Queen of Storms. Raymond E. Feist

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