Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  “I didn’t go to the ship but watched from a shop across the wharf.”

  A few words were uttered in tones too low for Hava to catch, and then the voice of the man who had been last to join the table said, “One boat left, but I couldn’t see who came ashore. A big man and a small man, I think. The small one wore a red jerkin, so perhaps that was the captain. If betrayal was in play, I did not want to place myself at risk before being certain.”

  “The captain probably came here to skim some booty for his own purse before traveling to Elsobas. That’s where all slaves were to be delivered.” There was a moment of quiet, then he added, “Perhaps because he’s early. He’s not due there for another two or three days.”

  Some more muttered conversation was exchanged, then Hava thought she recognized the voice of the last man to join the table. “All the slaves were to be routed there, and then the rest of the Black Wake’s booty brought to . . .” She heard the word, but it was the name of a place she didn’t know. But at least she knew where to search next for Hatu.

  “Send men to check every brothel in the port for that fat pig of a captain; his first duty was to follow instructions. I will not endure the wrath of a pride lord because of him. Kill him and put someone else with as many sicari as we can spare aboard the ship in the morning and sail it to where it needs to be. Once there we can dispose of the rest of the crew.”

  Hava didn’t wait a moment longer but glanced around to see if anyone might see her, rid herself of the annoying skirt, and hurried down the alley toward the blue building where Sabien waited.

  Hatu came awake with two thoughts in his mind: first, that he was tired of waking up on strange ships with his head throbbing, and second, that he just might kill everyone who’d had a hand in his abduction. He got to his feet and found that his breath was a little short and his legs a bit wobbly. He assumed these must be the aftereffects of whatever drug Bodai had put into his drink.

  He looked around the cabin and decided that at least they had chosen nice quarters for him. He worked his way to the cabin door, the tingling in his arms and legs fading and his strength returning with each step.

  By the time he reached the main deck, the afternoon sun and strong wind helped to revive him, though he felt an unexpected thirst. He moved to the water barrel, pulled off the wooden cover with one hand, and plunged the iron ladle into the fresh water. He pulled it up and took a long drink. The iron-tinged taste of the water reminded him as much as anything else that he was aboard a ship, and that fueled his anger.

  Hatu climbed the steps to the quarterdeck and saw Bodai at the wheel. He was watching the sails one moment, glancing to port and then starboard every few seconds. He took a step toward his former master, and a sailor moved in front of him. “He needs to be left alone. We’re in treacherous waters.”

  “Why is he at the wheel?”

  “Few know the true way, and he is the only pilot who can get us safely free of these reefs.”

  Hatu watched carefully as Bodai steered.

  A lookout at the bow shouted, “Blue water to port!”

  Hatu saw Bodai correct the heading slightly to port and looked back at the sailor. The seaman said, “You can tell the depth by the color in many places among these reefs and islands. The darker the color, the deeper the water.” He blew out a breath that was almost a sigh, as if he had been holding it in. “On the right day, when the sky is clear. When the sky is overcast or too cloudy . . .” He left the thought unfinished, but Hatu took his meaning. This was a dangerous place.

  “Why this route?”

  “The Nytanny people do not patrol here without a reason.”

  Hatu had no idea who or what the Nytanny were and turned to ask a question as the sailor walked away. Resigned to leaving that question unanswered, Hatu watched Bodai. He still found it unbelievable that this man was not a true master of Coaltachin but in fact an agent of the Flame Guard, a group he still knew so little about. In just the same way that Catharian was not a true monk of the Order of Tathan, working on behalf of the Church of the One. Hatu found it almost comical, the irony that everyone who claimed they were trying to protect him was actually living a lie.

  He could just about understand the logic, but given his upbringing, trust was rare and hard-won, so he’d bide his time, rein in his anger, and wait to see what the future held. He had a rough idea of the course they had taken from Elsobas. Should the opportunity present itself and he came upon a large enough boat stocked with provisions, sailing from anywhere along this string of islands and keeping to a course of east by northeast would eventually take him back to North Tembria. All he needed was a chance.

  He shook his head as if waking himself. It was a fantasy, an idle dream of escaping and returning to North Tembria, making his way back to Hava, ignoring all these claims of his legendary status . . . He ached to be with her in their little inn. But this was the height of folly: it was wishing for the impossible.

  Hatu moved to the rail and glanced down. The water was clear enough that beyond the ship’s wake he could see glimpses of coral and rock. Taking a deep breath, he felt the fog in his brain continue to lift. The wind was a relief, for the sun at this latitude was harsh. Standing in the shade was pleasant, but the ship’s constant changing of direction kept putting him back into direct sunlight.

  He looked around, for a moment wondering if he should lend a hand, but decided to wait until he was asked, for any disruption in the smooth operation of the ship in these waters was dangerous, even if it was well intentioned.

  The sun continued to lower, and perhaps two hours before sunset Bodai handed the wheel over to the helmsman. He worked his shoulders a bit as he walked toward Hatu, as if they were stiff from steering the ship.

  Hatu said, “We’re a long way from anywhere I know.”

  Bodai nodded. “We’re a long way from anywhere. This is perhaps as empty a stretch of water as you’re likely to find.” He glanced at the sails out of habit, to check if they were properly trimmed, then said, “I’ve visited more islands than I can remember, on both sides of this world. But here”—he waved his hand in a circle—“we’re two days’ sail to the nearest inhabited island and three days beyond that to a port of any size. And still we are more than a month away from reaching our destination.”

  Hatu said, “So you’ll have time to explain all of this?” His tone left little doubt he had no trust in these people.

  “Most of it. Some of it will wait until you’ve finished your studies.”

  “Studies?”

  “Yes,” said Bodai with a rueful expression. “You were to have come to us, like the other Firemane boys, for special training when you were a toddler and returned to your family after ten years.”

  Hatu’s expression was doubtful. “But I’ve been—”

  Bodai interrupted. “Your training in Coaltachin proved useful up to a point: it kept you alive. The training I speak of, the training you were supposed to have undergone as a small child, should have been over before fuzz appeared on your cheeks.”

  “What sort of training?”

  “How to use the power within you, without killing yourself or others.”

  “Power?” said Hatu. “I have no power.” But as soon as he said this he remembered that night aboard the ship with Hava as they passed through the Narrows, when he had first kissed her and she had told him that light had come out of him.

  “You have power you haven’t even become aware of, boy,” Bodai said. “If you use it without training, it could be disastrous.”

  Hatu said nothing while he thought about this. As much as he wanted to deny what he had just been told, to turn his efforts toward finding Hava, he knew there was some truth to what Bodai had said.

  Declan watched in silence as the rest of the troops from the city arrived, the baron in the lead. Daylon Dumarch’s face showed a cascade of emotions: shock, disbelief, horror, and then grief—all within seconds.

  One of the sergeants who had been set to gua
rd the site by Bogartis said, “My lord, I don’t think—”

  The baron pushed past him and moved to stare at the smoking rubble that once had been his personal carriage. Declan had already seen what the baron now inspected with horror. Twisted husks that had once been people lay contorted, both inside and outside the wagon. The burned bodies of soldiers who had died defending his family lay in a circle, and almost certainly two of those bodies belonged to the baron’s sons. Within the wagon Declan had seen three corpses, two of them small: the baron’s wife and daughters. His entire family had been destroyed in a single day.

  Balven dismounted and ran to his brother’s side, as Daylon emitted a cry, a wail that began in the pit of his soul, ripped through his heart, and erupted out of him.

  Declan watched on and wondered why he had never felt that way when his own wife and friends had been butchered.

  18

  Choices, Chaos, and Change

  Donte followed the soldier from the room in which he had spoken with Balven, aware that something serious was going on: everywhere he looked servants were hurrying. He passed through pantries where food was being prepared for storage or for travel, he didn’t know which, and through a large scullery where dishes and cooking utensils were being cleaned before being packed away. They walked down a series of halls in the keep, past rooms he assumed were servants’ quarters, since they were all belowground.

  Turning a corner, Donte saw another hallway off to his right that led back to the kitchen, pantry, and scullery; past that, they climbed steps and went through a doorway into a barracks. It was currently empty, for every soldier in the keep must be busy elsewhere. Donte had no idea what was going on, but judging by the commotions that had been occurring throughout the day, he knew it was something momentous, possibly an attack. As he glanced toward the far door that led to the marshaling yard, the soldier said, “That bunk in the corner is yours.”

  “Do you know what is going on?”

  “We’re at muster,” said the soldier. “I was told to bring you here and wait until someone relieved me.”

  “And I’m to just wait here, too, I guess.”

  “I was just told to keep you here,” the man said, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked like a seasoned soldier, and Donte noticed a small castle emblem on the left side of his tabard, indicating that he was one of the baron’s household guards, the best soldiers here. There was a small chance that Donte could take away his sword and overpower him, but it seemed unlikely, besides which the castle was teeming with more like him and, beyond that, the city streets would hold hundreds more, and he doubted he could kill all of them.

  Donte looked at the indicated bed: a thin mattress filled with what he assumed to be straw on a wooden frame strung with rope that held it up off the cold stone floor. He walked over to it and sat on the bunk, and the soldier moved off to stand nearby.

  Donte turned and lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d slept on worse. Far worse. He closed his eyes. There was nothing to do but wait, and over the years Donte had learned time seemed to pass quickly if he slept while waiting, plus he was better off rested, in case something nasty came his way.

  Given the uproar on all sides, Donte suspected something very nasty was coming his way.

  Hava asked, “Are we ready?”

  George nodded and said, “Yes, Captain.”

  “Then let’s get under way.”

  George passed the orders, and Hava observed how her crew was falling into place. She had ordered as quiet a departure as was possible, given that she knew the sicari ashore were looking for Captain George and she did not want them raising the alarm any sooner than was necessary.

  She had returned to the ship by as circuitous a route as she could improvise, having Sabien navigate a stolen dinghy while leaving the ship’s gig tied to the dock. She hoped whoever might be stationed in the harbor would be watching that boat, waiting for the captain’s return, rather than watching the Black Wake, but she knew she would have only minutes once she ordered the sails raised before someone ashore noticed they were departing. There was no ship in evidence nearby that could overtake hers, but that didn’t mean something faster wasn’t anchored off another part of the island. Just because Cleverly was the hub port didn’t mean it was the only port.

  She hoped her precipitous departure wouldn’t endanger those who had elected to stay in Cleverly. They would probably be questioned about her possible destination if they were identified.

  Again she took in the unfolding routine of a ship’s crew that knew what it was doing. Two of the previous crew had elected to leave, but the rest remained, and more than thirty of the freed prisoners had sailing experience. Others were apprenticing, at least until they decided what their next choice in life might be.

  George turned to his captain and said, “Elsobas is about two days’ sail to the north of us.” He tilted his head as if thinking about something. Hava was coming to trust his knowledge of this region. She had little choice, after all, since she knew next to nothing about this part of the world, though she was learning quickly. Besides, George might have been a degenerate gambler, but otherwise he seemed a reliable sort, and Hava had spent most of her life around people who were anything but reliable. She glanced to the rear of the ship where Molly Bowman lay, recovering from her injuries, which had been more severe than first judged. Molly had regained consciousness the day after Hava found her, but she had quickly fallen asleep again. Hava had tried to speak to her, but each time she had found the young woman sleeping. She hoped Molly would regain her health soon. Hava had a feeling she’d need the tough archer before this journey was over.

  Hava turned to see George still lost in thought as he steered the ship away from Cleverly. “George?”

  “Captain?”

  “Elsobas. Why there?”

  “It makes sense that is where the slaves from the Twins would be brought. From there past the Border Ports, it’s rumored that several different lanes of travel exist to . . . whatever destination lies to the southwest.”

  Hava knew “the Twins” was how he and others on this ship referred to North and South Tembria.

  “And there is a lot of business done there that bears watching,” George added, “so expect agents, those working for the black-clad—I mean the sicari—to be watching.” He again looked as if he was dwelling on something. “Also, it may be where the sicari are most vulnerable. The stories say if anyone was trying to slip by those sicari, that’s the island they’d choose. I’ve never ventured beyond, but tales suggest that from there you can run through a string of islands that are almost completely surrounded by nasty reefs and shoals, through a channel that only a few know, and you end up at some . . .” He smiled and spread his hands for a moment, palms down, before grabbing the ship’s wheel again. “Treasure, secret places, the usual.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “But sometimes there’s a nugget of truth in stories, and if anyone could be smuggling past the Border Ports, that would probably be their chosen course.”

  Hava nodded. “Then Elsobas it is.”

  Silently, she prayed to whichever god or goddess chose to listen that she was making the correct choice, that Hatu had been taken there by the monks, or whatever they truly were, and that she’d arrive in time to find him.

  Declan rode between Sixto and Bogartis. It was clear that everyone in the company needed to talk, for none of them had to be a military expert to know that Marquensas was verging on total chaos. The surrounding lands in all directions were under threat of being attacked at any moment.

  Behind the column, refugees were appearing, swarming out of the woods on both sides of the wide road that led back to the city. Some of the soldiers at the rear of the column had shouted questions to them, and word had been passed up to those in the vanguard. Bogartis’s company was first of the mercenaries, which put it in the middle of the long column, and what Declan heard painted a grim picture.

  Apparently, a force had ma
rched up through the Covenant, near Declan’s home village of Oncon, and swept westward along the highway into Ilcomen, slicing through the lower half of the kingdom. The baron’s family, faced with a wave of refugees fleeing ahead of the invaders, had been forced to turn and attempt to go back to Marquenet, only to be slowed by the clog of people around them.

  Raiders had come at them from the south, and the combination of a stout defense and panicked refugees had kept the fight going for hours, until the attackers had simply cut brush, set it on an abandoned wagon, fired it, and pushed the wagon into the midst of the defenders. Declan could imagine the rest.

  He knew the baron had been so overcome by his loss that his brother and two soldiers had had to steady him enough to get him back onto his horse. Dumarch and Balven were now far ahead of where Bogartis’s company rode, and Declan had no inkling of whether the baron had regained any shred of composure.

  Shouts from behind them caused Declan, Bogartis, and the rest of the company to look to the rear. Instantly Declan realized that those coming up from behind were not refugees but a company of horsemen.

  “Wheel and ready!” shouted Bogartis, as the companies behind his started to engage the attackers. He signaled for his company to follow him as he charged into the fray.

  Declan flexed his right shoulder and felt no discomfort. He drew his sword and drew a long belt knife with his left hand, ready to employ the two-handed fighting technique Sixto had taught him.

  For a brief instant he was startled by the appearance of the warriors who came charging at him out of the tree line. They were short and broad chested and had arms that seemed unusually long for their frames. They wore what looked like animal furs, and their bodies were covered in paint, mostly green, but with streaks of red and yellow. Their heads were uncovered and their black hair was tied up on top of their scalps in a large knot, and they carried swords and cudgels: only a few were archers. They screamed and shouted, and Declan couldn’t understand a word of their language, but when an arrow sped by, missing him by inches, his shock was short-lived.