The Hunters

by John Flanagan

  Thorn met the man’s eyes for several seconds, holding his gaze and saying nothing until the toll collector shifted uncomfortably, aware that his words might have been provocative. Finally, Thorn answered.

  ‘They’re young. So they work cheap. Is that any problem of yours?’

  ‘No! No!’ The man made a fluttering gesture with his hand. There was something unsettling about Thorn’s unwavering stare. He glanced to where Rikard was huddled by the mast. The chain around his waist was obvious.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘He tried to desert. And he backchatted me. I’m teaching him a lesson,’ Thorn said.

  The man shrugged. It sounded reasonable. Then he came to a decision.

  ‘You’re staying overnight? That’ll be fifteen korona.’

  The korona was the Magyaran unit of currency. Presumably that meant they saw a lot of Magyaran ships passing through here. But Thorn was shaking his head.

  ‘I don’t have that. I’ll give you seven,’ he said bluntly. He tapped the purse at his belt and it made a muted jingling sound.

  ‘Twelve,’ the man replied without hesitation.

  ‘Nine,’ Thorn said, ‘and I’m paying in Limmatan nobles.’

  The Limmatan noble was worth slightly more than the korona. The toll keeper considered, then nodded agreement. They shook hands and Thorn transferred the money to him.

  ‘You can tie up at mooring number eight, on the second jetty across,’ the toll collector said, pointing to an unoccupied mooring. The moorings were all numbered, with the numbers painted on warped and cracked boards in fading letters. So much for the upkeep of port facilities, Thorn thought.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Thorn said and the toll collector turned back to face him, his thumbs hooked in his belt. ‘We’re looking for a black ship called the Raven. Has she passed through here in the last few –’

  Before he could finish, the toll collector was shaking his head.

  ‘No! Stop right there! I don’t get involved in that sort of thing. I’m not an information bureau. I don’t say who’s been or who’s coming. It’s none of my business and I don’t intend to make it so.’

  ‘I could make it worth your while . . .’ Thorn suggested. But all he got in return was a hard look.

  ‘You don’t know what’s worth my while,’ the man said. ‘Your mooring rental is good until noon tomorrow. If you’re still here then, you’ll pay for another full day. Don’t make trouble in town.’ He glanced at Rikard once more, then turned on his heel and stamped back into the office, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Friendly type,’ Hal remarked.

  Thorn shrugged. ‘I’d guess a great deal of his business comes from Magyaran ships passing through. He’s not going to spill the beans on them. Let’s shift to that mooring.’

  ‘Yep. Saw that black ship not four days ago,’ the one-legged man told them. ‘Passed through here, stayed a couple of nights, then went south.’

  Hal, Stig and Thorn exchanged a quick glance. The one-legged sailor noticed it and leaned forward. ‘Reckon that might be worth another drink, eh?’ he suggested.

  Thorn nodded. ‘That could be the case. If you could tell us the name of the ship.’

  They were in one of the dingier taverns in a narrow alley set back from the main thoroughfare that fronted the river. The one-legged man had attached himself to their small group, fascinated by the sight of Thorn’s beautifully crafted hook. His own prosthetic was a crudely carved peg leg.

  ‘She was the Raven. And her skipper’s name was . . .’ He paused, frowning. ‘Z . . . something. Zara? Zamat? No . . .’ He turned and called across the crowded, noisy room to another old sailor who was seated alone at a small table, blearily regarding the contents of his tankard.

  ‘Morgan! What was the name of that fellow from the black ship? Zara, or Zaba or something, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ Thorn told him. It didn’t do to have their business shouted out across a tavern, he thought. But it was too late. He glanced around the room. A couple of drinkers had turned to look at them as the one-legged man shouted to his friend. Thorn noticed a swarthy, stockily built man at the bar who was watching them. As Thorn looked his way, he casually turned back to the bar.

  Morgan looked up from his ale and frowned, trying to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Zavac,’ he called thickly, and the one-legged man pounded the table in triumph.

  ‘That’s it! Zavac! Nasty piece of work he was too. Now, how about that drink?’

  Thorn scattered several coins on the table in front of the man.

  ‘Here. And get one for your friend. You’ve earned it.’

  Pegleg looked at the coins with delight. There was more money on the table than he could scrape together in a week. He gathered the coins in, then looked hopefully at Thorn’s hand again.

  ‘So where did you say you got that fancy armpiece? Somewhere round here, maybe?’

  Thorn shook his head. ‘Up north,’ he said. ‘In Skandia.’

  ‘Hmmm. Pity.’ He paused, looking down at the coins on the table in front of him. He tried to count them but they were blurring and shifting. ‘Nothing else you need to know, is there? I see most of the ships that come through.’

  ‘No. That’s all we wanted to know,’ Thorn told him. He couldn’t believe their luck. This was the first tavern they had entered and Pegleg was the first local they had asked about the Raven. And they hadn’t even had to seek him out – he’d come to them. Thorn could sense the barely contained excitement in his two young companions.

  ‘Let’s get back to the ship,’ he said and they rose. He glanced once more at Pegleg. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  The old sailor waved a hand in the air. ‘Any time. Any time at all. And give my love to Zabar.’

  As they left the tavern, Thorn glanced quickly at the swarthy drinker seated at the bar. But the man seemed to be paying no attention to them. The other drinkers who had turned to look when Pegleg had shouted across the bar also seemed to have lost interest in them. Satisfied, Thorn followed his companions.

  The man at the bar was slumped to one side, so he could watch the Skandians without seeming to. He waited until the door had closed behind them, then slipped from his stool and hurried across the room after them.

  As he went past Pegleg, he contrived to jostle him heavily, knocking him from his own stool. He bent to help the other man back up. As he did so, he leaned close to him and whispered.

  ‘You’ve got a big mouth, friend. You should keep it shut.’

  Nobody noticed the thin stiletto that he slid into the old man’s side. Pegleg’s gasp of pain was lost in the tavern’s babble of shouting, drunken voices. Pegleg slumped forward over the table. The swarthy man patted him cheerfully on the back.

  ‘Best sleep it off, old man. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  Then he hurried out of the tavern. The three Skandians were still in sight at the end of the alley, heading towards the riverfront. Staying in the shadows, he went after them.

  There was a watchman patrolling at the foot of the jetty where Heron was moored. He wore a mail shirt and a shaped, hard leather helmet and carried a spear. A short sword hung from his belt. He nodded a greeting as Thorn, Hal and Stig hurried back to the ship.

  The rickety jetty vibrated under their urgent footsteps. They jumped down onto the deck of the Heron. The others, sensing their urgency, gathered around them.

  ‘Have they been here?’ Stefan asked.

  Thorn nodded. ‘They’re a couple of days ahead of us.’ He looked at Jesper. ‘Did you get all the supplies we needed?’ While Stig, Thorn and Hal had sought information in the taverns and eating houses, Jesper and Edvin had visited the market to restock their basic supplies.

  ‘Most of it. Couldn’t get coffee, unfortunately.’

  Thorn grunted. ‘Can’t be helped.’

  He made his way forward to where Rikard crouched, watching them. He reached into his
purse and searched for a key. Then he bent and unlocked the padlock fastening the chain around Rikard’s waist. He unlocked the loop that went around the mast, coiled the chain and dropped it into the lowered section of the hull where the rowing benches were situated. Rikard regarded him with suspicion.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said, not sure whether he should move or not. He’d witnessed Thorn’s lightning fast movement before and decided discretion was called for. Thorn made a shooing motion with his hand, as if Rikard were some kind of annoying insect.

  ‘You’re free. You told the truth, so go.’

  Rikard frowned, not sure what was going on.

  ‘Go? Go where?’ he asked. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Where am I supposed to go?’

  ‘Anywhere you like. That was the deal. You tell us where Zavac is headed and I’ll set you free. Well, we know where he’s headed, so I’m keeping my part of the bargain. Go.’ He repeated the shooing gesture.

  ‘But . . . it’s the middle of the night,’ Rikard said once more.

  Thorn shook his head impatiently. ‘You already said that. In fact, it’s relatively early for a place like this. The taverns will be open for hours yet and, frankly, I want you off this ship as soon as possible.’

  The assembled crew gave a low murmur of assent. It wasn’t a friendly sound. Rikard realised he might be lucky to be leaving with a whole skin. But still he hesitated.

  ‘How will I get to Pragha?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t got a penny on me.’

  ‘I suppose you could work your way,’ Thorn said. ‘But I know that would go against your nature.’ Reluctantly, he reached into his purse and counted out three Limmatan coins, and some smaller change he’d received in the tavern. He handed it to Rikard, who looked aggrieved.

  ‘That’s not much,’ he complained.

  Thorn stepped closer to him. When he spoke, his voice was low but full of menace.

  ‘It’s a darn sight better than hanging,’ Thorn said. ‘Don’t forget. That was your alternative. Of course, if you like, we could always carry out that sentence here and now.’

  Rikard looked at the coins, then at Thorn. He came to a decision, putting the coins in his pocket and half running to the railing. He’d come aboard with nothing, and that was how he was leaving now. He leapt up onto the jetty, clearing the ship’s rail, and hurried away without a backward glance, as if fearing that Thorn might change his mind.

  ‘Don’t forget to write,’ Jesper called, waving a mocking hand. Several of the others laughed, then Hal called them to order.

  ‘Right!’ he said crisply. ‘Let’s get cracking! Zavac’s got several days’ lead on us and I want to catch him before he makes it to Raguza.’

  The crew ran to their stations and began to ready their equipment. Attracted by the noise, the watchman made his way up the jetty and called to Hal.

  ‘You there! On the ship! What are you up to?’

  ‘We’re getting under way,’ Hal told him. But the watchman shook his head before he had finished the statement.

  ‘Not now, you’re not. No arrivals or departures between sunset and dawn.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd!’ Hal replied, with some heat. ‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t go now.’ But the watchman was adamant.

  ‘There’s every reason,’ he said. ‘Council likes to know that people don’t leave in a hurry because they’ve done things they might be ashamed of. So, no night departures, understand?’

  Hal sighed with exasperation. He looked up at the figure on the jetty, silhouetted against the night sky.

  ‘D’you think you could stop us if we really decided to go?’ he asked.

  The watchman jerked his thumb at something over Hal’s shoulder. ‘I mightn’t. But they certainly could.’

  Hal spun round to look. Lying out in the open water of the harbour was a guard boat – an eight-oared craft with a dozen armed men on board. Hal’s shoulders sagged.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes, they could probably do the job.’ He looked around in frustration. ‘I guess we’ll stay here.’

  ‘I guess you will.’

  On the shore, the swarthy man watched as Rikard ran along the jetty to dry land. The pirate looked back over his shoulder once, as if expecting Thorn to change his mind. Then he reached the shore and hurried away, plunging into the first side alley he saw. Anywhere to escape from Thorn’s unblinking stare.

  The swarthy man’s name was Vargas and he was third mate on the Raven. He had stayed behind when the ship left, waiting for a supply of rope Zavac had ordered from the rope factory. Raven’s standing rigging, the heavy ropes that supported the mast from front to back and side to side, was frayed and old. Knowing the rope manufactory was here, Zavac had taken the opportunity to buy new supplies. It was far cheaper to buy from the manufactory than to pay the profit for traders further down the river. But the heavier cables were in short supply and he’d been unwilling to wait while they were being woven. Accordingly, he’d detailed Vargas to wait behind, hiring a fast-sailing skiff to bring them when they were ready.

  They were loaded on the skiff now, coiled neatly on the decks. Vargas had intended to have one more comfortable night in Krall. But now he thought Zavac would want to know that the young crew of Skandians had discovered their whereabouts, and that they were close behind him. He knew he’d have no trouble slipping out of the port in the skiff. She was a lot harder to see than a full-size ship, after all. And she could easily be taken for one of the squid fishing boats that plied the river at night.

  But, before he left, there was something he had to take care of. He’d recognised Rikard as the former mate of the Stingray. He had obviously betrayed the fact that the Raven was heading down the Dan River. Now his information had been shown to be true, they had set him free. It was just bad luck for Rikard that Vargas had witnessed his betrayal.

  Vargas hated traitors.

  Rikard paused, and cast an anxious look over his shoulder, as if expecting to be called back at any minute. Then he hurried round the corner into a dark alley.

  And stopped short as he found himself confronted by Vargas.

  ‘Hullo, mate,’ the swarthy man said, smiling. ‘Recognise you, don’t I? Weren’t you with Nagy on the old Stingray?’

  Rikard hesitated. Alexander Nagy had been the skipper of the Stingray. The man did look familiar, he thought. And he seemed friendly. It could be good luck to run into an old shipmate. Maybe he could help him get to Pragha.

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Can’t quite place you, though. What ship were you with?’

  Vargas continued to smile easily, and stepped closer. ‘I was on the Raven,’ he said. And he saw the quick flash of fear light the other man’s eyes – confirming his treachery. ‘The ship you just betrayed.’

  He stepped forward and rammed his knife up and under the other man’s ribs, shoving and twisting until it reached, and stopped, his heart.

  Rikard shuddered briefly, then staggered back as Vargas jerked the knife free. His hands went to the blood welling from the terrible wound. He gaped at Vargas, not quite understanding.

  Then fell dead on the filthy cobblestones of the alley.

  Vargas checked briefly to make sure he was dead. Then he turned and hurried through the darkened streets to where his skiff was moored.

  ‘Stow all that bedding and loose gear,’ Hal ordered. ‘Then man the oars. Stig, get ready to cast off.’

  There was a sense of bustle and purpose about the Heron as she prepared to get under way. The sun had just risen above the eastern bank of the river, and its early morning light flooded the town. The oars rattled and clattered as the crew raised them from the bottom of the rowing well and placed them across the line of the ship, ready to run out. Stig stepped across to the jetty. The tide was full now and the ship’s rail was level with the splintered old planks. He moved to the bow rope, ready to cast it off, but Hal held up a hand.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said. He’d seen a delegation approaching down the jet
ty, moving quickly to forestall them. For a moment, he considered casting off and getting away. But he discarded the idea. In the confines of the harbour, they’d be easily overtaken by the guard boat.

  As the group of men grew closer, Thorn stepped up beside him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said quietly. ‘What have we here?’

  There were ten armed men – soldiers of the town watch, from their uniforms – and another who was obviously their officer. Accompanying them was the toll collector they’d dealt with the day before. They strode purposefully towards the Heron, bypassing other ships moored on the same jetty. They stopped as they reached the little ship. The officer jerked his head at Stig.

  ‘Leave the ropes,’ he said curtly. ‘Get back on board.’

  Stig looked as if he was about to argue. Hal knew it would be useless.

  ‘Do it, Stig,’ he said. His friend looked at him, then at the watch officer, then shrugged. He stepped across onto the deck of the Heron.

  The officer and toll collector did likewise. Hal raised his eyebrows. It was a breach of etiquette not to ask permission to come aboard. He felt a vague sense of worry gnawing at his insides.

  Thorn stepped forward. ‘Is there some kind of problem?’

  The watch captain sized him up briefly, then drew himself up to his full height. He was several inches shorter than the old sea wolf. But he could see the ragged figure had only one good arm.

  ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Man was found murdered in Tinkers Alley this morning. Knifed.’

  Thorn pushed out his bottom lip. ‘How does that concern us?’ he asked.

  The captain scrabbled in his belt purse for a few seconds, and produced three Limmatan noble coins.

  ‘He had these on him,’ he said. ‘When we asked around, this man –’ he jerked a thumb at the toll collector ‘– said your ship was the only one to pay in Limmatan coins. And when he saw the body, he recognised him. Said you had him chained up to the mast when you came in.’