Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  She walked slowly in his general direction, and at the moment he tensed, anticipating the need to bolt, she stopped. “A question,” she said to him.

  He looked quickly around to see if anyone else was nearby and assessing his safest avenue of escape. She took a leisurely step in his direction, and his hesitation was his undoing. By the time he had chosen his route, she was on him, grabbing his tunic with her left hand but not drawing her weapon. He raised his arms high above his head, so that he could slip out of his tunic and run, but she put her foot against the wall between his legs, and when he dropped, he landed on her shinbone. She heard the breath go out of him with a whoof.

  Tossing aside the now-empty tunic, she grabbed him by the throat but didn’t squeeze. “No obvious weapons, so you’re a lookout. The ‘eye’!”

  His eyes widened, and he tried to sound fearless as he shouted, “My boys will be here in . . . soon! You’d better run!”

  Hava tried hard not to laugh. “I was an eye, a stall, a cutter, and a bag before you were born, boy.” She glanced from side to side to see if anyone was watching. “I bet your crew is halfway back to whatever hole you use as a hideout.”

  The boy’s face was a mask of terror, despite his attempt to look brave. He was thin, had dark skin and black hair, yet his jutting lower jaw and willingness to fight reminded her of Hatu. She said, “Give me answers and you won’t die.”

  He seemed unconvinced, but said, “What questions?”

  She smiled. He really was very much like Hatu at his age. “I need a small boat. Where would I find such a thing?”

  He pointed to her left, farther down the road from the quay. “Faluke. He won’t cheat you.”

  “I doubt he could,” she answered. “Now, a more important question. Of whom here should I be wary?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She leaned a bit closer and said, “Reach for that blade you have hidden in your boot, and I’ll make you eat it.”

  He slumped against the wall.

  “There are men, and you know the kind of men I mean, who anyone wise would wish to avoid. Are any of that sort in this town today?”

  He feigned ignorance. “I don’t know.”

  She leaned even closer and whispered, “Quelli Nascosti.”

  Only her firm grip on his throat and her leg between his kept him from collapsing to the ground. “Oh, mistress, you will see us all dead.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she said cheerfully. “Are there sicari in Elsobas?”

  “None today that I know of,” he said.

  “What is your name?”

  “Surya.”

  “Stand still,” she said, and took her hand away. If he had had any notion of fleeing before, her use of a term in her own language, which was close enough to Azhante to terrify the boy, kept him motionless.

  “Surya, are you part of a crew?”

  His confusion instantly reassured Hava that he was not a member of some distant crew run by either Coaltachin or the Azhante, but of an independent gang. She suspected he was the “eye” by dint of being the youngest member of his crew.

  “Do you have family?”

  He shrugged. “Ma died when I was born. Da is a drunk who beat me, so I ran away.”

  “Here?”

  “A couple of islands over, and it took a while to get here.”

  Hava calculated. “How many are in your gang?”

  With unexpected bravado he said, “Many, and they’ll be looking for me soon!”

  She shook her head, trying not to smile. “Let’s try again. How many in your gang?” For emphasis, she reapplied a bit of pressure to his throat.

  He gasped. “Six.” Tears were forming in his eyes.

  She loosened the pressure and asked, “How would you like to make more silver today than you’ve ever seen in your life?”

  His eyes widened. “Truth?”

  “Truth.” She let go of his neck, and while he craned it in relief, she reached into her belt purse and pulled out a silver coin. His eyes widened at the sight of it. She tossed it into the air and his hand shot out and grabbed it with remarkable speed and accuracy.

  Hava gripped his wrist so he couldn’t flee with the coin.

  Surya struggled slightly but then gave up. Looking at her with eyes still moist from fear, he said, “What do you want?”

  “How many deep-water coves or practical anchorages are there on the other side of this island?”

  He seemed confused by the question, so she said, “How many places can a big ship anchor on the other side?”

  He thought about this, then said, “Four for really big ships, a couple more for smaller ones. The rest of the coast is too rocky.”

  She let go of his wrist. “I need a smart lad like you, and a few others as smart, to go over to the other side of the island and come back to tell me what you see. Can you do that?”

  He tried to resume a casual air. Before he could come up with whatever ridiculous plan he might concoct to gain silver without doing any work, Hava said, “Find your mates. Spy out those deep-water anchorages and meet me . . .” She thought for a moment, then said, “At the cantina at the far end of the island, near the pier. Be there before sundown and you’ll get a second silver coin, and your mates will each get two as well.”

  She could see him calculating: he was as devious as any boy she had ever trained with. Forcing herself to stop being both amused and annoyed by that, she said, “I am looking for something specific. Bring me the best information you can. If there are any ships anchored, I want you to be able to describe them.” She poked a warning finger into his chest. “And tell your little gang of thieves I’ll know if any of you are lying. I was a better pickpocket than you are before I was half your age.” She knew no self-taught street urchin could match those trained in Coaltachin. “And if everything goes as planned, there may even be some gold in it for you.”

  At the mention of gold, the boy’s features became animated. She had him now.

  “Surya?”

  “Before sundown at the cantina. Yes, we’ll be there!”

  She reached down, picked up his tunic, and tossed it to him. Then he was off.

  When he was out of sight she chuckled. He would have fitted right in at her school, she thought. Might have been friends with Donte, Hatu, and herself at the same age. She stood up and looked around, taking a deep breath. Time to go and look at boats.

  By midafternoon Hava had inspected all the vessels that Faluke had in his boatyard. He had been working on a commission, a large fishing smack, aided by two apprentices. The yard was a prosperous-looking enterprise, and Hava extrapolated from this that there must be many communities scattered around these islands that produced enough trade to create a strong economy, making fishermen wealthy enough to commission what appeared to be a very finely crafted vessel.

  Faluke also had half a dozen shallow-draft boats and a few smaller rowboats of varying condition, at least four of which might suffice to replace the boats the Black Wake had lost. Sabien had returned from his quick trip to the ship and caught up with her while she was inspecting things; he observed while Hava haggled a bit over two rowboats that would be taken back to the ship.

  Leaving the yard, Sabien said, “That didn’t take long.”

  “No,” agreed Hava. “I paid a bit too much, and he was in a hurry to get back to finishing his commission. That smack is almost ready and probably will fetch him a good living for a few months.”

  As they rounded a corner, Hava halted for a second, and Sabien walked past her. He turned to see what was happening, then stepped back as Hava took off at a full run. By the time he turned she was already halfway up the quayside. Sabien dashed after her.

  As he gained on her, he saw Hava running straight for a man whose back was to her. She lowered her head and threw her shoulder into his back and took him straight to the ground. The man twisted, producing a dagger from somewhere on his person and slashing at her.

  Hava rolled to her
right, deftly avoiding the cut, but was forced back, enabling her opponent to ready himself for her next attack.

  Hava had her dagger out and was about to attack from her knees, when Sabien rushed over and kicked the man, aiming for his head but striking his shoulder instead. The man’s dagger went flying, and Hava leapt forward, pinning the man to the ground with her forearm, her dagger pointed at his throat.

  “Where is my husband?!” she shouted.

  From under her arm, Catharian could barely speak. “Kill me and you’ll never find him, Hava,” he choked out.

  “I can find ways to not kill you that will make you wish I had!”

  She stood up, and Sabien grabbed Catharian’s arm and half yanked, half helped him to his feet. “I dare say you might,” said the former false monk.

  “Now, are you going to tell me where Hatu is?”

  “Certainly,” said Catharian. “Telling you where is not the problem. Getting you there is. But first things first.”

  “What?”

  He grinned. “Buy me a drink, as I am currently lacking funds.”

  Declan finished explaining what Baron Dumarch was proposing to a company of men, some of whom wore the tabard of Ilcomen, others who were trained mercenaries, and some who looked like craftsmen or farmers, but all of whom were young, strong, and willing to fight. Declan lost count of how many men he’d talked to, but at least a hundred were now making their way to Marquenet.

  A large wagon carrying men passed and Declan heard someone call his name. It was a very familiar voice, and he wheeled his horse around as the wagon slowed.

  “Ratigan!” he cried, happy to see the face of the pugnacious teamster.

  The wiry little man leapt down from the wagon as Declan dismounted. They embraced and, for the first time since the destruction of Beran’s Hill, Declan felt a slight stirring inside, like a tiny sigh of relief. “You made it.”

  “Barely,” said Ratigan. “It was a close thing.” He looked over and saw other wagons slowing because he was blocking the road. “I’m heading for Marquenet with everyone there.”

  “Remember that inn where we stayed the first time we rode together, before I settled in Beran’s Hill? Half the city is empty, so you should be able to lodge there. I’ll come find you,” Declan said. “What about Roz?” Rozalee had been his first lover, and now was Ratigan’s business partner.

  Ratigan shook his head. “I don’t know. It was complete madness when Ilcomen was attacked. We grabbed everything worth anything, threw it in a couple of wagons, and headed this way but got separated.” He heard people start to yell and said, “We’ll catch up when we can. I’d better stop blocking things.”

  He began to turn away, then turned back. “Oh, a few wagons back! Someone you should see!”

  Declan mounted his horse as Ratigan urged his rig forward and the other wagons slowly began to follow him. Declan moved down the line of wagons, glancing into each as he passed. When he came to the fourth wagon back he was shocked to see a familiar face, one he had doubted he’d ever see again. “Edvalt!”

  His old master looked up, stared at him, then slowly shook his head with an expression of wonder on his face. “Declan!”

  “Wait here.” Declan rode quickly to where his three companions from Bogartis’s company stood. He reined in and said, “I’m going back to Marquenet with these wagons. You lads want to go on without me or go back?”

  A young fighter named Lassen said, “Back. Word is spreading that there’s nothing ahead but more frightened, angry people, and we’re nearly out of food.” The other two nodded.

  Declan said to Lassen, “You take the front wagon.” He directed the others to head back a little farther, though it was probably an unnecessary precaution. Whoever had attacked these miserable refugees was undoubtedly miles away.

  Trotting back to the wagon Edvalt rode in, he asked, “Mila?”

  Edvalt’s sunken eyes gazed upon Declan with barely disguised pain. “No.”

  “You were with your daughter’s family—” Declan began.

  “All gone,” Edvalt interrupted.

  Declan took a deep breath and felt his feelings once more curl up inside him, a hard shell of cold indifference quickly surrounding them. Mila was the closest thing to a mother he had known, and he had loved her as a son would.

  “You’re a soldier now?” asked the master smith.

  “I’m a mercenary, riding with a captain named Bogartis.”

  “I’ve heard of him. What of your smithy?”

  “Destroyed.”

  “Jusan?”

  Declan shook his head. “He was betrothed, and they both died.” He paused for a moment and added, “With my wife. On our wedding day.”

  Edvalt closed his eyes briefly, then said, “Who does he serve, this captain of yours?”

  “Daylon Dumarch,” answered Declan. “The baron is building an army.”

  “To what ends?”

  “His own family was lost. He has no wife or heir. He is building an army to find who did this monstrous thing and destroy them.”

  “There’s some black humor here, Declan,” said the old smith as the wagon bumped along. The other men sitting around listened attentively, but none spoke. “It was by not taking service with the baron that I came to Oncon, and there I was when you were brought to me. The baron wanted me to serve and I refused, but now it looks as if I am going to serve him again.”

  “Willingly?”

  “Eagerly,” said Edvalt, his expression turning dark. “If he wants to destroy the people responsible for the loss of all I loved, and he’s building an army, that army is going to need weapons.” He looked at Declan and said, “Shall we make swords for Baron Daylon Dumarch together, Declan?”

  Declan was pretty sure Bogartis would have no objection to this. “Gladly, Edvalt. And we shall make the sharpest, strongest blades any army has ever seen.”

  “That we will,” said Edvalt Tasman. “That we will.”

  Hatu stood at Bodai’s side, ready to take the wheel when the old man grew fatigued, though Hatu was forced to admit he was a lot stronger and tougher than he appeared. Even so, after the fight they were shorthanded, and the waters were still difficult to navigate, so Hatu had been working all the time since. Every man had, catching short naps when he was able to.

  “We’ll be out of troubled waters in a few minutes,” said Bodai. He had answered a few of Hatu’s questions since he had regained consciousness. Every man aboard had witnessed Hatu’s sudden command of his fire and how he had visited destruction on the Azhante, though not one person had said anything to him, and many now watched him fearfully.

  Bodai scanned the horizon. “We’re clear of the reefs now,” he said. “And should we not see another sail for the rest of this day, or, more properly, should another ship not see us, then we will be on a free leg to the Sanctuary.”

  “We’ve not spoken about what happened.”

  “That is true.”

  “No one here has spoken of it.”

  “I suspect it’s because no one here has seen anything remotely like it.”

  Hatu reflected for a moment, then said, “This Firemane power—”

  Bodai held up his hand. “None of your ancestors possessed abilities like yours, Sefan.”

  “Hatushaly.”

  “If you prefer.”

  “I do.”

  “Your two eldest brothers had been trained, as had your father, as your next oldest brother was about to be, when the Betrayal ended all of the Langene line but you.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “Elmish, our prior, can tell you so much more when we get to the Sanctuary.”

  Bodai fell silent again, studying Hatushaly’s face as if trying to read something. At last he said, “You will soon begin to understand your true place.” He gave out a contented sound, as if a great burden was lifting from him.

  Hatu studied him in return and said, “If you’re not a true master of Coaltachin, who are you?”

  “Me? As I
told you, before the happy accident that put me in place of the true Bodai, I was a pedagogue.”

  Hatu actually laughed. “I always thought you gave the longest answers of all the masters.” He paused, then added, “I meant what sort of a man, because until now I saw you as a master of Coaltachin, a member of the Council, and you did nothing to make me think otherwise. I guess I wish to know how you managed to gull the other masters.”

  “I was never raised and trained to be an agent like Catharian. I was supposed to stay in the Sanctuary and teach our young, and the Firemane children when they arrived. The opportunity to infiltrate Coaltachin was too tempting, and we had other pedagogues, so I chose to go and pretend to be Bodai.” He sighed. “I’ve been him so long I can hardly remember my true name.” Before Hatu could ask, he said, “I was Zander, but Bodai serves me well. Staying improved our oversight of Coaltachin, vital after the Betrayal, when most of us were murdered.

  “One false master could know what fifteen lesser agents in the field might discover, and those of Coaltachin are wary of strangers. So I stayed.

  “Apparently, I was fated to be your tutor, one way or another,” he said with a chuckle. “Ten years you would have tutored under me, and you would have left with . . .” He took a deep breath, clearing his thoughts again. “We’ve always known there was a power . . .” He shook his head. “Elmish will be able to explain it all.” Then he laughed bitterly. “I was supposed to be a teacher, not a master of thugs in a nation not my own. Denbe had retired as a soldier. He was a scholar, a man who read incessantly, who penned comments that other scholars would use to guide their own research. He donned armor for the first time in more than twenty years when we found you.” Softy, he added, “He gave his life for you.”

  Hatu didn’t know what to say. He knew all this, yet his life as a student in Coaltachin made self-sacrifice an alien concept. Loyalty was exacted through fear and a fierce desire to rise in power. He had been the odd one out, the different one, and now he understood why, yet he still felt in his bones the things that had been taught to him.