Читать книгу Queen of Storms - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 10

Hava was boiling eggs, slicing what was left of a ham, and simmering a pot of grain porridge. Somewhere between buying the inn and this morning, Hava and Gwen had discussed what to serve at each meal and the consensus was cook the meal and if the travellers didn’t care for it, they could seek a meal somewhere else.

Hatu had decided, for no other reason than needing to be behind the bar when the two men upstairs came down, to keep reorganizing the collection of whisky he had inherited from Leon. There was also something about this process that intrigued him, and he was now doing it for the third time since he had awoken and got dressed.

He had almost choked and vomited the first time he’d drunk whisky. Declan had convinced him the proper way to drink it was to ‘toss it down’. He wasn’t sure if some of the liquid had gone down the ‘wrong pipe’, as Declan said, or whether it was just inhaling the strong fumes had done the trick, but he’d ended up coughing and spitting before regaining his composure.

He had been barely more than a child the first time he was introduced to ale and wine, and having a similar reaction, though not as severe. Each alcoholic beverage seemed to require a different approach. Ale and beer could be simply drunk down, and one of the things he had been taught was how to appear to drink copious amounts of ‘brew’ without really drinking that much. Wine was trickier: the knack to staying sober was to dilute it with water, which was difficult with red wine, easier with white. Hatu had no idea how to drink whisky and stay sober; maybe with some water, but even then … Declan had told him it was an acquired taste, and Hatu now was doing his best to acquire it.

Each had interesting properties. Some whiskies had a hint of this or that flavour which others lacked. All he knew at this point was that not only were there ‘good’ and ‘not good’ whiskies, but that within a certain limit of ‘good’ there was an unexpected variety.

So, trying to organize his thoughts on the matter, he managed to avoid total boredom while awaiting the appearance of the two lodgers upstairs. He had six different bottles of whisky, ranging from what he considered undrinkable to pretty good, and was considering his thoughts on cost when his two guests appeared.

They moved directly to the bar and Hatu asked, ‘Something to eat, gentlemen?’

‘What do you have?’ asked the man who had arrived first in town.

‘We have eggs – some are hard-boiled – and a few slices of ham. So today it’s eggs, ham, porridge, and oranges. In Marquensas we always have oranges.’

‘I could smell them on the air,’ said the second man, who had been the one Hatu recognized from Sandura.

‘Lots of groves to the west, and when the breeze is right, you can smell them all the time,’ said Hatu. He had heard that from the locals, and repeating it made him sound more like one of them. He didn’t know why, but he worried about the man whom he had seen before, sensing there was little chance it was mere coincidence that had brought them to this town so soon after Hatu himself had arrived.

‘Hard-boiled eggs,’ said the first man. ‘We can stick them in our pockets and eat them as we go.’

‘Busy day?’ asked Hatu.

‘Depends,’ said the second man.

Hatu nodded, saying nothing. Part of his training as a boy had been how to withstand questioning, as well as how to glean information; silence was a far more useful tool than most people realized.

The first said, ‘We’re looking for someone, and …’ He stopped, looked at Hatu and said, ‘Maybe you’ve seen …?’

‘Lots of people pass through town, and quite a few stop here for a drink or room,’ said Hatu encouragingly.

The second man said, ‘We’re looking for a family, but perhaps they’re not all together.’

‘Cousins, actually,’ interjected the first man. ‘My family really. They fled some troubles in the east and I got word they might be here, or have recently passed through.’

Hatu shrugged. Hava came out of the kitchen and put a bowl of freshly boiled eggs down on the bar. She had poured cold water over them after boiling, so they would be cool to the touch. ‘Help yourself,’ said Hatu. ‘Free to guests.’

‘Thanks,’ said the second man. Both took four eggs, putting two in each jacket pocket.

The man who had arrived first said, ‘I’ve been asking around and so far no one has seen them.’

‘Big town,’ said Hatu. ‘I run the busiest inn in Beran’s Hill—’

‘Saw that last night,’ said the second man.

‘—and I doubt I see one person in a hundred who passes through. Who are you looking for?’

The men exchanged glances, and in that instant Hatu knew he was about to be lied to. Master Bodai’s lessons on getting information were far more subtle than Master Kugal’s harsh interrogation methods: the trick Hatu had been taught was to know which of the approaches to use at the appropriate time when questioning captives. Bodai had talked about questioning two prisoners and what to look for in comparing stories. Without being aware of it, the two men had just revealed they had concocted a story and each was checking with the other without even being aware that was what they were doing.

The first man said, ‘My cousin is married and they have two children – adults now, about your age I should think – a boy and girl, a year apart.’ He again glanced at his companion. ‘One thing about them both: they have red hair.’

Hatu shrugged.

Hava chimed in as if on cue. ‘This far north there are lots of people with red hair. Lots of the Kes’tun people from the far north come down here all the time; some have settled. Half of them have red hair. I have reddish hair,’ she said, though it was more a dark chestnut.

‘You’d notice,’ said the first man. ‘It’s unusual, bright, almost copper-coloured, and turns gold in the sun.’

‘Haven’t seen anyone like that,’ said Hatu. ‘Sunburned copper we see occasionally, but we spend most of our time inside, so if they didn’t stop in here for a meal or drink, we’d likely have missed them.’

Hava said, ‘You know, I might have … at least I think maybe …’

Both men looked at her intensely. ‘Yes?’ asked the first man.

‘Well, it was only this pair … a man, and he was bald, and dressed like an islander from the east. That’s where we come from. But he had a girl with him and when the sun hit her hair … I only saw because she was adjusting this scarf she wore. I remember it was a very unusual colour.’

The men exchanged glances. ‘Where did you see her?’ asked the second man.

‘Down at the stabling yard … no, wait, not the stabling yard, but the caravanserai. They were looking for a ride to Port Colos, looking for a ship, I think.’ Hava nodded. ‘Yes, now that you mention the hair colour, I remember. If you head down to the caravanserai, you might find out who gave them a ride.’

The two men nodded and the first said, ‘Thanks,’ and they were out of the door.

Hatu gave a wry chuckle. ‘You can be evil, anyone tell you?’

Hava gave a slight shrug. ‘You and Donte, regularly.’

Hatu felt a cold jolt in his stomach. ‘I do miss him.’

‘Me as well,’ agreed Hava. ‘Back to matters at hand. Those two are not very subtle.’

‘I don’t know. They may be playing dumb thinking we or someone else here may betray information.’

‘They were staring right at the man they seek.’

‘But either they don’t know that baby long ago was a boy, or they’re disguising …’ He waved away further speculation. ‘Here’s what I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but that second man, I saw him in Sandura when I travelled there with Bodai. He works for the Church of the One.’

Hava took a deep breath and said, ‘Should or shouldn’t tell me?’ She punched him in the arm. ‘If you knew he was with the Church, then of course he’s attempting to gull us. And his looking for a girl your age may be part of the act.’ She crossed her arms and bit her lower lip, a gesture Hatu had rarely seen, but he knew it meant she was concerned and concentrating. He knew to leave her alone.

Finally Hava uncrossed her arms and said, ‘Yes, you need to travel to Marquenet tomorrow. If Declan is reporting to the baron and Ratigan unloading his wagon, you should have time to send a message’ – she glanced around out of habit – ‘and pick up a few things to make it look as if all you did was shop.’

‘I’ll need a list.’

‘You shall have one,’ she replied.

‘I’ll first go to the Sign of the Gulls, and send that message.’ He shrugged. ‘If I am late returning to Declan and Ratigan, I can easily claim I haggled a lot, got turned around and got lost. It is my first visit; all we did was pass through, the last time.’

‘What about those two?’ She hiked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the two men who had left shortly before.

‘We wait, and maybe in a couple of hours one of us needs to do a bit of shopping and see if they’ve made an impression on any of the local shopkeepers.’

She gave a nod and said, ‘I’ll go and make a list.’

She went back to the kitchen, where they had a small table for doing ledgers and letter writing, which apparently Leon had rarely used. Hava had replaced the dried-out ink jar and purchased a metal-nib pen to replace a completely worn-out quill.

Hatu cleaned up a bit of imaginary dirt and returned to contemplating the mystery of these men and how they related to what he encountered in Sandura. One thing was clear to Hatu. It could be nothing good. And it was also clear to him that they were looking for him, the Firemane baby.

A sudden chill spread through the pit of his stomach as he reminded himself that most of his life he had been ignorant of his true identity. The anger in his childhood, the odd feelings that night in the Narrows when he’d sensed something of his unusual nature. That led him to reflect on the past, and he remembered Donte.

His memories of Donte showed no sign of departing. There were funny memories, like trying to steal sausages with a tree branch, and reassuring ones, like the many times when they were very young that Donte had chased off the bullies. But there were also the images of Donte hanging by chains in that crimson grotto. He desperately tried not to think of those, but he could not push them away. He took a deep breath, calming himself as he accepted that Donte’s loss would always haunt him. The best he could do was accept that and keep living.

EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, HATU found himself leaving Beran’s Hill, with Declan driving the team of horses. When asked about this, Declan’s answer had been, ‘I can drive a team and Ratigan is short of drivers.’

Hatu was amused. ‘So he’s not hauling your and my freight, he’s renting you a wagon?’

That realization put Declan in a darker mood, for not only was Ratigan getting paid to deliver a load of weapons to the baron and bring back the wagon with whatever goods Hatu purchased, he didn’t have to drive it himself or pay a driver. Declan snapped back, ‘You’re paying the fee for the return trip.’

Hatu struggled not to laugh at that moment and changed the topic. ‘So, what do you think about those two men Molly and Hava saw on the road three days ago?’

‘I think I need to talk to the baron about it, or his man Balven. What do you think?’

Hatu shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, I understand why you’d warn the baron about armed men from some army skulking around but … I have no idea who they could be.’

‘You’ve travelled, seen things. You must have some thoughts,’ suggested Declan.

Hatu had ensured the two men under suspicion were still abed, their horses still over at Jacob’s barn before leaving, a sorrel gelding and an off-grey mare, according to Hava. Both men had returned in the evening after having spent a futile afternoon asking around the caravanserai about the red-headed children. Hatu had bid them both goodnight. Passing Jacob’s barn, he saw that both their horses were there, so Hatu knew they couldn’t reach Marquenet without passing Hatu and Declan’s wagon. To do so unseen would require a large looping course beyond farms on both sides of the baron’s road, so they could not reach the city before the wagon.

In reply, Hatu said, ‘They rode in from the east, and rumours claim Sandura is making trouble for everyone.’ He shrugged, then continued, ‘They were alone in a corner of the inn last night, and barely spoke to either Hava or me yesterday, other than ordering food and ale.’ He elected not to share the questions about red-headed youngsters passing through Beran’s Hill with fictitious parents. Declan apparently had enough cause to alert the baron to the strangers’ arrival in town without Hatu even remotely suggesting he might be part of their reason for being there. Others might bring it up should Declan speak to them of it, for if those two travellers were as indiscreet with others as they had been with Hatu and Hava, word would spread. It was also likely someone would bring up the rumours of the Firemane child.

Declan was by nature a man of few words, and Hatu had a tendency to guard his words, a trait drilled into him since childhood, so the two of them fell into a comfortable silence.

Hatu scanned the horizon as a matter of habit and was taken with the beauty of Marquensas, the rolling hills, distant orchards, and lush fields. The weather was kinder than any place he had visited before, warm and sunny with cooling breezes off the ocean in the late afternoon. If fate determined this would be his home from now on, he could embrace it with enthusiasm, he decided.

He glanced past Declan, then to the rear. Declan said, ‘Worried we’re being followed?’

Hatu feigned a dismissive chuckle. ‘Old habits are hard to break, I guess. Moving horses from market to market is risky.’ He fixed his eyes on the road ahead. Still, he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched.

* * *

A SMALL HUT STOOD AT the edge of a tiny clearing in the woods east of Beran’s Hill. It had once been occupied by charcoal burners but had long since been abandoned. Inside waited two figures crouching under heavy blankets, for they did not risk fires at night. A third figure had just dismounted a horse and entered the hut.

Catharian was wearing his disguise as a friar of the Order of Tathan, who had once been worshipped as a god, but was now regarded as a ‘prophesying divine spirit’ of the One. He looked at the young woman who sat across from her bodyguard and asked, ‘Anything?’

‘Just flickers,’ answered Sabella. ‘Even without training he’s managed to develop … a shielding of his presence. An instinct, perhaps.’ She sighed. ‘I only get a hint of him being in the town two, three times a day.’ With a shy smile, she added, ‘Mostly his guard lowers when he’s having sex with that girl.’

‘His wife,’ amended Catharian. He knelt. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘I’m all right,’ she answered.

Catharian glanced at the man: Denbe, a master of the martial order of the Flame Guard, then returned his gaze to Sabella for a moment and smiled. Despite the privation of this journey, Sabella looked better than she had at the Sanctuary. Getting out in the sunlight, breathing fresh air, and not sitting all day in a dark room using her gifts to search for the lost son of the line of Firemane seemed to be reviving her. For a passing moment he wondered how the other Far Seers were doing now that this hunt was over. He had little doubt that their leader, Elmish, had found plenty for them to do.

The Flame Guard had become complacent over generations with the rise of the Firemane line and had taken root in Ithra, the capital city of the kingdom of Ithrace. In so doing they had enabled their enemies almost to obliterate the order in one blow.

It was thought that all of those in the sacking of Ithra had perished, where the former Hall of the Guardians had stood: what few knew was that some survivors had retreated to the original hall in the distant south which had been abandoned centuries earlier, a hall within the ancient Sanctuary. Enough members of the Flame Guard had survived that the order had managed to endure. For nearly two decades they had hidden and slowly recruited adepts and willing soldiers, but people with the vision and capacity to serve a higher calling were rare. Now they were beginning to venture into the world again, despite being few in number, to ensure a balance was restored. Still a long way from the power they were twenty years ago, they were continuing to find recruits to their cause, and were getting prepared for a battle they knew must eventually come.

Catharian sat down. They had spent almost a month identifying which young man in the town was the Firemane child. By process of elimination it had quickly become obvious that the lad from an unnamed eastern land who had purchased a burned-out inn and restored it, with his wife, was the missing heir. Many questions remained unanswered as to how he had survived until adulthood, how he’d come to somewhat conceal his powers without proper training, and whether he knew how much danger he was in, as well as the more mundane questions of how he had ended up an innkeeper in Marquensas. All this was piquing Catharian’s curiosity.

The false monk had become a familiar face to Hatushaly because of his acquaintance with Declan and Ratigan. Catharian was known as a mendicant friar, so when he passed through the town on his way to Port Colos, Copper Hills or Marquenet, it raised no suspicions when he appeared at the Inn of the Three Stars. Hatu and Hava had even taken to providing him with a meal, or food for the road, for they found his stories amusing.

Catharian had hinted he might be given the duty to raise a shrine to Tathan in Beran’s Hill. That had given him a reasonable excuse to be in town often, and should the need arise to have agents of the Flame Guard there constantly, they could start construction on the false shrine.

The earlier arrival of a newcomer had made him think that the latter option was now unlikely, and that the three of them might have to act sooner rather than later, but the story that they were going to build a shrine gave him good reason to linger. He hoped it wasn’t too soon, as he would prefer to act when more agents of the Flame Guard arrived, and Sabella and Denbe were better rested.

‘I think I recognized a man who arrived a few days ago,’ said the false monk.

‘Who?’ asked Denbe, looking interested. The old soldier had no problem with taking rest when it came his way. While weeks of travelling up to Beran’s Hill had kept him alert, a week of sitting in this hut had made him restless. The hint of a possible upcoming fight made him sit up and take notice.

‘If he’s who I think he is, he’s an agent of the Church.’

Denbe nodded. No further clarification was need: the Church of the One was now simply the Church to most people. ‘What’s his name?’

‘They call him Piccolo,’ said Catharian. ‘He’s Episkopos Bernardo’s man.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Denbe. ‘He’s a murderous swine. Very dangerous.’

‘Odd name,’ said Sabella. ‘He’s a musician?’

Denbe shook his head solemnly. ‘When he was a boy he killed another boy with a piccolo.’

‘Oh,’ said Sabella, taken aback.

‘His brother,’ added Denbe.

‘Oh!’ Sabella blinked rapidly for a moment, as if trying to erase an image from her mind.

Catharian motioned for Denbe to step outside the hut and when they were out of earshot, he asked, ‘She seems to be doing well. Is she?’

‘Surprisingly, yes,’ said the older fighter. His sun-darkened skin made his face look as if it was sculpted from darkly tanned leather, but the brilliance of his smile lit up his face in a stark contrast to his usually stern countenance. ‘I often fretted over what we put those poor girls through.’ Women were the only ones able to use the gift of long-distance seeing. Some men had the power, like the young man known as Hatushaly, and some were trained to hold that power, but the ability to channel and manipulate what was thought of as ‘magic’ was the province of women alone.

Catharian put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘As have I. More than one poor girl has ended up …’ He let the thought remain unfinished. Denbe knew as well as he that there had been brilliant youngsters who had ended up almost mindless, living under the Flame Guard’s care, youngsters left with little coherent thought, skipping from moment to moment in their days with no more than the desires of a child. They had vacant eyes, intense reactions of fear or joy, but they just existed until the day they died. If they were lucky, they passed early, but a few lingered on for decades.

‘Just keep watch for a day or two longer. I think it’s time for me to announce we’re going to build a small shrine to Tathan in Beran’s Hill. When you arrive in the town, I can explain your presence easily, then; you are going to be the protector of the shine, and Sabella is my novice. So, I’ll expect you … the day after tomorrow. Should we need to act sooner, I’ll ride back here.’

‘What if someone else from the Church arrives, someone in an official capacity, not an agent for the episkopos?’

‘I know enough about the bureaucracy of the Church to have them scurrying to send messages back and forth across a continent and an ocean before they decide we are not who we seem to be; ample time to depart safely. Baron Daylon has a far more tolerant attitude towards faith than most others these days and refuses to let the Church establish any sort of control in his barony. There are no members of the Church Adamant in Marquensas, at least not officially, so the burning of heretics as theatre has not become a habit here.’

‘Speaking of messages,’ said Denbe. ‘Should we notify the others?’

‘Not yet. We may need them but sending messages is problematic. One of us would have to ride back to Marquenet as we have no pigeons.’

‘Don’t like pigeons,’ said the fighter. ‘Hawks eat them.’

‘That’s why we send more than one,’ replied Catharian. ‘If all goes according to plan, a boat should put in soon and pigeons will be arriving that can fly to our enclave outside Ithra. From there, if need be, they can send messages quickly back to the Sanctuary.’ He paused as if considering something. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings. If this situation remains unchanged it could benefit us doubly. Establishing a presence here in Marquensas before trouble arrives would be of benefit.

‘If we have to depart in a hurry, so be it, but if we can deal with our enemies in a calm and considered fashion, I would prefer that. Until then, we can keep an eye on young Hatushaly, and when the time is right, ensure that he finds his destiny.’

‘Whether he wants it or not,’ Denbe said dryly.

‘’Tis ever thus,’ returned Catharian. ‘Had his father lived and turned him over to us for his early training, as his brothers were, there would be no fear of him arising to full power without our guidance. By any reasonable measure, he should be dead a dozen times over, either from enemies, or simply his inability to contain his fire.’

Denbe shook his head. ‘Nothing easy about this.’

‘No …’ Catharian said. ‘I think you’ve changed my mind.’

‘I have?’ said Denbe with a look of honest surprise.

‘I thought locating the lad would be easy. It wasn’t. I thought scooping him up and carrying him off would be simple. It’s not. We do need pigeons who will home-fly here, so find a breeder and arrange to have at least a dozen eggs sent to our safe house in Marquenet, and another dozen here for our shrine. Once the squabs have matured we can swap them so they can fly messages. Getting messages to the Sanctuary quickly is important, but if we do actually become ensconced here, our brethren will need to get messages to us quickly as well.’ Denbe nodded his agreement. ‘While I look for a pigeon breeder around Beran’s Hill, and sniff around to see what the boy has been up to since I last saw him, you take a quick trip down to Marquenet to send word to Elmish we will take things into our own hands after your soldiers arrive.’

‘Pigeons,’ said Denbe. ‘As I said, I hate sending word by birds. So many things can go wrong.’

‘And as I said, that’s why you send more than one. How many do we have down in Marquenet that can fly to the Ithra enclave?’

‘We’re down to three.’

‘Well, then, send all three. Inform Elmish of the situation here, in as few words as possible.’

Denbe scowled. ‘Another reason I don’t like pigeons. You can’t explain much on a tiny piece of paper.’

Catharian chuckled. ‘True.’

Denbe didn’t look amused. ‘I’ll leave now. You look for a pigeon breeder.’

Catharian nodded. ‘You take the horse to Marquenet. I’ll spend the night here, then Sabella and I will walk into town tomorrow morning, the poor friar and his apprentice.’ He shook his head. ‘Piccolo, here. At least he’s never seen me, as I only saw him once from some distance in a large crowd when he was with Delnocio.’ He forced a smile. ‘All will be well. Now, you’d best leave.’

‘Fare you well,’ said Denbe.

‘You as well,’ replied Catharian.

They went back into the hut and Denbe gathered up his travel bag and took Catharian’s horse.

The false monk of Tathan sat down opposite Sabella and asked, ‘What do you know about the Order of Tathan?’

‘Nothing,’ said the young woman.

‘Well,’ said the older man, laughing. ‘Let’s discuss theology over a meal. All right?’

She found that amusing.

Catharian realized that was the first time he had ever heard the young woman laugh aloud since she had come to the Sanctuary as a child.

HAVA LINGERED IN THE MARKET as the two men who were staying at her inn moved away. She had left the inn under the supervision of the girl Millie, unofficially Jusan’s betrothed. Apparently everyone just took it for granted, including Millie and Jusan. She was a tiny bit of a thing, but she knew the inn and she was under instruction if anything of consequence arose that she was to come straight to the market and find Hava.

Hava wandered over to the vendor who had just been speaking with the two men and looked at his wares, some heavy woollen shirts, trousers, scarves, and capes, some treated with extra lanolin to repel water, which were useful for work outdoors in foul weather and for travel.

‘Hello,’ said the merchant, a stout man who favoured a rust-orange shirt and a wide leather belt which was attempting to prevent his stomach from completely drooping by means of a big brass buckle; it hardly looked comfortable to Hava, but he seemed oblivious to it digging into his gut. His hair was a grey-shot thatch of light brown that was in desperate need of a comb and he sported a few days’ beard stubble.

Hava smiled. ‘Hello. I’m Hava. My husband and I—’

The man laughed, his blue eyes sparkling in his sun-freckled face. ‘I know who you are. You and your man bought the Three Stars from Gwen.’ He smiled as he added, ‘Beran’s Hill isn’t such a big a town that we haven’t all seen you around the last few weeks. I’m Pavek. Now, what can I do for you?’

‘My husband and I came from a place warmer than here in the winter, but even then we didn’t get this much rain. So we need better clothing.’

Pavek chuckled again. ‘Wait a few months until the real rainy season starts. The smart buyers get their gear now, so they’re not scrambling at the last minute. It will be cold!’

Hava nodded, realizing the man had just confessed that business was slow. ‘My husband doesn’t have a decent cloak. He works inside most of the time but given that he’s travelling to Marquenet to stock up on some things we can’t secure here he’ll be out in the open on a wagon, getting drenched, if the rain comes suddenly.’

‘I have just the thing,’ said Pavek, holding up a large, dark grey cloak with an attached hood. ‘Feel that!’

Hava ran her hand over the material and nodded. There was a slightly oily feeling to the wool, so it would repel water for some time. ‘I know from experience that wet wool is the worst thing to be wearing in the cold.’

‘I thought you said you came from a warmer land?’

She kept her smile. ‘My father was a horse trader and we travelled a lot.’

‘Ah,’ said the merchant with a nod of the head.

Hava spent a few minutes looking at other items but had already decided to buy the cloak. It gave her a reasonable excuse to be in the market, and besides it was true that Hatu had nothing to wear outside in foul weather.

The climate in their home island was fairly constant year round, rarely getting cold enough to notice. Rains came regularly, but they were of short duration and warm. Occasionally a storm would come through, lasting a day or two, but they were not often extreme.

Here the weather from the coast came down from the Ice Floes and the Westlands, and it could be very cold. Mostly the climate was temperate, but when it wasn’t, fireplaces were ablaze and warm clothing and heavy boots were the order of the day, according to what Gwen had told her. Short-sleeved shirts, simple cotton trousers, and sandals, common in Coaltachin, were unheard of in Marquensas.

After settling on a price for the cloak, Hava asked Pavek, ‘The two men you were talking to who left as I arrived …’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re staying at our inn, but truth to tell … well, they keep to themselves and I’ve barely spoken two words to them.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Pavek. ‘All they did was chat. Didn’t buy a damned thing.’

‘Odd,’ agreed Hava.

‘They kept talking about travellers who might have passed through sometime recently. A man or a woman, boy and a girl, they couldn’t seem to make up their mind. They only mentioned one thing they agreed on: the man, woman, or child would have bright red hair, copper and gold in the sunlight.’

Hava feigned indifference as she picked up a woollen scarf, which was actually quite nicely made. ‘Quite a few people with red hair around here, aren’t there?’

‘Aren’t there?’ agreed Pavek. ‘I think they’re idiots looking for the legendary Firemane child.’

Hava made an instant decision to pretend ignorance. ‘I’m sorry, the what?’

‘You must come from a long way off. The legend of the Firemane … well, it’s an eastern kingdom, or was,’ began the merchant. He then launched into a quick retelling of the legend of the fall of Ithrace, and the rumour of the lost child. There was even something about a curse involved, he claimed.

Hava was relieved to hear a jumble of facts and fancy that bore little resemblance to what she and Hatu had learned from the baron.

Pavek finished by saying, ‘There’s word that the King of Sandura will pay a man’s weight in gold to learn of the child’s whereabouts. Though, come to think of it, that battle was so long ago, he or she is hardly a child any more, right?’

‘If you say so,’ said Hava. ‘I’ll take this scarf, too. How much?’

The haggling took the merchant’s mind off the story of the Firemane, and as she walked back to the inn, Hava wondered what the two men were playing at. There was something Hatu hadn’t shared with her yet, and she imagined it would make a bit more sense of the story. This wandering about openly searching for the legendary heir must be a bid to draw attention. But from whom? wondered Hava.

Obviously Hatu was doing his level best not to be discovered, and the reason for his hair always being coloured since childhood now made complete sense to both him and Hava. Now that they were clearly alerted, they would be doubly cautious in keeping Hatu’s identity secret.

Agents connected to the Church could never be this artless, so their behaviour must be by design. The men would surely know their outspoken questions would bring a reaction, so again the question: whose attention were they seeking?

Hava was so lost in thought that she almost walked past the inn, and suddenly she realized that the answer was simple: there was another player in this game. Someone beside those already known: two men and their masters in the Church, Hava’s masters in Coaltachin, and the baron and his brother. Before entering the inn she paused, holding her bundle of newly purchased clothing. The key question was: who was the new player?

THE WAGON ROLLED UP TO the gate Declan had used before when delivering weapons to the baron. Hatu said, ‘How long to finish your business, Declan?’ They had spent an uneventful night sleeping under the wagon, so they were arriving in the city just as it was coming alive with the morning’s clamour.

Declan said, ‘The wagon will be unloaded in an hour at most, but I don’t know how long the baron will keep me waiting to make my report.’

Hatu nodded. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. I don’t have much to secure, just a few things Hava wants that can’t be bought in Beran’s Hill.’

Declan nodded. ‘Leon prided himself on … delicacies, he called them. Some cheeses, strange fruit – at least I thought it tasted strange – exotic nuts, and of course—’

‘His whisky,’ interjected Hatu with a smile. ‘I’ll have some porters lug what I buy here and if you’re not out, we’ll wait for you over there.’ He pointed to a space that stood empty almost opposite the gate.

Declan said, ‘If I finish first, I’ll park the wagon there.’

‘I’m off,’ said Hatu with a wave and started walking towards the old keep.

Declan waved after him, then drove his wagon to the gate. The soldiers on duty recognized him from previous deliveries and motioned him through and he moved his cargo around to the stabling yard where he had first come to visit.

It only took a few minutes to get the unloading started and he walked towards the central keep of the sprawling castle. As he had anticipated, the baron’s body servant, Balven, exited before Declan got there. ‘Declan!’

‘Sir,’ said Declan, still unsure exactly how to address the baron’s illegitimate brother.

‘Full order?’ asked Balven, stopping before the smith.

‘Yes, sir. Twenty-four new swords, and that shield you asked me to make.’

‘Ah,’ said Balven. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘It’s a bit heavy to lug around the battlefield, I think.’ The shield was one of the baron’s notions, for men to stand against a cavalry charge. Baron Dumarch had called it a ‘leaf shield’, though the resemblance to a leaf on any tree Declan had ever seen was vague. It stood to shoulder height, with long sides, a slightly curved top and a pointed end that could be planted firmly in the soil. Trained men in line formed a virtual wall and Declan imagined that men standing just behind with long spears or pikes would stop all but the most determined charge. But the shield was three or four times heavier than the smaller round or heater shields he had been taught to fashion.

‘I’m sure it is, but it may prove useful in defending a position.’

‘Might I suggest a wooden frame instead of this metal one? It would lower costs and be quicker to fashion. Good hardwood would be as effective, even with the reduction in weight. Only your strongest men could lug one of these around all day and not be exhausted.’

Balven considered this. ‘Make one and we’ll test it against lances, side by side with this one.’

Declan nodded. ‘If I might ask, sir, where did the baron come up with this idea?’

‘From a book,’ said Balven with a laugh. ‘The baron is the best-read man I’ve ever known. He got that from his father.’

Declan nodded. The one time he had visited the inside of the castle he’d seen it had shelves full of books, more than he had ever imagined existed in the world.

Balven quickly inspected the swords and nodded his approval. He handed a purse to Declan. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘There is one thing, sir,’ said the young smith. He recounted Molly Bowman’s description of the men who had arrived in Beran’s Hill a few days earlier.

When he had finished, Balven looked slightly concerned. ‘You did well to bring us that news, Declan. Armed men, and … and castellans from what you said, disguised as mercenaries …’ He took a deep breath. ‘This is very troubling. Wait here while I bring this to the baron’s attention.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Declan as Balven turned back towards the doorway into the keep. He hoped this didn’t take too long as he wanted to start back as soon as Hatu returned. If they pushed on with a lightened wagon they could arrive home a few hours after sunset and he’d much rather spend his night in bed with Gwen than under a wagon with Hatu.

After an hour had passed, without Balven’s return or Hatushaly’s, Declan felt a rising sense of resignation that he would be forced to stay the night and depart the following morning, but eventually, the baron’s man appeared and said, ‘You’re free to go, smith. My lord will investigate this matter.’

Balven turned his back before Declan could ask even a single question and left the annoyed young man alone. Declan took a breath and decided it best to ask the closest soldier where he could stable his wagon and find lodgings.

WHEN HATU GOT CLOSE TO the river that cut through the eastern third of the city he found the Inn of the Gulls. He entered and looked around for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and doing a quick inventory of faces.

His first thought upon taking in these surroundings was that his inn was a palace compared to this one – a waterfront inn with dockworkers, rivermen, whores and no doubt an abundant supply of criminals.

He took another moment and saw a man standing in the corner behind the bar. He waved away an approaching whore, a girl who looked younger than Hava had been before she was sent to the Powdered Women, and she quickly retreated. Hatu made his way to the barman and said, ‘I bring a message for Grandfather.’

‘I’ll give it to him,’ answered the barman. He was a lanky, blond-haired man of middle years, broad-shouldered and with enough marks on his face and neck to label him a brawler.

‘I bring a message for Grandfather,’ repeated Hatu.

The man pulled a large cudgel out from under the bar and said, ‘He’s not here. As I said, give me the message and I’ll see he gets it.’

‘I bring a message for Grandfather,’ Hatu repeated a third time.

Immediately the barman put the cudgel back under the bar and said, ‘Come with me.’

He led Hatu through a door behind the bar, through a filthy kitchen, and down a flight of stairs. The cellar was below the level of the river, Hatu reckoned, seeing how the stones in the wall seeped. A miasma of mould, stale beer, and deceased rodents left unburied almost made him gag, but he fought back the reflex.

They worked their way through a chaos of empty pallets, stacks of barrels, abandoned crates, and half-filled sacks to reach an unblocked section of wall. It was a maze with a purpose, Hatu decided; you would have to know exactly where you were going down here in order to find this space.

They had reached the other side of the storage room, as far from the stairs leading down from the inn above as possible, Hatu judged. The barman pushed on a stone, and a door revealed itself, swinging away easily, wood painted to look like the bricks that surrounded it.

They walked down a sloping, stone-walled tunnel with a ceiling reinforced with supports and beams like those one would find in a mine. Water dripped from the ceiling so it must run under the edge of the river, Hatu calculated. At last they came to a well-lit room.

A man sat at a table looking at what appeared to be a ledger, which he covered with a cloth as soon as he saw the barman with Hatu.

No words were exchanged as the barman turned and began to make his way back. Then ‘Yes?’ said the man at the table. He was well dressed, looking more like a merchant of some importance than a master criminal, which Hatu knew he must be to hold the position of this city’s crew boss.

‘Who is the message for?’ asked the man behind the table.

Hatu said, ‘Master Bodai.’

‘Alone?’

‘No other,’ said Hatu, ‘save Zusara.’

The man stood and removed the covered book and cloth. ‘I am neither’s man. Can you write?’

‘Yes,’ said Hatu.

The man set the ledger down on a shelf, produced clean paper and a pen and glass inkwell, then fetched a stick of sealing wax and a seal. ‘When you’ve finished your message, fold it twice, and seal it with wax. Leave it here on the table; do not carry it up to the taproom. When you have left the inn, I shall return and send it off. I assume there’s some urgency?’

Hatu nodded. ‘Great urgency.’

The man said, ‘I’ll have a man start downriver tonight. We have a fast ship near the mouth of the Narrows and it will be safely aboard by the day after tomorrow. With favourable winds, it should be in the hands of one of the masters within the week.’ He paused, then added, ‘Should a reply come, where will I find you?’

‘Beran’s Hill, at the Inn of the Three Stars. I am the proprietor.’

The man nodded once and turned and walked up the tunnel.

Hatu moved around behind the table and sat down, as the man departed. He paused for a moment to organize his thoughts, then dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write.