hear the two men speak. She hoped it would be soon: she was eager to get rid of this ridiculous skirt. After what seemed an eternity, but was almost certainly less than ten minutes, she heard a chair scrape and one of the men said, “Well?” The hairs on her neck and arms stood up, for he was speaking the Azhante tongue.
“It’s the Black Wake.”
“What’s it doing here?” asked his companion.
She had no idea which voice belonged to which man.
A third voice said, “This is not where the . . .”—then a word she didn’t understand—“ . . . is supposed to be. Did you see the captain?”
Queen of Storms Page 32
