QUEEN OF STORMS
THE FIREMANE SAGA: VOLUME TWO
Raymond E. Feist

Copyright

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2020

Map © Jessica Feist

Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Jacket illustration © Larry Rostant (from cover), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007541331

Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780007541355

Version: 2020-07-14

Dedication

To Rebecca and James,

This book is dedicated to the start of your great adventure together.

Love, Dad

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue: A Voice from within Shadows

Chapter One: Hunting and an Unexpected Encounter

Chapter Two: An Unplanned Event and A Surprise Reunion

Chapter Three: More Mysteries and a Short Journey

Chapter Four: Reflections and Bloodshed

Chapter Five: Celebration and Murder

Chapter Six: Destruction, Abduction, and Rage

Chapter Seven: Loss and Determination

Chapter Eight: Recovery and Resolve

Chapter Nine: Disasters and Questions

Chapter Ten: Captives and Mysteries

Chapter Eleven: Investigations, Discoveries, and the Unexpected

Chapter Twelve: Changes on Fate’s Tides

Chapter Thirteen: Plans and Consequences

Chapter Fourteen: Reversals and the Unexpected

Chapter Fifteen: Appraisals, Guesswork, and Repurposing

Chapter Sixteen: Revelations and Secrets

Chapter Seventeen: Voyages and Disasters

Chapter Eighteen: Choices, Chaos, and Change

Chapter Nineteen: Betrayal, Acceptance, and Piracy

Chapter Twenty: Planning and Resolutions

Chapter Twenty-One: Triumph and Escape

Epilogue: Reunion and Dark Harbingers

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Map

• PROLOGUE •
A Voice from within Shadows

He was known as Bernardo Delnocio of Poberto, which was the first of many lies about him. His birth name had not been Bernardo, nor was he from a family named Delnocio. That family had been famous and powerful until a war took the last son; he claimed to be a distant cousin, from a lesser branch of the family, with no claim to any legacy but a once-noble name. Nor had he been born in Poberto, a prosperous town surrounded by the villas of the wealthy and powerful. That notable community rested just outside Brojues, the capital city of the Kingdom of Fondrak, home to the Church of the One. Instead, he had come from the poorest squalor of Aliestes, a minor city on the far continent of Enast many miles from the splendour of Brojues.

As a boy, the man calling himself Bernardo had been an abandoned guttersnipe, raised by a gang of urchins. He had grown up roaming the streets, surviving in a vicious world that provided few respites from struggle, living by his wits and a brutal determination to survive, until he had been recruited by the Church.

His natural combativeness and will to survive had been recognized and his early training had been channelled effectively into serving the Church. He had spent nearly ten years as a member of the Order of the Church Adamant, the martial arm of the Servants of the One, soldiers willing to die unquestioningly to defend the faith and, more importantly, attack its enemies without hesitation.

His will to survive had elevated him above the other soldiers, first by avoiding duty that would have trapped him in a permanent role, as a pioneer, engineer, or gynour, though he had been clever enough to learn a bit about building advanced entrenchments, rigging bridges and repairing roads, or operating siege engines, so he became as well-rounded as possible.

He had a knack for accents, and quickly improved his speech so that his common origins faded as he learned to adopt more refined rhetoric and behaviour. He soon became the youngest minor officer in the Church Adamant.

After only three years as a unit commander, he realized the true power wasn’t in the army, but being a cleric in the Church, and that was when his urge to survive had been transformed into a desire to thrive, rise, and become more powerful at every turn. He had surprised, even shocked, his companions when, as a rising young officer, he had announced he was leaving the Church Adamant to take holy vows and become the lowest of the clergy.

He did not remain a minor priest for long. Bernardo was not the most overtly aggressive player in the deadly internal politics of the Church of the One, but he had an intuitive grasp of something few did: he could quickly recognize the true organization of any group, where the power actually resided as opposed to ostensible ranks and titles. He identified those who were public figures and those who moved quietly in the background. Above all, he had a lethal instinct for when an opponent was vulnerable and no hesitation in taking advantage of that recognition.

He immediately understood that while the Council of the Episkopos was the governing body of the Church of the One, there was a handful of men within the Council who controlled every aspect of the Church. The Church priesthood had as many barriers and dead ends as the army had, and picking a path to power had given him a challenge, but surviving in the streets had proved a harsh yet enlightening education.

His natural skills and intuition meant he knew the right moment to act, and more than once he had managed to convince someone else to be responsible for the fall of one of his rivals. He merely suggested something and other people acted, and he made sure they believed it was their own brilliance that had led to the targeted rival’s downfall. Gang leader or powerful episkopos, he could apply his talents equally, discerning quickly who was truly loyal, or easily manipulated or even bought, who might become an ally, and who must be neutralized or even destroyed.

On the streets he had learned early which boys were bullies full of bluster. They came and went, often to an early grave or a slave gang, but the truly clever, the gifted, and thoughtful – they endured. Those were the ones he observed, and listened to, as he sought to survive.

Over the years Bernardo had also found it convenient to shape the truth of his past to suit the fluid politics of the Church of the One. Those who knew the inconvenient facts of his early life were either his closest supporters or dead. Ridding himself of potential enemies had sharpened his naturally keen intellect and driven patience into the very fibre of his being. He had waited months, even years, at times to see a rival dead. His imperturbability was almost legendary within the higher echelons of the Church in Brojues. He was now counted among the wisest of the rulers of the Church, and, by wide consensus, the most patient. Today, he was approaching the end of that patience.

More than once he’d come close to death either in the name of the One, or in establishing his place in the hierarchy of the Church, and right now he’d gladly return to those moments and embrace a quick death.

He sat silently in a large bedchamber in the castle of Lodavico, Most Holy Majesty of Sandura, ruler of the single greatest power on the twin continents of North and South Tembria. Getting Lodavico to sit motionless for hours had proved impossible, but Bernardo had managed to get him to sit for minutes at a time, a small but necessary step in Bernardo establishing complete control over the king and, through him, the Kingdom of Sandura.

The king sat as still as he could while a painter attempted to capture his magnificence on a treated board of cured wood. The artist was a captive from the city of Ithra, taken by one of Lodavico’s oathmen. He had managed to survive the destruction of Ithrace’s capital, avoiding death and slavery but not captivity. His name was Bantiago.

Bernardo watched closely as Bantiago deftly applied colour to the wood and through some artistic magic created a likeness of Lodavico that was flattering but not overtly false. Bernardo understood how the painter had survived the destruction of Ithrace. His superb talents had kept him from death.

Bantiago painted so well that he had been passed from one noble to another over the years, building a reputation and eventually living well by painting brilliant portraits of his captors. Despite still being considered a captive, Bantiago travelled with servants, most of whom were strikingly handsome young men, an apprentice, also handsome to the point of being pretty, and a token guard. It was a captivity to be envied by most citizens of Sandura, thought Bernardo.

These portraits were an Ithraci thing, a vanity that rather offended Lodavico, but gradually Bernardo had convinced him to sit for a portrait to commemorate his glory. Bernardo had studied Lodavico for more than a year before they met, and he had now been a member of the king’s court, his most trusted adviser, for a decade. He knew the monarch of Sandura had hated the way he looked his entire life.

The king knew he was often mocked for his appearance behind his back. His nose was slightly bent to the right, his left eye was marginally higher than the right, and his rare smile was noticeably lopsided. This asymmetrical visage, while not ugly, gave him an odd appearance that put people ill at ease for reasons they couldn’t quite fathom. Coupled with his gaunt frame, and a certain coiled energy that made it look as if he were on the verge of sudden violence, it meant few people were ever comfortable in his presence.

He had taken advantage of that discomfort his entire life, bullying his young siblings to the point of terror long before he took his father’s throne. All of them gladly accepted distant fiefs or convenient marriages to be as far from the court in Sandura as possible.

He had agreed to a portrait only at Bernardo’s quiet persistence. In all his life Lodavico had not met anyone he felt more at ease with than Bernardo. This had been achieved over years of Bernardo’s clever manipulation and the building of trust. There had been nights when Bernardo had simply wished to kill Lodavico, or possibly move to the other side of Garn, but in the end, he knew his persistence in winning Lodavico’s trust would win out. Now that trust was almost absolute.

Something about his manner, his solid presence, calmed Lodavico no matter how stressful the situation that faced him. He counted the episkopos’s counsel as vital, and after many years of having the cleric at his side in the king’s chamber, it was clear that Lodavico couldn’t imagine making important decisions without Bernardo’s advice.

For Bernardo, persuading Lodavico to sit for a portrait was just one more tedious tiny step into completely controlling the king, without him being aware of it. The episkopos knew that by the time this portrait hung in the great gallery of the castle, amid the banners and crests of Lodavico’s ancestors, the king would be convinced the portrait had been his idea, not Bernardo’s, which was exactly what Bernardo wanted.

Growing tired of posing, Lodavico said, ‘That’s enough.’ He stood and indicated for a servant to remove the heavy red cape with the ermine collar. He hated the vanity of the thing but had agreed with the artist that it made him look ‘regal’. Lodavico had finally relented and seemed to be growing fonder of the pomp, which was also in keeping with Bernardo’s plans.

Bernardo rose, feeling his joints protest slightly, reminding him that at his age, approximately fifty years (his exact date of birth was unknown), he needed to spend more time exercising. He had been lean and fit his entire life, adding muscle and sinew as a soldier, and had seen too many others of his rank let themselves run to fat. He would engage one of his retinue to spar with him early tomorrow morning; he was an episkopos, but he had been a soldier long enough to prefer duelling and wrestling to other forms of exercise. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and his dark hair was shot through with grey. He still looked as vital and energetic as a man half his age.

He wore the less formal clothing of his office, a black cassock with no trim, with black buttons down the front. His feet were clad in ankle-high boots of soft leather, and his only ornamentation was a silver circle brooch identifying him as a follower of the One, and a ring of office that adorned his left hand, another simple circle of silver, though set in the centre with a small ruby.

Vanity was not part of Bernardo’s nature, so his appearance was not designed to please himself, but to project an image he wished others to see. He wanted less to be noticed than to be a presence. More often than not it was a difficult feat.

He waited for servants to take away the heavy cloak Lodavico wore and for the king to move towards the door before falling in a half-step behind, on his left, a position of slight deference. Bernardo remind silent, for he could see the king’s mood was darker than usual for this time of the morning, even after one spent posing for his portrait.

Lodavico headed for his council chamber. As they approached down the long gloomy hall, bereft of any windows as it had been cut through the heart of Lodavico’s castle, shadows from torches in sconces flickered in grotesque parody of the king’s naturally awkward walk. Bernardo was aware of the shadows annoying the king, even though he had endured it since he came to the throne thirty years before. He occasionally wondered why Lodavico hadn’t ordered his architect to design some other type of lighting, but he didn’t linger long on the question; it was possible that Lodavico endured the daily passage as a reminder of his own self-loathing.

Entering the chamber, they found a tray laden with fruit, cold meats and cheese, a loaf of warm bread, a bottle of wine and a pitcher of cool water.

‘Good,’ said Lodavico. ‘I’m famished.’

‘Anticipating Your Majesty’s needs is always my aim,’ said the episkopos.

Lodavico indicated that Bernardo should sit in the chair to his right hand at the end of the council table. The Privy Council had consisted of up to a dozen nobles of the kingdom from dim antiquity right up to his father’s rule. Lodavico had named several nobles to various positions, but rarely convened the entire council, having only done so once after the war against Ithrace, just for public show. Most of the time he preferred to be in consultation with a few advisers at a time, and lately with just one of them: Bernardo. The truth now was, after a little over ten years together, the episkopos and the king made every decision in Sandura.

Lodavico said, ‘What news?’

Bernardo unfolded a leather portfolio he carried. He knew the king expected him not to discuss matters of state while his portrait was being painted, but now that they were alone, Lodavico was anxious to hear the day’s reports.

Bernardo had long since come to understand the king’s preferred order of reporting, and the usual accounts of trade, taxes, and other mundane matters were always subordinate to intelligence, news, and even rumours about anyone Lodavico considered a threat.

‘Little new to report on, Majesty. Some of the companies of mercenaries who’ve been employed in the north are taking ship to come and join your campaigns.’ He paused. A tightening around Lodavico’s eyes communicated clearly what the king desired to hear.

‘No news from Marquensas, Majesty. Our agents report … everything is calm.’

‘What about that … company Daylon assembled in that town …’

‘Beran’s Hill,’ supplied Bernardo. ‘Not really a company, sire, rather a local militia of sheriff’s men, though there is no proper sheriff. A young smith has been given command, a fellow named Declan.’

Lodavico waved away the detail. ‘Beran’s Hill is an invitation of sorts, I’m certain.’

Bernardo had listened to this conjecture countless times, but knew his best course was to simply let the king continue his speculation without interruption and to reassure him that everything that could be done was being done.

‘Daylon Dumarch has magnificent defences in every port, garrisons of size in key locations, cities, trade route intersections, and active patrols everywhere but in the north, along one particular trade route. Why?’

Bernardo hesitated, waiting to see if the question was rhetorical. Seeing that the king expected an answer, he shrugged. ‘He faces very little real threat from the north. His only neighbour of consequence is Rodrigo of Copper Hills, and he is one of Baron Daylon’s closest friends. Dumarch would as soon expect a brother to turn on him as Rodrigo Bavangine.’ He paused, gauging the king’s reaction.

Lodavico nodded. ‘The governors and rulers of the northern ports are scattered and more prone to welcoming smugglers and traders than armies. Besides, none of the ports are large enough to accommodate a flotilla that could put a substantial force at Marquensas’s rear. Port Colos is the largest, and it is so close to Marquensas’s border it might as well belong to Daylon.’ He stroked his chin, a habit Bernardo had seen countless times when the king was lost in thought. ‘Daylon is …’ He looked at the episkopos as if at a loss.

Gently, the cleric said, ‘I think he is taking care of what is his and guarding it.’

Lodavico shook his head. ‘No, I know he is planning something. He’s amassed wealth and has sway over many of the barons. He’s making Marquensas the new Ithrace. I’ve read the reports …’

Seeing that the conversation was taking a familiar turn, the cleric sat back, keeping his features a mask as he resigned himself to another pointless harangue about Daylon Dumarch’s close friendship to the dead king Steveren Langene, the ruler of Ithrace, real intelligence commingled with imagined slights and insults, turning into a rant invoking every possible reason to hate the most powerful baron in the twin continents.

When at last the king’s ramblings tailed off, Bernardo gladly turned the conversation to other matters the king needed to consider, not urgent, but important, and called in a scribe to record the king’s decisions. As the meeting came to a close, the episkopos waited for the king’s permission to rise – they had worked together so often, this amounted to the cleric inclining his head slightly and the king nodding – and as he stood, Bernardo said, ‘Majesty, I shall have the edicts recopied and returned before nightfall for your seal.’

‘I expect I should return to sit for that wretched artist. The sooner I’m done with this exercise in vanity, the better I’ll like it.’

Bernardo bowed slightly, and the king departed.

After the monarch was gone, the episkopos waved the scribe away, then lingered, enjoying the silence and solitude, if only for a few moments.

He refused to wallow in his transitory frustrations over dealing with a monarch who by any reasonable measure was on the fringe of madness. Bernardo Delnocio of Poberto had quickly recognized that Lodavico was a truly lonely man, hated even by his own family, surrounded by those who feigned loyalty and affection for him only out of fear. Rather than be another attention-seeker, Bernardo had patiently provided counsel and the Church’s support, ensuring that Lodavico became more dependent on him over each passing year.

Many times the king had asked the episkopos what he desired, to which Bernardo had always answered, ‘Only to serve,’ and every time a gift had been offered, Bernardo had declined it.

In truth, the gift came the other way; it was the cleric who gave the ruler what he most craved: Bernardo listened. No matter how preposterous or deranged Lodavico’s rant, Bernardo listened and the king needed this indulgence.

After Bernardo had spent almost two years on Lodavico’s council, the monarch had come to view him as the only being on all of Garn who didn’t hate him, fear him, or want anything from him, the only one who truly cared for his wellbeing. In short, Lodavico had decided that Bernardo was his only friend.

And this was when the manipulation had begun.

Over the last twenty years Bernardo had contrived to get rid of anyone who might prove an obstacle to his control of the king – a timely accident, an assignment to a particularly dangerous frontier post, a sudden illness. A great deal of patience had brought the cleric to almost complete mastery over the most powerful kingdom in North Tembria.

Bernardo could finally see his goal on the horizon: the Church’s control of Sandura, and his control of the Church. These two aims were intertwined, and he knew the closer he got to his goal, the more his deadliest foe would be his own impatience.

Should the cathedral under construction next to the king’s castle be completed in his lifetime, Bernardo already had plans to annex this monstrosity of a castle to it, tearing down walls, replacing dark corridors with passages of light, ancient dark stone with massive windows of the finest glass. He knew that would be completed years after he had left this existence but was content that whoever he appointed to follow him would share that view. When the Church was supreme, ruling over all Garn, there would be no need for castles, fortresses, or armies.

His plan extended beyond his own lifetime, which was more of a vainglorious desire to be remembered in the Church than for any personal gain. The rulers of Sandura would be so submerged in the culture of the Church that they would not realize this.

He heard the faintest rustle behind him, and knew he was no longer alone. Only a handful of men could move that quietly and of those only one would dare approach him unbidden. Without looking around he asked, ‘What news, Belli?’

Marco Belli, Bernardo’s most trusted and deadliest servant, spoke softly. ‘More rumours from the west.’

‘Marquensas?’

‘Yes.’

Bernardo turned to face him. Marco Belli, known as ‘Piccolo’ for obscure reasons, stood motionless before his master. He was a smaller man than Bernardo, but of less than average height, wiry and agile. Belli’s eyes were his most deceiving feature, for he could look innocent, or jovial, even while planning how best to kill you. He sported a red cap with a hawk’s feather, a dark blue tunic, and leather leggings. At his side hung a short sword, but Bernardo knew he was an expert in many other weapons. Piccolo was the only man the cleric fully trusted and would permit in his presence alone and armed.

‘Tell me about Marquensas,’ said Bernardo as he reseated himself.

‘For months now a town in the north of the barony, Beran’s Hill, has been very busy.’

‘This I know,’ said the cleric. ‘Rumours, little more.’

Piccolo nodded. ‘True, but persistent rumours, Your Eminence.’ He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘There is no pattern nor is there any one item worthy of serious consideration, but in total …’

‘A design?’

‘Not apparently, but … something is taking shape. Though if someone is behind it, it isn’t obvious.’

Bernardo nodded. ‘Something is going on in that town.’ He also organized his thoughts before adding, ‘It’s where Lodavico and I expect the lure to be. If Baron Daylon expects Sandura’s attack, and with Copper Hills’s aid, he could trap Lodavico’s forces there.’

‘Lose the town, but win the war,’ agreed Piccolo.

‘Exactly. Lodavico loses a huge number of his military, enrages allies expecting an easy victory, and convinces others of Sandura’s perfidy when whatever excuse Lodavico dreams up is exposed as a lie, so it’s a victory both militarily and politically. At worst, Sandura is wounded and weakened, perhaps enough for old enmity to rise and former allies to turn on Lodavico. At best, Dumarch has allies ready and launches a counter-offensive …’ He spread his hands slowly and moved them outwards, as if wiping away game pieces from a table. ‘… leaves Sandura much as Lodavico left Ithrace …’ Bernardo let out an audible sigh. ‘And that we cannot have.’

Piccolo glanced around the dark room. ‘Can’t say I’d miss this castle.’

‘On that we agree. But when the cathedral is finished and blessed it will be the seat of the Church’s power in the twin continents. And that must be protected.

‘This war is inevitable, given our king’s obsession with all things related to the fall of Ithrace. Even the suggestion that Daylon Dumarch is becoming the next King of Fire …’ Bernardo paused. ‘I have little problem with them making war on each other. I just wish it to be on my terms, at a time of my choosing. Remember, the perfect plan executed at the wrong time has another name.’

Piccolo raised an eyebrow. ‘A disaster?’

Delnocio chuckled. Piccolo was as lethal an agent as he could have wished for, but he was also clever, and occasionally amusing. ‘Yes.’

Piccolo nodded; then he asked, ‘Do you wish me to go?’

‘I do not; I would rather keep you here, but I think there is a need. We have rumours of odd comings and goings. The agents of Coaltachin are apparently poking around, and they have no business we know of that far west. I’ve also received reports of … those who are best kept under watch.’

‘The Azhante?’

‘I still employ their services. They are not a risk … yet. They are the ones sending me intelligence.’

‘Whom do they suspect?’

As if fearful of saying the name too loudly, Bernardo almost whispered, ‘The Flame Guard.’

Piccolo’s shoulders dropped slightly. ‘Is there no end to them?’

‘Apparently not. Most we killed or captured when Ithrace fell. But …’ He moved his hands again, this time in a vague sweeping gesture, wiggling his fingers. ‘Some seem to have been carried away on the wind.’

‘A few,’ observed Piccolo.

‘But with … magic. Power. Whatever you wish to label it.’ Bernardo remained silent for a moment then said, ‘I don’t suppose there are any reports of a young man or woman with copper-and-gold hair, by chance?’

Piccolo shook his head. ‘Even if there were, that doesn’t make them true. A Firemane heir conveniently landing in Marquensas, or even more so in Beran’s Hill, would spur Lodavico to act rashly, I would wager. Even your influence would barely slow him. If that rumour suddenly sprouted up, it very well might be Dumarch’s lure.’

‘Yes, agreed.’ Bernardo’s brow furrowed slightly. Then he said, ‘Not if we steal a march, and look for the man or woman. Ensure the rumours are false.’

‘So, I should leave now?’

‘Yes.’ Bernardo stood up. ‘Go, take a thorough look, then return with haste. I need to know if any of the rumours are true.’

‘If they are?’

‘Do nothing. Observe, then come back and we shall consider our position. Send word by pigeon and courier, stating clearly the time you will arrive outside Beran’s Hill. Take an armed escort, but look as if you’re travelling as mercenaries, then meet our agent outside the town; whoever arrives first must wait for the other. I’ll leave it to you to work out the details. Now, go.’ He made a dismissive gesture, hand held fingers downwards, then a flip up towards the door.

Piccolo bowed and slipped through the hidden doorway. Bernardo was always slightly amused at his agent’s use of ancient passages not known even to the king.

Alone again, he put his mind to matters of the day. In the end the Church would rule Sandura and he would rule the Church, but until that time, he was His Most Holy Majesty’s loyal adviser. It was time to go and advise. Or at least sit feigning attention while watching a bored man pose for a portrait. And ponder this persistent rumour about a man with copper-and-gold hair in a small town half a world away.

• CHAPTER ONE •
Hunting and an Unexpected Encounter

The sound of a twig cracking underfoot made the deer’s head jerk upright from grazing, its ears moving as it looked around, seeking the source of the noise. Its nostrils flared as it tested the wind.

Hava froze, her bow halfway to a ready position, not wishing to startle the young buck. After a moment of sniffing the air, the deer started to wander away. Hava stole a glance at Molly Bowman, who looked back at Hava and with an inclination of her head indicated she would move off to her right, then with her lifted chin communicated that Hava should keep stalking the deer.

All this was new to the girl from Coaltachin: her home islands had no forests like this. Here the trees were so much bigger; the boles were massive compared to the smaller pines, balsams, and fir trees that littered the relatively small mountains on the islands. The lowlands had been cleared centuries earlier for farms and orchards.

She wended her way between massive oaks, while avoiding the sprawling beech trees and their multiple roots and low-hanging branches. Hava understood how easy it would be to get lost in this forest. This area, with its interlinked forests, woodlands, small hills with dells and dead-end canyons, was called the Wildlands and had once been a haven to savage tribes and outlaws. While the western half of the region was relatively peaceful, due to the Dumarch family’s pacification of their demesne over generations, it was still a very wild place to navigate. To a girl raised in tiny villages and schools on small islands, it was a veritable maze filled with potentially lethal traps. Navigating was hard: she couldn’t see the sun, and the shadows were confusing. All the tricks she knew for how to find her way from place to place in cities were useless in the densest forest she’d ever encountered.

Even the smells were different. There was a damp earthiness overlaid with something that was almost familiar, something like sandalwood, but not. Another note, more floral, teased her, almost apple or pear, but not. The alien quality of this place both intrigued and intimidated her.

The deer started to drift away and Hava glanced over to see that Molly was already moving. Hava tried to follow the deer as silently as possible, painfully aware that compared to Molly she was making enough noise to scare away half the wildlife in the forest.

Hava liked Molly. Of all the young women she had met since arriving at Beran’s Hill, Molly was by far the most interesting. The others were much as she expected from her own experiences with town girls while travelling, as well as the girls she had known at home, people caught up in their day-to-day tedium, living predictable lives. They served their families, then got married, moved out, and served their husbands. Or served many men as barmaids, shop girls, or whores.

Though Hava was not yet twenty years of age, she’d travelled, learned to sail, killed a man with a rock, and had seen things these women couldn’t dream of, let alone attempt. She had observed their relationships over the years, but they had no meaning to her personally. The hardest thing for Hava to understand was their blind acceptance of such an ordinary existence.

Since leaving her father’s house and joining the class at Master Facaria’s school, Hava had been just another student, one who excelled, but unlike the town and farm girls she had met she was her own person, not someone’s daughter or wife.

Molly, too, was different, and she knew some things better than Hava did. Hava might be able to negotiate a dark alley and remain unseen, or enter a house without noise, but she was little more than an awkward child in this forest. She wasn’t even certain how she would get back to the town if Molly wasn’t there.

Then Hava realized Molly wasn’t there. A tiny pang of concern twinged in the pit of her stomach: the first hint of fear. It needed to be ignored, lest it lead to panic. Immediately she employed part of her childhood training to prevent her imagination running wild and leading her into poor choices.

She took stock of her position. What would she do in a city? She started looking for anything that made this location unique. All she saw were trees! A chiding voice from her memory echoed, from a crew boss named Hilsbek, ‘You look, but you do not see. Learn to see!’

Again she surveyed her surroundings and saw there was one tree with deep scratches in the bark at chest-height, as if someone had used a blade or saw on it, and then stopped. To the left of that tree was a stump, perhaps from timber felling, or a diseased tree falling, she didn’t know, but it was old, covered in some sort of vine.

Quickly she inventoried more details: a small outcropping of rocks to her right; a half-broken bough hanging from a large spread of branches forming a sort of canopy behind her. After a moment, she had confidence that should she return, she’d recognize this spot.

She turned around, and was making every detail indelible in her mind, when she heard Molly say, ‘You coming?’

Looking towards the source of the voice, she could barely make out Molly between two trees growing close together. Hava jogged forward, circling the trees, then saw a hint of movement behind Molly.

Without hesitation, Hava drew and shot, sending a shaft past Molly’s neck. The sound of the arrow striking and a slight grunt was followed by silence. Molly didn’t flinch or even show surprise, but turned to see what Hava had loosed at.

Molly looked back at Hava. ‘I hope what you saw was a deer and not some fool wearing a deerskin jerkin!’

Hava smiled. ‘Hadn’t thought of that.’

She moved purposefully through the trees, pausing a couple of times to circumnavigate barriers of brush and tree trunks. Reaching the fallen animal, she knelt and saw it was still alive but motionless in shock, breathing rapidly and shallowly.

Molly knelt next to Hava and with a quick movement slit the deer’s throat. ‘Best to put it out of its misery.’ Sitting back on her heels, she added, ‘Good shot.’ She glanced back. ‘You had maybe a foot of sight, through five, six trees?’

‘I saw movement and took the shot,’ Hava said with a shrug.

Molly slid her pack off her shoulder and took out a large sack. ‘Waste nothing,’ she said to Hava, unfolding the sack. Then she drew a light rope out of the pack and in moments had the deer hanging from a branch. Gutting the animal, she gathered the offal into the sack and tied it off. She handed the bag to Hava. ‘Someone might want the liver or kidneys for pie, and Jarman will give me a few coppers for the rest for his hogs.’

‘What about skinning it?’ asked Hava.

‘When we get back to town.’ Molly cut down the deer and with Hava’s help – though Hava thought Molly hardly needed it – she shouldered the carcass easily.

As Hava picked up the bag, Molly said, ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’

Falling into the almost unthinking default of lying about her past, Hava said, ‘My father taught us all. I was the oldest, so I had more time to learn.’ She paused, then added, ‘We all learned.’

Molly said nothing for a few paces then asked, ‘You didn’t hunt much, did you?’

‘A bit,’ replied Hava quickly, seeing where the conversation was heading. ‘It’s different where I’m from. We don’t have forests like these.’

‘Oh?’ Molly sounded curious.

‘My family lived on an island …’ Hava let the thought trail off as she quickly realized she didn’t know if Molly had met Master Bodai when he passed through Beran’s Hill in the role of a horse trader. That had been before Hava and Hatu returned to purchase the burned-out inn Hatu was working at restoring while Hava hunted with Molly. The story then was that her ‘father’ was a horse trader.

Hava resumed her story, making a mental note to speak with Hatu when they were alone so they could reconcile their false past history. ‘The island was small but pirates and raiders came close sometimes. We had little of worth, so they rarely troubled us, but occasionally they would take food and, if they could, prisoners they could rape or sell to slavers.

‘So we all learned the bow. We’d grab what we could and head up into the hills, leaving behind enough for the raiders so they wouldn’t risk following us. Everyone in my village did this.’

Molly glanced at Hava. ‘I was curious, because you’re a very good – or lucky – archer, but you seem completely lost in the forest.’

‘We left the island when I was young,’ said Hava, which was close to the truth. She had been barely seven years of age when she was sent to Facaria’s school. ‘Trading horses … you need to be able to defend yourself. Father didn’t like paying for guards …’ She shrugged as she let the explanation drop. One thing she had been taught in her training was not to volunteer too much information; it made keeping a false story consistent more difficult. She switched topics. ‘I admit I had just lost sight of you for a moment and was wondering how to get back to town.’

‘Most girls from town would get lost quickly … and a fair number of the boys, too.

‘I was an only child, so my father took me hunting, despite my mother being furious. I tried to learn the things my mother wanted to teach me, cooking, baking, and all that.’

Hava fell into stride with her as Molly went on, ‘I learned some of it. I can bake simple bread, cook a bit. I can’t make … whatever they call that fruit … preserves, yes; I can’t get that right. I recently opened a jar I’d stored away and it was nasty.’ She chuckled ruefully. ‘I never realized how much my mother knew until after she died.’

Hava reflected on that for a moment, realizing she’d never thought much about her own mother, a woman constantly beset by the demands of four younger siblings when Hava left. As a child, Hava had taken her mother’s efforts for granted. Then when she was at the school, those needs were met by the matrons, from wiping noses and bottoms to tending cuts and bruises, and occasionally comforting a crying child, until such time as the children learned not to cry.

Hava said, ‘My mother … I lost her before I was seven years old. I really don’t remember too much about her …’

Molly turned slightly so she could glance at Hava, then returned her attention to where they were going. ‘See that dip ahead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Follow me,’ she instructed, seemingly unburdened by the heavy deer she was carrying across her shoulders. When they reached the dip, Molly said, ‘This little rill here has been cut by run-off when it rains. Check and you’ll see which end is lower. If you get lost up here, look for a stream and follow it downhill. There’s a river on the other side of a road the baron’s family cut through here years ago, and if you follow any of them it will lead you to that road. Turn west and in less than an hour you’re back at Beran’s Hill.’

‘If there’s a road nearby, why aren’t we taking it?’

Molly chuckled. ‘Roads mean people. People mean that animals only cross at night when people aren’t around.’ She lifted her chin to her left and added, ‘That’s a game trail. See how it’s packed earth and rocks?’

Hava nodded.

‘You follow those to find game or water.’ Molly grinned. ‘You’re very good with a bow. We’ll hunt again soon and I’ll teach you some woodlore.’

‘I’d like that,’ Hava replied.

Molly took a step, then froze. Hava became motionless a second later, her training instinctively taking over so that she was ready for whatever came next. She put down the bag of entrails, silently drew an arrow from her hip quiver and nocked it to her bowstring.

Molly unloaded the deer carcass onto a small flat rock outcropping, letting her shoulder pack drop next to it; then she pulled an arrow from her quiver and nodded approval at Hava already being ready for trouble.

Hava remained motionless and silent, waiting for Molly’s instruction. Molly lifted her chin to show the direction she wished to move. Hava fell in behind her, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was following, an old city habit.

Molly moved with purpose and Hava could tell from her posture and economy of motion that she was ready for a fight, though her quiet caution also told Hava that Molly wasn’t looking for one.

Then Hava heard what had alerted Molly. Riders approaching: the sound of them growing noticeably louder. Molly headed down a slope, then knelt low.

Hava knelt beside her and saw there was a break in the trees a dozen yards or so ahead, and beyond that, the road. Within moments the party of riders came into view, moving at an easy canter, a gait designed to cover long distances quickly without ruining the horses. As they passed, the man in front raised his arm and reined in a bit, and the horses slowed to a trot.

As they rode out of view, Molly stood up and said, ‘Come on.’

‘We’re going to follow them?’ asked Hava. ‘What about the deer?’

Molly shouldered her bow. ‘Scavengers are already on it. There are more deer to hunt.’ She pointed up the road. ‘This is more interesting.’

‘A company of mercenaries on their way to Port Colos is interesting?’

‘Did you see how they reined in on command?’ Molly asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Not mercenaries. Soldiers dressed like mercenaries. They rode in formation and reined in on a hand signal. Well-trained cavalry.’

Hava chided herself; she should have noticed that. ‘The baron’s?’

‘If they turn south, they’re the baron’s.’

‘If they don’t, they’re someone else’s.’

‘Interesting?’

Hava nodded, her expression conceding Molly’s point. ‘Very.’

Molly started to move up the road at a fast walk, and as Hava caught up they both broke into a jogging run.

THEY MANAGED TO STAY CLOSE enough to the riders to keep them in earshot, as the soldiers disguised as mercenaries were travelling at a modest trot and the women were alternately running and jogging. Finally, when the sound of hoofbeats stopped, Molly glanced at Hava and gestured that they should move into the trees and keep following out of sight.

After skirting the road for a few minutes, Hava glimpsed the riders through the trees. The two young women retreated upslope a little more, staying low behind brush and fallen tree trunks. When the baron had had the road cleared, most of the timber not harvested – mainly mounds of branches and an occasional diseased bole – had simply been dragged uphill on either side, providing several convenient places for an ambush, or to spy.

Molly crouched, put her cheek next to Hava’s and asked, ‘What do you think?’

Hava observed how the riders organized themselves: two feeding horses out of nosebags while four others stood in a circle in discussion. One walked a short distance back down the road, apparently to see if they were being followed. Hava said, ‘They’re meeting someone.’

‘How do you know?’

‘If they were just pausing to rest the horses they’d walk them slowly and then feed them once they reached town. They don’t know how long they have to wait for whoever is meeting them, and don’t want the horses hungry and restless if they have to linger. If it was anything else, they’d be riding into town, or finding a place to let them graze.’

Molly raised a questioning eyebrow.

Hava grinned. ‘My father, horse trader?’

Molly returned the smile. ‘Now?’

‘We wait,’ said Hava, and Molly nodded.

Hava had endured enough stints of observation as part of her training that she ignored the urge to drift off into random thoughts: the many unanswered questions about the choices that would come, if not soon, eventually. About her loyalty to the Council on Coaltachin and her years spent with Hatu – and their lost friend Donte – coming into conflict. She wrestled with that occasionally, electing to push it aside most times, content that when the time came for her to choose between a lifetime of friendship and love, and a sense of duty instilled since childhood, she would make that choice.

Instead she turned her attention to the soldiers waiting at the verge of the road below, attempting to see as much as she could without being seen. Molly had been correct; these men were a poor excuse for a mercenary company. She’d seen a number of those in her travels, and they were at best a scruffy lot, given to all manner of choices in armour, weapons, saddles, and mounts. The men below had chosen to wear some unlike garments, but they were all too clean, not in need of mending, obviously little worn. More revealing, they all wore the same boots, and the horses had identical tack. She was convinced if she got closer the swords and any bows would be alike. This was a company of soldiers, should anyone take a few moments to study them, and not just any soldiers – for garrison soldiers had variations in armour, weapons, and boots. These were castellans: personal soldiers of a noble, the best of his army, whichever army that might be.

‘Why are there so many of them?’ Molly whispered.

Hava shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll find out.’

The two young women waited in silence while the men stood idly rotating every so often to ensure the horses didn’t wander off the road now that the feeding was over. Hava knew that sooner or later the horses would need water and softly asked Molly, ‘How far to water?’

Molly pointed to the road and then beyond it. ‘That way. Not far.’

Hava murmured, ‘They’ll have to water the horses soon.’

Molly nodded.

As Hava had predicted, two of the soldiers led half the horses off towards the small river that ran to the north of the road, and after a short while, returned and led off the other mounts.

Minutes passed slowly. As the sun lowered in the sky, the last of the freshly watered horses returned.

Hava leaned over and whispered, ‘See those two men, standing a little way off?’

Molly turned her attention to the indicated pair. One stood tall, a soldier by his bearing, but the other was a short man, apparently slender under his heavy cloak. Hava whispered, ‘The shorter one is not a soldier, but the tall one – their leader – seems respectful of him.’

‘How do you know?’

Hava again returned to the fabricated history she had concocted. ‘My father taught me early to study people; horse traders need to know whom they are bargaining with, even if they’re strangers. You look at who jumps to follow instructions, or their faces when they’re told something.’ As if to punctuate her observation, the tall man nodded and said something to the other soldiers, who immediately started inspecting the horses and making ready to ride soon.

‘Someone is coming,’ said Molly.

As soon as she spoke, Hava heard hoofbeats and a rider came into view, followed by the soldier who had been stationed down the road. The rider jumped down from his mount and nodded a greeting to the two men Hava had observed. The tall man moved away, leaving the short fellow and the newcomer alone to speak.

Hava said suddenly, ‘I’ve seen him before.’

‘Keep your voice down!’

Hava silently chided herself for letting a moment of surprise break her discipline.

Molly asked, ‘Who?’

‘The man who just arrived was at the inn two days ago seeking a room. Hatu said the repairs were not quite finished and sent him off.’

Since the Inn of the Three Stars was still under repair, travellers were often referred to other quarters, to smaller inns and several farmers’ barns. Their inn should be in a good enough state to allow travellers a place to stay by tomorrow, Hatu had told her.

‘Do you know him?’ whispered Molly.

‘Just a traveller. I didn’t pay attention after he asked about a room.’

Molly said, ‘They’re getting ready.’

‘Yes, but for what?’

‘To leave, look.’ She pointed to where the riders were inspecting their horses, tightening girths, checking bridles, ensuring saddle packs were secure, before starting their return journey.

Hava said, ‘We should go,’ and began to creep upslope.

Molly moved in beside her and after they’d crested a ridge and were heading towards Beran’s Hill down a gentle slope, Molly said, ‘What do you suppose all that was?’

‘Nothing good,’ said Hava.

‘Should we tell Declan?’

‘Tell him what? That a man escorted by soldiers disguised as mercenaries met a man who came into town a couple of days ago and has been …’ Hava shrugged. ‘What? Sneaking around town?’

Almost as one, they both said, ‘We should tell Declan.’

Hava said, ‘You tell him when we get back. He knows you better and I need to …’ She almost said ‘warn Hatu’ but caught herself. ‘… let Hatu know to be careful with those two should they come by the inn.’

They continued on until Hava realized she knew where they were, just as sound from the town drifted to them on the afternoon wind. As they neared, Hava made out the sounds of a hammer and smiled.

HATUSHALY PAUSED TO WIPE PERSPIRATION off his forehead and then resumed hammering another hardwood shingle into the supporting board. Summer was approaching and the days were getting hotter, especially when spent up on the roof of the inn. He and two workers he had hired were finishing all the repairs started by Declan Smith after raiders had tried to burn down the Inn of the Three Stars.

He’d purchased it from Gwen, the previous owner’s daughter, the week before. He and Hava had discussed it at length before they made the offer. Hava had grown to like Gwen, who was to wed Declan, the smith. He had become Hatu’s first ‘friend’ in this town.

Hatu leaned back and caught his breath. The work was not exhausting, but it had been a week of very long days, up before dawn, engaging in tasks that challenged what he knew of several crafts; like most students from Coaltachin, he had spent time being exposed to many skills, for the most part to provide believable stories while acting as an agent for Coaltachin, but he was a master of none of them. This restoration had taught Hatu just how much he didn’t know about carpentry, masonry, and other building trades.

He surveyed the town of Beran’s Hill, taking the time to actually look at the sprawling, growing community. It still felt new to him, as the longest he had lived in any one place had been the school where he had first met Hava and their lost friend Donte, and he sensed his perspective on this place and the people who lived here was changing.

He was playing the part of a new husband and innkeeper, a first as either. He had trained all his life to be a member of the Quelli Nascosti, the secret assassins of Coaltachin, but in fact all of that had been a front contrived to keep him hidden from his true family’s enemies.

Hatu’s real name was Sefan Langene, so Baron Daylon’s body servant Balven had told him. He was the son of a dead king. That made Hatu king in name as well, except there was no kingdom, save one of ashes and ruin on the far side of this continent. As a baby, Hatu had been given over to Master Facaria to be raised as ‘one of his own’, and the baron hadn’t realized that didn’t mean raised in the relative safety of a castle somewhere, surrounded by guards and retainers. One of the older masters, a one-time member of the Council of Masters of Coaltachin, Facaria had indeed raised Hatu as if he had been one of his own children. It had been a difficult, violent and dangerous upbringing. Hatushaly had been reared to become a warrior, crew boss, even master assassin and spy for the Kingdom of Night, as Coaltachin was known. The irony of the dangers he’d faced growing up were not lost on him. Still, it all made sense in a convoluted way; Hatu considered himself as safe as he was ever likely to be, as there were few better students in combat than he.

He almost laughed at his situation, for if he remained a simple innkeeper and kept his hair coloured as a precaution, he was probably as safe as any man in the Barony of Marquensas. Short of being overcome by some mad desire to reclaim his lost heritage, he could spend the rest of his life in relative peace, assuming that his former masters didn’t order his ‘wife’ to kill him. That did cause him to laugh aloud and wonder what more convoluted fate awaited him as he returned to work.

He loved Hava more than he could say, for his schooling had taught little about matters of the heart. He had loved her his whole life but had only recognized that recently. She had always been there for him, a calming presence at the worst times in his childhood, an anchor to keep him from spinning off in rages, the one person who understood him, perhaps better than he understood himself. He also knew she loved him, but the question was: did she love him enough to ignore orders from her masters to leave him or, worse, to kill him? Only time would tell.

He finished a section of the roof and stood up to regard his work and found it apparently sufficient – at least until the next rain, at which time his mistakes would reveal themselves. Then he lifted his eyes and saw Hava and Molly emerging from the woods on the other side of a field. Neither seemed burdened with game, so he wondered if they’d simply not found any, or had used hunting as an excuse for Hava not working.

He doubted the latter, for avoiding work wasn’t in her nature, though he knew she disliked carpentry and the general clean-up the inn required. As game was reputedly plentiful this time of year in the forest nearby, he assumed something else had arisen and that made him curious. He stepped higher up the roof ridge and waved as Hava and Molly cut across the fallow field. Hava spied him and returned the wave.

By the time he had climbed down the ladder, Hava had reached the back gate to the stabling yard. ‘Anyone inside?’ she asked.

‘No,’ answered Hatu. ‘Samuel is on his way to Declan’s to get another bucket of nails.’ He wiped his forehead. ‘And we’re almost done.’

She motioned him to follow her inside. ‘Where’s Roary?’

‘Something to do with helping his mother do something at her shop. He’ll be back in an hour.’

Hava glanced around the now-restored common room of the Inn of the Three Stars. The day before they’d moved casks of ale, barrels of wine, bottles of wine, and whisky, into storage. They had also stocked the kitchen, which was why the roof was not quite finished. Hatu was determined that by tomorrow they would once again be open for business.

‘You know that fellow who came around the day before yesterday – dark hair, tall, looking for a room? The one you sent over to Jacob’s barn?’

‘Yes. Why?’

Hava recounted what she and Molly had observed, and when she finished Hatu said, ‘Sounds like something we may need to report to the masters.’

‘Almost certainly. Who will go?’

Hatu said, ‘It will have to be me.’

Hava’s frown indicated that she didn’t understand why that was the case, so Hatu continued, ‘Haven’t you noticed? None of the women here, except for Molly Bowman, travel alone.’

‘Odd, isn’t it?’ asked Hava.

‘I gave up trying to understand why people do a lot of things since we started travelling with the masters,’ said Hatu softly.

Hava nodded. ‘What will you tell them?’

By ‘them’, she meant the masters who would receive his report.

‘I think I’ll wait a day or two and see if that fellow and the man you said he met reveal anything.’ He glanced around the almost-finished common room and said, ‘I think we were fortunate to have chosen this business. I can’t imagine a better place in Beran’s Hill to have information come to us.’

Hava nodded. ‘I’m not sure how we’ll do as an innkeeper and wife, but if those are the roles we need to play, so be it.’

Hatu smiled, slipped his arm around her, and gave her a slight hug. ‘I’m enjoying the wife part.’

She pushed him away with mock disdain. ‘None of that until you’ve bathed. You reek.’

He laughed. ‘It was hot up on that roof.’ With a sigh, he added, ‘But I’m not quite done yet, and those shingles will not attach themselves.’

‘Off you go then,’ Hava said with a smile. ‘And do bathe before tonight.’ She looked him up and down slowly. ‘You still need more practice in bed.’

He raised his eyebrows in mock shock. ‘Practice?’

‘You’re almost competent as a lover but your technique needs work,’ she said, turning her back and disappearing into the kitchen before he could respond.

Chuckling to himself, Hatu climbed back up the ladder. This roof would be finished before the evening meal. Then all that was left was to hang the sign above the door. He returned to where he had been, knelt and picked up a shingle, hammer, and nails, and resumed his labour.

MOLLY FINISHED SHARING WHAT SHE and Hava had seen with Declan, who silently listened. For a long moment he considered what she had told him and then said, ‘That does sound like something to fret over.’

Molly nodded. ‘They weren’t ordinary soldiers. They were guardsmen or something like that.’

Declan nodded. He had seen enough men-at-arms pass through Oncon, the village where he had been raised, to appreciate what Molly meant. Household, honour guards, castellans, all tended to be the most accomplished of soldiers, and to see a company of such dispatched on an escort mission indicated that the person they escorted was of some consequence.

‘Where can I get a glimpse of these fellows?’

‘I think Jacob’s barn is where the one fellow who was here slept, or maybe one of the other inns? Though Hava’s inn is supposed to open again tomorrow. Maybe there?’

‘I’ll ask Gwen. She’s over there now inspecting the place for Hatu and Hava …’ He let the words trail off. Staring out of the large open door of his blacksmith shop, he finally said, ‘She’s still in mourning. She holds it in well, maybe too well. The tears were there at first, but …’ He looked concerned. ‘I think perhaps she’s trying too hard to be strong, you know?’

‘I know,’ said Molly. Though she was usually a woman of few words, she added, ‘Once you get her with child, things will change.’

Declan fought against smiling at the thought of children but couldn’t help it. His life had taken some unexpected turns since his own childhood and he wondered how he had been so fortunate.

‘If you find those men let me know,’ Molly said. ‘I’m curious.’ Without another word, she left the forge, leaving Declan alone with his thoughts.

Since returning from a visit with Baron Dumarch, Declan had informed everyone in town that he was authorized to organize a militia. Over the weeks since then, the able-bodied men of Beran’s Hill had organized a spot of training here and there. Some grudgingly, some enthusiastically, but all understanding that since the raid on the town by a mercenary named Tyree and his band, who had burned the Inn of the Three Stars, killed Gwen’s father, and abducted two women, it was necessary – and each man serving who didn’t miss training received a few coins, which tipped the balance.

As a result, Declan found himself more and more inclined to think of himself as the party responsible for town defence, even though the baron’s authorization of a militia was vague in terms of organization and mandate. The arrival of this mysterious man, escorted by elite troops, fully reinforced that sense of responsibility. It made him curious as to who the two men were and what they were about.

HATU FELT REFRESHED AFTER BATHING. His hair was still damp – and he had used the hair dye he had bought in Marquenet to keep the bright red toned down to a brownish red that was almost as dark as Hava’s. Given his upbringing, regular bathing never occurred to him, but as he had a proper bathhouse just outside the rear entrance to the inn, he planned on using it regularly – once a week, perhaps more often.

Gwen’s father had owned the Inn of the Three Stars, and she had literally been born here. Hatu and Hava stood quietly waiting for Gwen’s judgement.

Gwen surveyed the common room and nodded. Her eyes had a slight sheen to them, but no tears. Softly she said, ‘Better than new. Da had some fixin’ he never quite got around to, and the old bar was roughly used.’ She nodded towards the highly polished, massive oak bar. ‘Splinters, stains from spills, cracks here and there. This one’s … beautiful.’

Hatu smiled. The two women stood in stark contrast to one another, Gwen voluptuous, not quite stocky, and Hava with her slender, not quite boyish figure. He recognized that most men would find Gwen more attractive, yet to him Hava was the most perfect beauty he’d ever seen.

‘Before I began travelling with Hava and her father, I was apprenticed for a time to a boatbuilder. He showed me how to seal wood and put a finish on it …’ Hatu said to Gwen, who let out a long sigh.

After a short pause, Gwen asked, ‘You two ready?’

‘Not really,’ said Hatu jokingly.

Hava said, ‘We’d be helpless without you, Gwen. When we agreed to buy the inn and repair it … let’s say there’s a lot more to running an inn than either of us imagined. How to stock the supplies, and what keeps and what doesn’t, which ale to buy …’ She fell silent a moment, then added, ‘Just so much.’

Hatu nodded agreement. ‘Had I known, I might have changed my mind.’ He kept his tone light.

Gwen appeared to him to be on the verge of tears, but she took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and smiled. ‘No use pretending things aren’t as they are.’ She crossed her arms and looked at Hava. ‘Whatever you need to know, ask. Da was a good man in many ways, but in truth he could be lax when it came to keeping the cold cellar stocked, or ensuring fresh vegetables. We had our share of nights serving meats that hadn’t quite turned, hard cheese, boiled potatoes, and day-old bread.’ She took another long look around the room, slowly turning as she added, ‘Some things you can buy easily, but others …’ She again let out a sigh. ‘You’ll manage as long as you don’t run out of ale, wine, and whisky, but a well-stocked larder and clean beds will have the regular travellers always stopping here.’ She smiled. ‘Adding those two new rooms upstairs was … Da talked of more rooms for travellers, but never quite got around to it. Too much interest in finding the perfect whisky.’

Hatu nodded. ‘That whisky takes a bit of getting used to.’

Gwen laughed, for the first time since Hava and Hatu had met her. ‘Did Declan give you that first taste?’

Hatu nodded, and tears gathered in Gwen’s eyes. Then she laughed again, squeezing her eyes so the tears fell – but they were those of joy. ‘My father did that to him, leaving him to swallow that first taste without warning. The coughing and watery eyes, red face, and the rest seems an odd rite of passage, but there it is.’ She took another deep breath and said, ‘Now you have a legacy to carry on, Hatu.’ Then she turned and left. Hatu thought it was before he saw her weep in earnest.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Hatu said softly.

After she left, Hava said, ‘I find it strange.’

‘What?’

‘Having feelings … for a place.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘It’s all she knows. Her parents both died here.’ Hatu reflected for a second that he had never known his parents, so he could barely imagine what it must feel like to have such bonds of affection. ‘I guess that leaves … memories? It seems important to her that this inn returns to what it was.’

‘Which is a good thing for us,’ admitted Hava. Looking around the empty common room she added, ‘There are too many things we know nothing about …’ She chuckled. ‘More things we never could have foreseen.’

‘Bedding,’ said Hatu, and Hava broke out laughing. ‘Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to welcome our first traveller and have no place for him to sleep?’

‘Well,’ said Hava, ‘what about …?’ She left the question unspoken, knowing he’d understand.

‘Let’s see what they do in the next few days. I can always claim to need something down in Marquenet.’

She nodded agreement and the two of them set to work on those tiny details neither had anticipated. After the sun set, Hatu spent a quiet evening with Hava talking about mostly unimportant things – not having to constantly confront life-and-death issues was welcome – before she fell asleep in his arms.

Hatu had never been one to chase every girl he saw, unlike his friend Donte, and it had been Donte who had paid a barmaid to initiate Hatu into sex. Since being with Hava he had felt no desire for other women; he could admire them, admit they were attractive, even have a passing thought that he might have been interested had Hava not existed, but Hava was his world.

It was a love he could hardly understand, let alone explain. He knew she cared for him too, but he had lingering doubts that she was able to feel for him what he felt for her. One moment it was because he felt unworthy of her, and the next it was because of how she was trained to deal with men. And at other times he had no idea how she felt. Neither of them was prone to speaking of feelings, as it was not the way of Coaltachin. He had been taught that feelings could interfere with duty and as a result, he had rarely mentioned to the woman he loved – who now lay tightly against him, slowly breathing as she slept – how he felt; not since his first protestation of love. And she had spoken of feelings even less than he.

Was he still serving the Kingdom of Night, and didn’t know it, or was he to be a simple innkeeper until fate demanded otherwise of him? Or was he a prince of a fallen kingdom with duties and obligations to that heritage he couldn’t remember, let alone understand? As sleep began to overtake him, he wondered which part of his life now was an act and which was real?

Questions without answers swirled around his head as he finally drifted off to sleep.

THE NEXT DAY SAW THE hanging of the repaired and repainted sign, a black square edged with white, with three stars set at the top and lower left and right.

Gwen nodded her approval. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but I was worried you might wish to change the name.’

Hava put her arms around Gwen’s shoulders and squeezed. She felt no genuine urge to comfort the daughter of the former owner, but she knew it was the sort of gesture people in this part of the world expected.

‘There was no good reason to change it, Gwen,’ said Hatu. ‘It’s a familiar name, with a good reputation built by your father.’ A slight nod of approval from Hava led him to add, ‘Now all we have to do is live up to it.’

Gwen smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Bring Declan over this evening and the first meal is on us.’

Gwen grinned and headed back to the house behind the forge where Declan was working.

Hava said, ‘Well, we are now innkeepers.’

‘Given some of the places you and I have slept, this is a palace.’

‘Never seen a palace,’ replied Hava, ‘but I agree it’s better than most of the inns we’ve seen.’

They went back inside. ‘I guess now we just need some customers,’ Hatu said.

‘I’ve made a list of a few things,’ said Hava, holding out her hand.

Hatu removed the coin purse from his belt and handed it to her. ‘Such as …?’

‘A loaf of bread, and some of those beef sausages Parter the Butcher sells.’

‘We already—’ Hatu interrupted himself. ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He knew she was going out to sniff around about the man who’d arrived yesterday with the escort of soldiers. The baker they used was close, but the butcher she mentioned was on the other side of town. As she was the ‘new woman’ in town, the other women were interested enough in Hava to want to stop her and ‘gossip’. Hatu wasn’t sure what the difference was between gossip and rumours, but he assumed it was something the women of this barony did, or just another word for the same thing. Either way, it was useful for gathering intelligence on odd comings and goings.

Hava left and Hatu suddenly felt abandoned. He found that very odd, then realized that it wasn’t so much abandonment, but that with Hava here he had someone to talk to, something to do. Now he found himself presented with two choices: either sit and do nothing while waiting for a customer or repeat every inventory check, room inspection, and the other tasks he had seen to repeatedly over the last two days. For the first time in his memory, Hatu found himself wide awake with nothing obviously needing to be done. He found the situation wryly amusing. Most of his life had consisted of studies, work, or trying to sleep. He moved behind the newly restored bar and once again familiarized himself with his array of bottles and kegs. In coming to learn the innkeeper’s trade, he realized that the previous owner, Leon, had stocked a wider variety of wine, spirits, and ale than most tavern keepers. It had not occurred to him to ask Gwen about that, and his best surmise was that it would attract travellers with varying tastes.

Well, he thought, best take advantage of the opportunity to rest. Hatu moved to a chair at the table closest to the open end of the bar and sat down. After a moment, he reached forward, pulled another chair out and put his feet on it.

HATU WAS DOZING WHEN HAVA returned. He sat up and pushed away the chair on which he had placed his feet. ‘Sleeping?’ she said, obviously amused.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Just resting my eyes a little.’ Coming to full alertness as she put the bread and large sausage on the bar, he asked, ‘Discover anything?’

‘Nothing important, though we seem to be the subject of some speculation, as we appear exotic to our neighbours.’

‘Well,’ said Hatu. ‘We are from about as far away from Marquensas as anyone is likely to be. I’ve seen a few travellers pass through here that are darker-skinned than you, but no one who lives here.’

‘They’re a fair-skinned lot around here, aren’t they?’ Hava sat in the chair opposite Hatu. ‘There is some talk that the number of travellers has gone up recently. Just a sense there’s something going on out there that is causing more travellers than usual to pass through town.’

‘Business?’ asked Hatu.

‘The merchants are happy: they’re selling more. Declan’s busy repairing gear and horseshoes and the like.’ She fell silent for a moment, considering. ‘It’s the … type of people who are passing I … I think we need mention to …’ Reflexively, she glanced around to make sure no one could overhear, but of course the only two people in the building were Hatu and herself. ‘When we send that message, we should make it clear that bands of armed men seem to be moving towards Port Colos. And some of the trade goods … Barons Dumarch and Bavangine aren’t the only ones having weapons made. Armour, swords, who knows what else in those tarp-covered wagons.’

Hatu nodded. ‘If you care to make notes, I’ll memorize them and pass them along.’

‘When are you going to Marquenet?’

‘Next week or the week after, I’m thinking.’ He stood up. ‘If we don’t have a customer soon, I think I’ll …’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do.’

‘You have never known how to simply sit and … just be!’

He was forced to return her laugh. ‘I suppose so. Donte always knew how to find something fun to do, didn’t he?’

She lost her smile at the mention of their friend’s name. When last he had been seen he had been hanging from chains in a cave beneath the waves, a prisoner of a coven of witches called the Sisters of the Deep. ‘He did, didn’t he?’ Looking at Hatu, she said, ‘I know one thing you can do.’

‘What?’

‘Run upstairs and open those little windows at each end of the landing. Now that the roof is done, it’s getting hot up there. Get a breeze going through and we’ll shut them at sunset.’

He laughed. ‘That will certainly keep me busy for a few minutes.’

He went upstairs and moved to the window at the far end of the landing. He had made some improvements at the suggestion of the carpenter Declan had hired to start the repairs – Hatu had enough carpentry experience to see the man knew his trade. He’d added two new rooms overlooking the rear of the inn, which would increase profits once the inn filled up, and these windows, which created a breeze through the upper floor to help keep the rooms from getting too hot in summer, which was now quickly approaching. He swung the hinged window inwards, four panes cleverly separated by wooden grilles that could be removed should the glass break, allowing him to slip unbroken glass into the grooves set into the larger frame. The configuration would keep costs down as only a broken piece of glass would need to be replaced, rather than the entire window.

He also judged that should the weather turn cold, he might need to put heavy shutters on the outside. He’d wait until he saw what winters were like, assuming he was still here then. Every plan was plagued by unknowns, something that had bothered him since childhood.

He opened the window at the opposite end of the landing and was heading back down the stairs when he heard a voice. A man said, ‘… heard you’d reopened, so we hurried over. Sleeping in a barn is …’ The man stopped speaking as Hatu came into view and nodded a greeting. Returning his gaze to Hava, he said, ‘So if you have a room and a bath, it would be welcome.’

Hava seemed slightly wooden in her posture to Hatu, but the two men seemed unaware of it. Hatu required all his self-control to maintain his easy manner. The first man was the one who had been seen around town for the last few days, the one Hava was seeking information about, which meant the other man had to be the one who arrived with the armed escort the day before.

What caused Hatu’s chest to tighten was that he recognized the second man. He was the man Hatu had spied while investigating the cathedral in Sandura, the one who had been speaking to the assassins known as Azhante, dangerous men somehow related to the sicari of Coaltachin.

Hava said, ‘This is my husband, Hatu.’

Both men nodded, and Hatu said, ‘We have a bathing room out back. I’ll heat up some water while my wife shows you to your room.’

‘Two rooms,’ said the second man.

Hatu nodded.

After a few minutes of hauling water from the well to an iron kettle, and starting a small fire beneath it, Hatu heard Hava enter the bathhouse. She held some folded cotton towels and hung them over a wooden bar next to the tub. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I guess we’ll find out what those two are up to.’

‘I have to travel shortly,’ he replied.

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Why?’

Master Bodai had given firm instructions after Hatu had seen those assassins speaking with this man, who had worn the clothing of a soldier of the One Church. Slowly he said, ‘I cannot tell you.’

Hava’s face remained impassive, but her eyes searched Hatu’s face, seeking a clue about what was happening. Her training took over and she nodded slightly. ‘I’ll tell them the bathwater will be hot in a few minutes.’ She left him alone in the bathhouse.

Hatu watched her vanish through the door and wondered if he should have said more. Again he considered how the line between truth and lies could be blurred and the fact that she was his wife – or would be once their marriage took place at the summer festival – only because she was ordered to play the role. That made him painfully aware that he had been told his obligation to Coaltachin was over with his return to Baron Daylon Dumarch, yet at the same time being told to continue as an agent for the Kingdom of Night. If his duty to Coaltachin was over, why did Master Bodai order him to continue as if it was not?

Hatu had no ready answer to this conflict he knew would only grow inside him. He knew a time might come when he would have to elect one side or the other. Whichever choice he made might end his relationship with the woman he loved.

• CHAPTER TWO •
An Unplanned Event and A Surprise Reunion

Gwen entered the forge and Declan asked, ‘How is it?’

She didn’t need to ask what ‘it’ was. She nodded and smiled. ‘Fine. To be truthful, Hatu’s fixed up the place far better than Da ever did.’ She fell silent, looking puzzled.

‘What?’

‘There’s something about that man.’

‘Hatu?’

‘Yes. Hatushaly. It is a bit of a foreign name, isn’t it?’

Declan crossed to the forge and began putting his tools away. ‘Well, I expect there are places where Declan sounds foreign.’

She nodded. ‘I like him, in a way. I also like Hava; she’s been kind.’ She let out a slow breath. ‘And as I said, the inn has never looked this good. They even cleaned out the cold cellar and completely organized the bathhouse. I’d bathe there myself.’

Declan had never used the bathhouse, having the luxury of a tub of his own in the house that came with the smithy. But he’d heard stories, and judged Leon, Gwen’s father, to be a less than fastidious innkeeper. Given how run-down the place that passed for an inn in his own home village of Oncon was, Declan hadn’t been put off by the condition of the Three Stars. He rather enjoyed it there, but the truth was that what he had enjoyed was Gwen’s company, and it didn’t matter much where that was.

‘Speaking of bathing,’ he said, ‘I could do with a wash. Would you mind heating some water while I clean up?’ He glanced out of the door where the afternoon light was starting to fail. ‘Or if you need the time to get supper ready, I’ll bathe when I’ve finished.’

‘Supper?’ she said as if remembering something. ‘Actually, we’ve been invited to dine at the inn tonight, as Hava and Hatu’s guests.’

‘That’s kind of them,’ said Declan. He smiled broadly. ‘So, if you’d please heat up some water for me, I’ll be as clean as that new inn!’

She laughed, one of the few times he’d heard a sound of genuine amusement from her since the murder of her father. ‘I’ll do that.’ And off she went.

Declan continued to put things away and wished Jusan was there to help, but he was down at Ratigan’s new freight yard arranging for a wagon to ship more swords south to Baron Dumarch. The order had surprised the young smith, for the baron had his own weapons smith in his keep. Still, it was a good order and would settle all of Declan’s costs for the coming half-year, perhaps longer. For a moment Declan wondered if there was enough trade coming his way to take on another smith. Jusan was now a journeyman, and they didn’t have a proper apprentice … perhaps it was time.

He finished up just as Jusan appeared at the door. Declan said, ‘So, are we set?’

Jusan nodded. ‘Ratigan’s fellow … ah, Randal? I don’t know why I have a problem remembering names.’

Declan frowned. It was something about Jusan that annoyed him – one of the few things – that he seemed almost unable to remember names of people until he’d met them several times.

Jusan said, ‘Anyway, we have a wagon ready to leave the day after tomorrow.’

‘Not tomorrow?’ asked Declan.

‘No,’ said Jusan. ‘Seems Ratigan had only two in the yard, both due to leave at first light, and … Randal said there were more wagons bringing up goods from Marquenet late today, and as they’ve just made the trip and back, he’s going to rest the horses for a day before they make it again, so they’ll be free the day after.’

Clapping Jusan on the shoulder, Declan said, ‘Business is good all over, it seems.’ Jusan smiled at that. ‘It’s time to bring in an apprentice, I’m thinking.’

Jusan paused, then nodded. ‘I wouldn’t say no to an extra pair of hands to do the work around here.’

‘Well, you were a poor apprentice,’ Declan said jokingly, ‘but perhaps you can train up a better one.’

‘Funny,’ said Jusan, showing he didn’t think so.

‘I’ll spend a bit of time in the city when I get there and ask Gildy if he or the other smiths have a boy who’s ready to train. If not, we’ll ask around here.’

‘Jacob Berry’s son, Callum, seems a likely lad. He turns up now and again and asks questions.’

Declan said, ‘Curious type, then?’

‘A bit scrawny.’

‘So were you when you first arrived,’ said Declan, amused. ‘Solid work and good food will put some muscle on him.’

Jusan nodded. ‘When you get back, then.’

‘If I haven’t found a more likely boy, we’ll have a word with Callum Berry. Now, I’m off for a bath and Gwen and I are going to eat at the inn.’

‘It’s open then,’ said Jusan with a satisfied nod. ‘I’ll tell Millie we’re on our own.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Down at the market, I think,’ said Jusan. Millie had been the other barmaid at the inn when it had burned down and had been terrified to the point of refusing to leave the house Declan and Gwen shared with Jusan and her. She was slowly recovering, and her being at the market alone was a good sign that healing was under way.

‘That’s good,’ said Declan. ‘Now, finish closing up: I’m off for a hot bath.’

Jusan smiled and started on the work while Declan walked briskly towards the house, as if truly eager for a bath. Then Jusan realized Declan would be alone with Gwen for a while and chuckled softly. Two young couples sharing close quarters had put a strain on privacy, so the journeyman smith decided he’d take some time organizing the smithy and wait until Millie returned from the market before entering the house.

THE COMMON ROOM WAS BUSY. Word had spread that the Inn of the Three Stars was again open and many townspeople had decided to stop in and see how the repairs had turned out.

Hatu was learning quickly that working behind the bar was a great deal more demanding than he had anticipated, for while a few folks had just dropped in to look around and then departed, many decided to have at least one ale before heading home.

Gwen and Declan entered the chaotic common room and Gwen had taken one look before motioning Declan to take a seat, then hurrying over to Hava’s side. The new proprietors of the inn appeared overwhelmed, and Gwen saved Hava from dropping a large platter of food on the floor. A quick consultation ended with Hava handing the tray to Gwen, who turned and carried it to a corner table where four men waited to be served, while Hava disappeared back into the kitchen.

Declan observed the commotion and saw his wife enter the kitchen. He waited a minute, then rose and worked his way through the growing crowd as more people entered and finally got behind the bar next to Hatu. ‘Lend a hand?’ he asked.

Hatu looked at him with gratitude. ‘Where did they all come from?’

Declan chuckled. ‘We should have expected this.’ Without another word to Hatu, he turned to three men clamouring for attention and took their orders. Within a few minutes the pace at which drink orders were filled increased noticeably. After the demand for service died down, Hatu exclaimed, ‘Thank you!’ He grinned. ‘I’d still be swamped had you not joined in.’

Declan smiled. ‘I came here so often courting Gwen, I often lent a hand behind the bar. So, you’ve never tended a bar before?’

‘No,’ said Hatu with a rueful tone, drying his hands on a bar rag. ‘I thought it would be simple. I’ve not frequented many taverns, and I’ve never seen one this crowded.’

‘They get like this once in a while in a big town,’ said Declan as he started piling up empty mugs next to a big wash pan, sunk into a counter behind where they stood. ‘Today, it was curiosity. You may see a bit of a rush tomorrow when those who couldn’t come tonight decide to see how it is, but it’ll die down. Once in a while, if a large trading company – eight, ten wagons with teamsters and helpers – or a company of soldiers comes through, it will get very busy, but most days you’ll be bored. Still, even when Leon owned it, as run-down as it was, it was the most popular inn with the local folk. With all the talk of your opening, people have started calling the road outside “Three Stars Road”. That’s a thing, right?’

Hatu looked amazed and nodded slightly. ‘Indeed.’

Without thinking, Declan started washing mugs and stacking them on a draining board. Hatu realized he was just standing there and took his rag and began wiping down the bar just as another group entered the tavern, and pushed their way through the crowd to order drinks. Hatu turned to Declan and said, ‘I think we’ll be eating late tonight.’

Declan laughed.

MORE THAN TWO HOURS WENT by before the majority of townspeople departed, leaving the four friends alone in the common room with only the two strangers who had arrived earlier quietly occupying a table in the corner. Declan and Hatu had marked them earlier in the evening and both had seen them quietly observe everyone who entered and departed. Neither spoke of it.

As they cleared the empty tables and piled up plates, bowls, and mugs, Hatu looked at the mess and reckoned he’d be cleaning for a couple of hours after his guests left.

Gwen and Hava entered from the kitchen carrying plates of bread, fruit, a bit of sliced pork, and a sliver of cheese. Setting them down on the table, Hava said, ‘I need to go to market early tomorrow. We have barely enough for the four of us!’ She sighed. ‘Is it always like this?’ she asked Gwen, her tone somewhere between amusement and concern.

Gwen smiled and shook her head.

Declan said, ‘As I told Hatu, the town turned out to see how things stood.’ Glancing around at the room with chairs out of place, some tables pushed aside, and a few dishes on the floor, he added, ‘This was special. It’ll start calming down tomorrow.’

‘Still,’ said Hava as she sat and motioned for Declan and Gwen to do likewise while Hatu returned with a pitcher of wine and four glasses, ‘we need food.’

Hatu said, ‘I was planning on riding down to Marquenet in a few days to pick up some things, but I think I made four … no, five trips to the cold cellar. We are out of cheese, have no sausages, no fruit except oranges, and I think our spices could use a bit of restocking as well.’

Gwen held up her goblet, and said, ‘You did well enough for the madness that descended on you tonight.’

‘If you and Declan hadn’t pitched in, we’d still be serving, assuming people didn’t leave in disgust over the wait.’ Hava looked at Hatu. ‘I think we need to hire someone.’

Gwen glanced at Declan and said, ‘Well, with Millie doing most of the work around our house, I could spend a little time here and help until you find someone.’

Hava reached out and squeezed Gwen’s shoulder. ‘That would be appreciated more than I can say.’

Declan said to Hatu, ‘I’m shipping a wagon of swords down to the baron the day after tomorrow. Why don’t you ride with me, and get everything you need and bring it back rather than order it and wait for it to be shipped up?’

Hatu glanced at Hava, and as he did so let his gaze pass over the two men who were sitting opposite him behind his wife-to-be and Gwen. He considered a day’s delay in sending word to Coaltachin of these two men’s arrival and thought he also might learn a thing or two more. ‘That’s a welcome idea. Yes, I’ll ride down and back with you, and I’ll pay the freight back.’

Declan smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

All four of them chuckled.

As they ate and chatted, the two men in the corner rose and went upstairs, and both Hatu and Declan tried to observe them without looking obvious.

Hava noticed Hatu’s intense expression. ‘What?’

Hatu whispered, ‘Just watching our last guests going up.’

Hava instantly understood. ‘Fine. When we’ve eaten we can finish cleaning down here.’

‘Unless someone else shows up for a drink.’ Glancing at Gwen, Hatu asked, ‘When did your father close up for the night?’

Gwen laughed. ‘As long as someone had the coin to pay for another drink, we were open. Da would close up after the last customer left.’

‘So, sometimes late,’ observed Hava.

‘Sometimes when the sun was coming up,’ answered Declan. ‘There were nights I was supposed to spend time with Gwen after she finished, but I’d have to give up and go home so I wouldn’t be useless at the forge the next day.’

Gwen gave him a mock disapproving look and said, ‘Faint heart.’

As Declan and Gwen began to stand, a familiar voice from the doorway shouted, ‘Declan!’

All four turned to see Ratigan entering the inn. ‘Look who I found!’

He was accompanied by a tall woman with light brown hair, her suntanned face set in a broad grin. Despite grey dusting her hair, and age lines in her sun-darkened face, she moved vigorously as she ran forward to throw her arms around the smith, hugging him tightly for a long moment.

Gwen’s expression became very still: this woman’s greeting was clearly one born of close familiarity.

Declan said, ‘Roz!’ He gripped her shoulders, but then caught a glimpse of Gwen’s face and stepped back. ‘How … What are you doing here?’

Rozalee smiled broadly at his clumsily hidden embarrassment. ‘Which of these pretty girls is your betrothed?’ she asked, poking him playfully in the chest.

Flushing with embarrassment, Declan beckoned Gwen to his side. ‘Gwen, this is an old friend from Oncon, Rozalee. Roz, this is my fiancée Gwen!’

Roz smiled and gave Gwen a hug. Gwen looked uncomfortable.

Declan glanced at Ratigan, who grinned at him. He’d thank the teamster when they were alone for telling Roz that Declan was now betrothed. He could see that Gwen was already wondering, so it was just as well that Roz had not given him her usual greeting of a bear hug while grabbing his arse, or a deep kiss, let alone saying some of the things she used to say to him in public, or he might not have a fiancée after tonight.

Roz let go of Gwen and held her at arms’ length. ‘You’re a beauty, for certain.’ She glanced sidelong at Declan. ‘You know you can do better than him, don’t you?’ she said, grinning.

Hava and Hatu watched the meeting with barely contained amusement, and at last Hatu said, ‘Welcome to the Inn of the Three Stars. Ale?’

‘Thought you’d never offer,’ said Ratigan, grabbing two chairs from another table and moving them around so they could all sit in a semi-circle.

As Hatu filled six flagons with ale, Declan said, ‘How’s Jack?’ Quickly he added to Gwen, ‘Roz’s husband.’

‘Dead,’ said Roz in a matter-of-fact tone.

Declan’s expression instantly changed from a self-conscious smile to one of shock and disbelief. After a moment, he regained his composure, and asked, ‘What happened?’

Roz turned to Gwen and said, ‘Your lad here saved my life. I got into it with a bunch of bandits working for that bastard Lodavico, and after I gutted a couple, they got me. I turned the knife on myself and just in time Declan found me. He nursed me a bit, then he and Ratigan loaded me up into my wagon and took me back to my husband. Did you know that?’

Softly Gwen said, ‘No, he never said.’

‘That’s like him,’ replied Roz. ‘It’s funny, but there I was hanging by a thread for a bit and finally got some strength back and just as I was getting up and about, old Jack dies in bed. Heart gave out, I expect.’ To Declan she added, ‘It was the way he would have wanted it. I was starting to catch up on the business, but he was … in the company of his most devoted servant.’

Suddenly Declan realized that Jack had died in the arms of the pretty maid he had met. The unexpected image of the fat old man dying on top of that young girl almost caused Declan to burst out laughing, and only by an act of pure will did he stop himself. He gulped air and let out a long breath, his eyes watering a tiny bit. Finally he was able to say, ‘I expect you’re absolutely right, Roz. That’s the way he would have wanted it.’

Seeing Declan fighting for control, Roz looked at Gwen. ‘Jack and I had an … unusual marriage. We had no children, and I ran the shipping, drove the wagons – did all the bargaining out of town – while Jack took the orders from merchants in Ilagan,’ she said, naming the capital city of the neighbouring kingdom of Ilcomen. ‘Anyway, I expect it’ll be different with you and this lout. Children underfoot in no time, I’m sure.’

‘It’s not that I’m not pleased to see you, Roz, but what brings you to Beran’s Hill?’ Declan said. ‘Certainly not just to visit me and Ratigan.’

For a second her expression turned serious. ‘I do owe you two my life, and I’ll never forget that, but I’ll let my partner explain.’

‘Partner?’ asked Declan, looking at Ratigan.

Hatu had placed an ale in front of each of the other five and sat next to Hava, the two of them content to silently watch the others, though Hatu occasionally glanced at the stairs against the possibility one of their two guests might appear.

Ratigan said, ‘I ran into Roz in a town called Amberly, halfway between Ilagan and Marquenet; you take a little road a few hours up into the hills, and down to a nice little valley. I was delivering some freight but mostly picking up a big load of fabric from the wool fair.’ Looking at Declan he said, ‘Remember, I told you about it when we left Ilagan on our way here?’

Declan nodded.

‘After dropping off my cargo, I ran into Roz at the west freight yard in town and we had a drink and talked. One of my wagons had broken a spoke, and …’ He looked to Roz and said, ‘You finish.’

She grinned. ‘I was going back to Ilagan empty, and Ratigan didn’t want to wait for his second wagon to be fixed, so I agreed to haul a load of cloth to Marquenet for a fee, see what I might pick up there heading back to Ilagan, and … with Jack gone and things turning nasty in the east, I wanted to find more business to the west and north, and Ratigan had more business than he could handle.’

‘I needed more wagons,’ added Ratigan, ‘but couldn’t afford to invest in new ones, so I was losing business.’

‘So, we decided to team up. I have no reason to stay in one place, as you know,’ she said to Declan.

‘So now you’re partners,’ said Declan, shaking his head in wonder.

‘Yes,’ said Ratigan with a grin. ‘I now have new wagons and Roz has new markets.’

Hatu asked, ‘What do you mean “things turning nasty in the east”?’

Roz said, ‘Sandura has claimed Passage Town, so the last free city in the east is gone.’

Declan’s brow furrowed. ‘Passage Town? I thought that was in the Covenant, sort of. Not in Sandura, not in Ithrace, so people could come and trade freely. Was I wrong?’

‘It was,’ said Roz, ‘but not any more. Sandura hoisted its banner over it a few months ago, according to what traders from the east tell us.’

Ratigan said, ‘Sandura has been fighting two barons on his northern border, and rumours abound he’s going to claim that land when the fighting’s done.’

Declan said, ‘So what’s next – Ilcomen?’

‘Maybe,’ said Roz. ‘No one knows, but everyone is arming as if he’s coming west.’

‘A fair number of free cities and small baronies are stuck between the two kingdoms, and the nomads of the Sea of Grass aren’t going to take kindly to an army marching across what they claim as their people’s lands.’

‘So, everyone is buying weapons,’ said Declan. ‘I keep getting orders from Copper Hills and the baron here. I’m thinking about taking on another smith.’

Gwen said, ‘Really?’ Her tone implied more than curiosity.

Hatu looked at Hava, who gave a slight nod. Both understood that Declan might be in a bit of trouble. Hava tried hard not to smile and almost succeeded.

Declan also understood at once. ‘Just thinking about an apprentice,’ he said quickly.

Gwen seemed to accept that at face value.

‘Anyway,’ Ratigan said, ‘we’re going to organize ourselves and set up a larger yard up here and get Randal some help.’

‘I’ve got good people in Ilagan, so we’ll both operate out of Marquenet.’

‘So, we’ll be seeing more of you,’ said Gwen, her tone flat.

Roz smiled. ‘I think a little. Most of my contacts are to the east of Ilcomen, so mostly I’ll try to keep business out that way going as long as I can.’

‘Well,’ said Declan, standing and nodding in Gwen’s direction. ‘I’m glad to see you again and pleased you met Gwen and our hosts. If you need a wagon fixed or a horse shod, you know where to come.’

‘Good to see you again, Declan.’ Roz gave him a light buss on the cheek, then surprised Gwen a little by doing the same to her. In a mock whisper, she said, ‘Don’t tell him I said so, but you found yourself a solid lad there.’

As he turned to leave, Declan asked, ‘One thing, have you word of Edvalt?’

Roz shook her head. ‘Those slavers returned and fired the town. A few fisherfolk came back and rebuilt their huts, but what you knew of Oncon is gone, Declan. Where Edvalt and Mila landed, I don’t know. Perhaps with their daughter in … whatever that place was she moved to?’

‘It didn’t have a proper name, but they call it Riverside Village, as it’s on the banks of the Tohon River.’

‘Well, they may be there. Not much business for a good smith that far from the road. Next time I’m down that way I’ll ask around.’

They said their goodnights and after Declan and Gwen departed, Roz smiled and said, ‘He picked a good one.’

Hava said, ‘I like Gwen.’

‘She knows I used to have my way with Declan,’ Roz admitted with a smile. ‘It’s an intuition some women have.’

Hava shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have guessed.’

‘Some don’t,’ admitted Roz.

Hatu looked at Ratigan who grinned broadly. ‘So, he’s in trouble?’

‘For something he did before they met?’ said Roz. ‘Not likely, unless she’s meaner than I think. But she’ll let him know those days are past.’

‘I don’t think she needs to,’ suggested Hatu. ‘I haven’t known Declan for long, but he doesn’t seem the type.’

‘He’s not,’ agreed Roz. ‘I’ve known him since he was barely able to grow a hair on his chin, and he’ll never break a vow. He’s a good and even gentle man in his way, but he’s got more steel in him than any sword he’s made. If he makes a promise, he’ll keep it or die trying.’

Hava said to Roz, ‘Do you need a room?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I’m bedding down over at Ratigan’s little house.’

‘I’ve got an extra room,’ said Ratigan quickly.

Roz chuckled. Walking to the door, she said, ‘The poor lad fears I have evil desires on him.’

Ratigan laughed and said, ‘There was a day I wouldn’t have objected, but there’s a girl down in Marquenet I’ve got my eye on and I’d not want her to think ill of me.’

‘A girl?’ said Hatu. He didn’t know the wiry teamster well, but had spent enough time with him to think this a highly improbable turn of events. ‘Tell us more.’

Ratigan smiled, waved his hand and said, ‘Some other time. Goodnight.’ The two wagoners departed.

Alone with Hava, Hatu said, ‘Well, as I now have a day before I must travel, and we have guests who may wish to eat upon arising, we’d better clean up.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hava. ‘This is harder work than I imagined.’

They entered the kitchen and Hatu looked around. ‘Less to do than I thought.’

‘Gwen showed me how to do some bits here and there along the way, rinsing mugs and letting them dry.’ Hava pointed to a ridged wooden rack next to a tub of slightly dingy washing-up water.

‘Oh, that’s what that is for,’ observed Hatu. ‘Very clever.’

They set about cleaning and less than an hour later Hatu said, ‘Fair enough.’

‘The windows,’ said Hava.

Hatu smiled and nodded. ‘I would have forgotten. I’ll be back.’

He moved quietly up the stairs, not wishing to disturb his two guests, and went to the far end of the landing and closed the window. As he passed one of the closed doors he heard faint voices. This was a little odd, since each man had his own room, but he assumed they had something to discuss.

He caught a word and froze, listening carefully to what little he could hear through the door, then silently hurried away, thanking his years of training which enabled him to tread quietly enough to avoid alerting the two men to his presence. He reached the near end of the landing, closed the window and hurried down the stairs to where Hava waited.

One look at his face and she said, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Now I’m certain I know that man who arrived earlier today. There is no doubt I must send word to the … to our grandfather.’

Hava nodded. Old habits of secrecy were unlikely to be put aside just because there was no one in this entire town who would understand what he meant. Both also knew that his need to report was born out of habit, as he no longer had any obligation to the Kingdom of Night, and that he was doing this partially so Hava wouldn’t have to explain why he was travelling to Marquenet without her.

They retired to their room next to the kitchen and Hava quickly fell asleep: she had done more physical work than Hatu, carrying platters in and out of the kitchen all night.

Hatu lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Who were these men and why did hearing that one word fill him with an undefined sense of dread? Weaving in and out of this question, that word echoed in his mind: Azhante.

• CHAPTER THREE •
More Mysteries and a Short Journey

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.

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