Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  The second attacker flailed at Hatu, who kept his wits about him enough to parry it and then deliver a thrust that sliced open the man’s cheek. Like the others, the man wore the strange headgear Hatu had first seen in Sandura, similar to the uniforms worn by sicari from Coaltachin. The cut caused the attacker’s head cover to fall away, and Hatu saw in his face that he was clearly intent on killing him.

  Hatu had never been this close to someone who wanted him dead, and the bile growing in his stomach rushed up into his throat. His thought at that moment was that vomiting was probably going to get him killed, but he couldn’t seem to stop it.

  The wounded man reeled back, and Hatu stepped around Denbe, who was staggering from his wound, and cut hard across the sicari’s chest. Suddenly there was blood everywhere, and Hatu knew his attacker was dying.

  He turned to Denbe. The old warrior looked up at him and tried to say something, but was unable to make a sound. His chest was wet with blood, and a moment later Hatu saw Denbe crumple and die at his feet.

  A raw heat rose up inside him. Dragging his gaze from the old fighter, he saw that more black-clad attackers were swarming up the ladder. One kicked the still body of Denbe aside and raised his blade to deliver a killing blow to Hatu.

  Rage erupted within Hatu. The sensation of needing to void his stomach turned into another sensation that he’d never experienced in his life. He saw the blow swinging toward his head and put up his left hand reflexively. He felt the blow glance off the buckler and the shock of it run up his arm, and suddenly the world around him exploded into red.

  The buckler dropped away. Hatu put his hand out and he saw the attacker right in front of him. When he opened his mouth, rather than void his stomach, a scream unlike anything Hatu had ever known tore from his throat. It was not merely a sound, but a wave of something Hatu could put no name to. As the sicari’s sword slashed downward, a blast of flame erupted from Hatu’s hand. It engulfed the sicari’s sword hand and within seconds reduced it to a charred nub. Hatu watched as the sword fell to the deck with a clatter, and the sicari shrieked in agony.

  Hatu thrust his hand out again, and a narrow line of fire shot out and wrapped around the man’s head and shoulders. With a flash of clarity, he felt rage turn into purpose. He walked forward and each sicari before him fell away in agony as they burst into flame. No weapon touched Hatu as the flames rose around him. It was as if he had become another being, a demigod shielded by unimaginable energies. Both his hands now shimmered with fire, and waves of heat preceded him. He found his mind retreating into a place of calm observation, as if someone else had taken over command of his body, and he was only a witness.

  Within moments, the victory by the Azhante was turned into defeat, as screaming enemies burned all over the ship, and his own crew fell back in awe. Hatu moved to the side of the ship and turned his hands toward the Azhante vessel, and long lances of fire seemed to explode from his palms. Within moments, flames raged across the deck and up the masts as the sicari vessel’s sails caught fire.

  “Cut her loose!” he heard someone shout.

  Hatu felt his vision shift and his knees begin to shake. Turning, he saw frantic crewmen fighting the flames on his own ship, spreading from the men he had burned, and others furiously hacking at the grappling ropes that bound the two ships together. He felt dizzy, and then suddenly there was darkness.

  When Hatu opened his eyes he found himself back in his quarters and saw Bodai sitting on a stool beside his bunk. He tried to sit up but discovered he was desperately weak, his body aching and every joint protesting as he tried to move. When he attempted to speak, he could barely make a sound, for his throat and mouth felt as if they had been filled with hot sand, and his head ached beyond anything he had ever known.

  Bodai was pale, his upper body wrapped in bandages. He reached out and put his hand on Hatu’s chest. “Don’t try to sit up.”

  Hatu lay back and with a hoarse croak asked, “Denbe?”

  “Dead,” said Bodai, which confirmed Hatu’s memory of the assault. He felt sorrow, despite his previous anger at being abducted by Denbe, and a shock of relief that Bodai still lived.

  He tried to frame another question, but Bodai shook his head. “You destroyed the Azhante ship. We lost a lot of men, but we survived. We are back on course.”

  Tears shone in the old man’s eyes as he said in a harsh whisper, “Now do you understand why you must be trained?”

  19

  Betrayal, Acceptance, and Piracy

  Bernardo Delnocio sat in shocked disbelief as the reports came in, by the hour now. Every agent in his employ had sacrificed every carrier pigeon they possessed to send him dire news.

  He sat in stunned silence at the last one he had opened, from Levar, his closest ally in Brojues, his eyes and ears on the Council of the Episkopos, and he had read the three words repeatedly.

  The secret passageway began to open, and at once Bernardo laid his hand on the dagger at his belt, which he kept discreetly out of sight until needed. Marco Belli slipped into the private chamber, their usual meeting place. The most deadly and trusted agent in Delnocio’s service looked haggard and near exhaustion.

  Delnocio held up his hand, indicating that they should not speak. Removing a key from a pocket in his cassock, he inserted it into the lock of an ornate trunk that sat against a wall and opened the lid. Bernardo Delnocio quickly stripped off his clerical garb and donned a well-made outfit designed for travel: sturdy trousers and tunic, leather boots in place of his ornate slippers, a cap with ear covers, and a dark green cloak, which he folded over his arm.

  If Marco Belli, the man many called “Piccolo,” was surprised by this exchange of regalia for common garb, he did not show it. Last from the trunk, Delnocio removed a small box of plain wood and quickly opened the lid to inspect the contents. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he nodded once and led Belli back into the secret passage, waiting as the spy-assassin closed the entrance, which masqueraded as a bookcase.

  Once they were deep into the tunnel, Delnocio asked, “What did you find?”

  “Chaos everywhere, Eminence. The butchery began along the coasts, from the Covenant and running west. Nothing east from there, but that’s Ithrace, already in ruins.”

  “Come. We’ll talk as we ride. You have horses?”

  “Fresh mounts are nearby, as always, against need, but you’re leaving Sandura?”

  “I must.”

  “A ship arrived as I did, from Enast. It bore the banner of the Church Adamant.”

  Delnocio nodded. “That makes sense. That would be Lord Marshal Bellamy, with at least three hundred soldiers.”

  “Bellamy, here?”

  The episkopos once tasked with taking control of all of North Tembria for the Church was now being hunted by that very same Church. He motioned for Belli to lead on. They wended their way through narrow passages, part of a secret network even the king was ignorant of, a relic of his ancestors’ needs to come and go unseen.

  They came to a small stable, as far removed from the royal quarters as possible. “We have food and water?”

  “Enough for a few days,” answered the assassin.

  “We’ll have to find more as we travel. How many men have you here?”

  “Six who will be with us in minutes, ten if we can wait two hours.”

  “We cannot wait. We leave now.”

  “Where are we bound, Eminence?”

  “Marquenet.”

  For the first time in all the years he had employed Belli, Delnocio saw open surprise on the man’s face. “To Marquensas?”

  Both men knew that meant a punishing ride across the Sea of Grass and through Passage Town. Belli’s expression turned calculating, and Bernardo knew he was now thinking of what they would need on such a journey. “Marquenet,” whispered Belli, shaking his head.

  “I must speak with Baron Daylon Dumarch.”

  “To what end, if I may ask?”

  “Sanctuary.”

&n
bsp; Now Belli looked absolutely shocked. “Sanctuary,” he echoed in a tone of disbelief.

  “The Lord Marshal has undoubtedly arrived to burn me at the stake on some trumped-up charge of heresy, and his small army is to make sure no one objects too vigorously.” Bernardo paused for a moment, then said, “And the absence of another episkopos suggests that King Lodavico and his family may stand on the pyres in my stead: the Church taking direct control of the kingdom makes things so much more efficient in the face of this massive chaos sweeping across the two continents.” He took a deep breath. “I received a message just before you arrived. It was carried on the same ship as Lord Bellamy, I assume, and probably released as soon as we were close enough for the pigeon to survive its flight. It is from Episkopos Levar.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Just three words: We are betrayed.”

  “By whom?” asked Belli, now openly confused. Until this moment he had assumed Bernardo Delnocio was the single most powerful man in the Council of the Episkopos, the rulers of the Church of the One.

  “By forces very few on this side of the world are even aware of, my friend.”

  Belli entered the small stable, then turned and said, “Wait a few moments, Eminence, while I fetch the others and whatever I can take from the kitchen.”

  “Be quick,” said Bernardo. “Bellamy will seal off the castle, then the city, within the hour. We must be gone.”

  “We will,” came the answer; then the wiry killer vanished around the corner.

  “We are betrayed,” whispered Bernardo Delnocio to himself. He could hardly believe it himself.

  Hava heard the call from the top of the foremast: “Land!”

  She looked to George, who said, “Elsobas.”

  “I want to keep things locked down here, but everyone is getting . . .”

  “Sea happy,” finished George. “I’ve sailed on voyages that took months, but most of our people here are not experienced sailors. Some are in serious need of getting their feet on dry land for a day, at least.”

  “Pass the word then,” said Hava. “Sabien and I will go ashore, and if we don’t find trouble, or it doesn’t find us,” she added quickly, “I’ll signal and you can send those ashore who need it the most. Do it by watches, but let everyone know if we need to get out of here, we will need to do it in a hurry.”

  He nodded. “As much of a hurry as this ship is capable of.”

  Hava was painfully aware that the Black Wake was many things, but fast was not foremost among its qualities. It was steady, and stout in bad weather, but any ship of speed would be able to catch it unless it had a very good head start. “Get everything ready for a quick departure while you wait for our signal.”

  “Yes, Captain,” he said.

  The ship routine was becoming smooth as the newcomers to sailing either mastered their tasks or got out of the way. Hava was convinced she had a core crew now of close to eighty men and women, twice the number needed to sail this big ship. That allowed George to have more watches and each member of the crew to have more leisure time, if learning fighting from Hava, Molly, and others who were skilled with weapons could be called “leisure.” Hava had hoped Molly could find six good archers. Molly had found eleven men and women with some familiarity with a bow and had judged four of them to be good and the rest trainable.

  Hava did not wish to face any company of experienced fighters with this crew, though she reckoned they were willing to fight to the death rather than face capture again, but determination was no match for murderous efficiency and experience. Still, there was something about that determination that made Hava confident that each passing day narrowed those gaps in experience.

  She glanced over to where Sabien was sparring with four other men. From the look of things, they appeared to be fighting in earnest. Apparently, the young mason had a reputation in Port Colos as a brawler; certainly he hadn’t been shy with his fists as a youth. He didn’t look the type, Hava thought, but until you see a young man drunk in an inn, arguing over a woman or accused of cheating at cards or dice, you really didn’t know how quickly an amiable lad could turn into a belligerent scrapper.

  “Order the gig to be made ready,” said Hava, and George called to a deckhand below and relayed the command.

  The ship slowed as its sails were reefed, and Hava noticed the improvement with a sense of approval. She recalled the first time she had climbed the rigging to learn how to be a sailor, and even remembered her banter with the mate who had said the only women who sailed were pirates. She smiled at that memory.

  The anchor was dropped and the ship held fast. As Hava and Sabien moved toward the gig that was to be dropped over the side, George approached. “We might be in for a bit of weather.” He lifted his chin toward the west; Hava looked and saw little difference.

  “What am I seeing?” she asked.

  “There’s a slim line of darkness at the horizon. Could be a storm heading our way.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “If we batten down, that will delay us offloading cargo if you want to fence more of the loot. If we don’t, we could be in a mess if it’s a bad storm and we have a lot of unskilled hands trying to make everything watertight.”

  Hava looked at her first mate in silence for a moment, then said, “You know these waters and I don’t. Back home I wouldn’t have noticed that line of darkness. What’s your advice?”

  “I’d wait,” said the first mate. “If it’s darker and closer in an hour, then I’d set the crew to working.”

  Hava nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime Sabien and I will poke around.” She took stock of the village near the shore. “This the only port?”

  “There are anchorages all over this island, which is why it would be a smuggler’s delight, if there were any smuggling to be done. Those sicari, if they’re looking for someone to break past the Border, are likely to have a ship or two lying in a cove on the other side of that headland.” He pointed.

  Hava looked where he was indicating, then said, “Give me a minute.”

  She took off her boots and sword and, making for the nearest ratline, shimmied up the mizzenmast. Scrambling quickly to the top yard, she reached into her waistcoat pocket, pulled out her spyglass, and surveyed the area.

  The small town had deep water on this side, as evidenced by several deep-draft boats moored alongside the quay. A single long pier extended from the northeastern point, and the beach on the other side rolled west, then curved around to form a tidy lagoon, beyond which was the headland George had indicated. If time permitted, she’d climb to that promontory and see if there were ships lurking on the far side of the island.

  She regained the deck quickly and crossed to where the gig was being lowered. “This is our last boat,” George reminded her. “If we could find one to buy . . . ?”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Hava said. She had left the other small boat tied to the dock when escaping the sicari in Cleverly. They had one longboat, which was lashed to the center of the deck, over a main hatchway, but it required six men to row and one to steer, and had enough room for several trunks or smaller crates.

  She had thought that she might move to the end of the pier and simply offload cargo there, but if she could find a large enough boat, or even two, ferrying goods to sell here would reduce unwelcome scrutiny of the ship. She was uncertain as to how much of a head start they had, but the sooner they were out of here with the least amount of attention, the better.

  As Sabien rowed toward the quay, Hava felt an unexpected pang. She had been feeling near-elation at how well things had gone since her escape and taking over this ship. People had died, but that was something she had seen all her life, and the momentary stab of regret for the loss of people she barely knew had passed quickly. Nor did she mind the sense of duty that came with being in charge; she knew from her years of training that those who had the most authority bore the greatest responsibility, and she’d seen crew bosses severely puni
shed for the failures of those under their command.

  She had escaped, and Molly had survived, and while Hatu was missing, and terrible things had occurred at Beran’s Hill and in the barony, she had prepared herself to face whatever news might eventually reach her.

  Now, however, that near-elation was suddenly chased away by a rising foreboding that this might be her last opportunity to find Hatu. If he wasn’t among the slaves who had arrived here, where would she look next? If a fleet of sicari arrived and her command of Borzon’s Black Wake was revealed, all might be lost. She willed aside her feelings, for long ago she had come to believe that her best choice was always to move forward with confidence. The only thing she could guarantee was failure, so she would proceed as if she wouldn’t allow failure to happen.

  The town, also called Elsobas, was delightful, thought Hava. A few taverns lined a broad walk beside the quay, and she could see other buildings spreading up a slope leading to the headland she had seen from the ship. She wandered here and there, deflecting a few questions from merchants who wanted to know if she was from the ship that had just put in and what cargo it was carrying, as they anticipated the possibility of getting an early advantage should a profitable trade be in the offing.

  It took less than half an hour for Hava to determine that the town seemed to be free of sicari agents, or at least to accept that any who might be lingering were far more adept at hiding than she was at discovering them. She returned to where the gig was tied up and picked up a large white cloth, a piece of material used to repair sails, and waved it back and forth until she saw a response from the ship: another cloth waved. That meant crew would be coming ashore.

  “Take the gig back to the ship, Sabien,” she instructed. “It will hasten things. I’m going to go look for another small boat.”

  “Yes, Captain,” he said, untying the gig and quickly boarding.

  Hava moved away from the busier section of the quayside, from the brothels, cantinas, and taverns, looking for signs of a boatyard. A street boy was watching her and she smiled. He was either a pickpocket in training or a lookout for a gang of urchins sizing her up.