Raymond E. Feist - Queen of Storms

‘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 .

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.’