Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (22 page)

The man sighed. "Ah, there are always needs to be met, Commander. But I do the best I can with the resources given me. The king is generous, of course, and I think there are none whose need is desperate."

Hawk nodded. "Are there many orphans?"

"Orphans, widows, crippled…" Tarkor shrugged. "We make provision for them, as we may. There are houses where the orphans may live, and meals served to the widows and crippled."

"Many of them?" Hawk pressed.

"Always too many," Tarkor said. "But any number of them is too many. No offense, Commander. You know better than anyone how Rivarden has supported the war. But it is never easy on its supporters."

"Less easy on its supporters than on its opponents, I think," Hawk agreed. "Is there anything that could be done for them if I speak to the prince?"

Tarkor considered for several moments. Hawk could see that Lord Burojan was fidgeting. He didn't seem to be actively eavesdropping on the conversation, but he was definitely annoyed at being left out of it. "I think, Commander, that the mere fact you ask this question proves that you believe the prince
will
do something."

Hawk had to content himself with that for the moment. For now, he settled back into his chair, focusing all his attention on the singers.

After the singing was done, Tarkor gave a short speech welcoming the prince to the city and Hawk back home. His tone was thoughtful, which Hawk was quickly coming to realize was characteristic of the administrator. At least, Hawk thought, Rivarden had been in capable hands since the Push. They had had many obstacles to overcome, but Tarkor seemed to take his duties seriously.

The prince gave a short, grave speech. Hawk wondered what changes the prince had made in his speech. He said nothing of the attack on his father. He spoke only of the grave injury Rivarden had taken during the war and his admiration for the city at their determination in rebuilding.

Hawk had to stand after Razem's speech to offer his own remarks of thanks. He should have anticipated this and prepared. The speech in Salishok had been something of a surprise, but he had no such excuse here. All the same, it hadn't occurred to him.

He stood in his place, looking down at all the upturned faces. Most wore varying degrees of curiosity, some resentment, some hope, some boredom. Hawk didn't recognize many of them, though there were a few merchants he remembered seeing before the Push. Among the soldiers, there were none he recognized, but that didn't surprise him; too many of his companions had died in the Push, and of those who had survived, many had been rendered unable to continue in their duties.

After a moment, the restless shifting and quiet coughs reminded Hawk that he had been staring at them in silence when he was supposed to be speaking. He cleared his throat.

"I am not a man for speeches," he said. "I was always better at action. I feel joy at being here among you again. I am home." He paused for the brief, polite applause. He tried to smile, but the subdued mood was infecting him. "I thank you for pausing tonight to greet me. I am grateful for the chance to reacquaint myself with this jewel Rivarden, the city of my heart."

He bowed and retreated to his seat. The applause felt more genuine this time, though Hawk wasn't certain if it was for the content of his message or merely that it was over.

"That was pretty," Burojan remarked, his tone biting. "But a few pretty words will not redeem you, Hawk."

"Oh, my Lord Burojan—" Tarkor began, but Hawk waved him to silence.

"Then it is well I intend to follow them with action." He bowed deeply to the prince, and then to Burojan. That bow he made only as sharp and shallow a bow as etiquette demanded. "Prince Razem. Lord Burojan." He made his next bow, to Tarkor, no deeper but longer. "Governor. I will retire to my rooms for the night. I thank you for your generous hospitality."

Tarkor's slender hands were clasped in front of him as if he were restraining himself from reaching out to them, but he merely nodded. "Good night, Commander Hawk."

As Hawk turned to go, he saw Emran looking hard at him. He chose to ignore it. Tomorrow would bring what it brought. Tonight he was going to sleep.

***

Rivarden had a lot of refugees.

Arisanat looked around the marketplace in dismay. He had overheard Governor Tarkor and Hawk talking about the situation last night at dinner, but he hadn't understood then why Tarkor had been so noncommittal. Now he did. The refugees were an inconvenience as well as an embarrassment. Tarkor couldn't feed them all, and he couldn't house them all, so he wanted to pretend they didn't exist.

Unfortunately, pretending something didn't exist didn't make it true. Arisanat hadn't imagined the problem to be so widespread, but now that he was out in the city proper, he couldn't deny that it was.

On top of the refugees, there was an unnerving number of mercenaries and fortune hunters in the city. The city guards were hard-pressed to control the crowds, and there were hard feelings growing in certain areas of the city. Arisanat's errand had led him through some unsavory places on his way to this marketplace. Called the Hive—presumably because of the continual buzz of activity, even at this early hour—the market was a congregating spot for those who had come to Rivarden in search of riches or escape.

Why would the refugees and the mercenaries be drawn together?
Arisanat wondered as he pushed past a booth where a woman was selling repaired weapons running the gamut from a folding knife to a halberd. Perhaps some of the refugees were looking for justice that they felt could only be found at the end of a sword, though if that were the case, Arisanat would have expected them to volunteer for the army. Perhaps the mercenaries thought the refugees would be easy pickings. Not that mercenaries were all unsavory, but a fair number of them would take advantage if they found an opportunity.

That couldn't be the only reason, though. Perhaps it was just that there were cheaper meals and rooms to be had in the Hive compared to other parts of the city. Arisanat stepped out of the flow of foot traffic and leaned against a wall, folding his arms and watching the people flow past him. Some were dressed well, some were in rags, but the vast majority were at least decently clothed. The mix of people was fairly balanced between men and women, though it seemed that there were a large number of children, most of them between the ages of six and ten, compared to the number of adults.

That made sense once he considered it; the orphanages were all within a short walk of the Hive. Some of the orphans probably did some begging—or pickpocketing—in the market. Arisanat resisted the urge to slip a hand into his pocket to check that his purse was still there. He'd tucked it inside a secret pocket in his trousers, and his tunic hung nearly to his knees, disguising it. Anyway, he could feel the weight of the money against his thigh. He didn't want to draw attention to the purse by reaching for it out here in the street.

He ducked back into the endless stream of traffic and stepped into the next tavern along his route. Just inside the door, he stepped to one side and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior and enjoying the inviting smells of breakfast. This tavern was more crowded than the last two he'd looked into. A group of men and women wearing hauberks sat at a table halfway between the bar and the door. Caravan guards, he guessed. Two boys between fifteen and twenty summers sat at another table, facing each other. A motley group of at least a dozen roughly-clad people clustered around two tables they'd drawn together. In another corner, a woman wrapped in blue clothes that hid all but her face and her hands sat alone.

Arisanat glanced to his left, looking at the other half of the common dining area. Three middle-aged women sat together at a table, sharing a pitcher of coffee and laughing as they chatted together. Their conversation was the loudest in the room, and it was a mixture of Kreydeni and Tamnese. He strained his ears long enough to pick up that they were discussing the price they would get for wool that day. Shepherds, then, most likely. He passed his gaze across the room again and noticed the boy and his companion were huddled close over the table. The caravan guards were waving at the bar girl, trying to get her attention. She was looking at Arisanat, waiting to see what he would do.

He walked up to the bar, letting a smile stretch across his face. He nodded towards the table of caravan guards. "Go on and take care of them first. I'm in no hurry."

She gave him a friendly smile and grabbed her pitcher of coffee, hurrying over to the table. They greeted her with a raucous familiarity that told Arisanat they were frequenters of the establishment. She filled their mugs and returned to the bar, where she poured another mug and pushed it across the bar towards him.

"They said to add one for you," she said, grinning cheekily at him.

"Then I'm grateful," Arisanat said, lifting the mug to his lips. He leaned on the bar. "They must be in here a lot."

"Enough that I know them," the girl replied. "Can't say the same for you."

He smiled ruefully. "Point taken. Name's Risan. I'm looking for a few warm bodies, people interested in doing work and not interested in asking many questions about it."

The girl's expression shuttered. "Are you with the Hiveguard?"

"Hiveguard? No." Arisanat frowned. He'd never heard of such an organization, though at a guess, it sounded like an organized crime group. Perhaps a citizens' watch, but he didn't think such a group would make her close down like that. "I'm actually not with anyone, really. Just asking because I have a job I need done, and the Hive seems to be full of folk looking for work."

She narrowed her eyes, studying him. "You planning to turn anyone over for questioning?"

"I'm planning on asking a few friendly questions, and maybe spend a bit of gold, that's all."

"I don't inform on folk," she said.

Arisanat sipped his coffee. It wasn't bad, despite being something a group of caravan guards could afford. "I'm not asking you to. Just asking if you know anyone who might be in need of a bit of cash. You know everyone in here?" He took another pull of his coffee and slipped a few coppers on the bar. Not enough to be a bribe, but enough to tip her for the drink. Let her see he wasn't trying to coerce her, just making an honest inquiry.

She studied him narrowly for several more seconds, then turned to refill her pitcher. Over her shoulder, she said, "Only people I don't recognize in here today are those two over there. Sound like they're northerners." She looked down at the coins on the bar, chewing her lower lip. "That group yonder," she said, jerking her chin towards the people who had pushed two tables together, "they were asking about merchants what might be hiring guards. Don't know if they'd do for you, but they might."

"Thank you." Arisanat tipped his head back and drained his mug. It wouldn't do to look ungrateful or unappreciative. Besides, the coffee was decent. He wiped his mouth and set six silvers on the bar. "This refill my mug and their pitcher?"

"And leave a bit over," she said. She licked her lips.

"Bring the pitcher over and you can keep the rest," he said. "And gods keep you."

Her lips curved up. She looked tired, but she was pretty if he looked past the shadows under her eyes and the hair escaping its knot. "My thanks, friend Risan. I hope you find someone to work for you."

Arisanat smiled and followed her over to the group of people he hoped to hire. They fell silent as he approached, but Arisanat indicated the pitcher in the barmaid's hands. "I only wish to talk for a bit," he said, "and I bring an offering."

He had addressed his remark to a grizzled man somewhere between forty and fifty. A jagged scar showed beyond the edges of a leather patch that covered one eye. But the man's good eye went to a woman who looked closer to thirty than forty. She had the light tan coloring that spoke of mixed Tamnese and Strid heritage, and there was a hard glint in her eyes.

"We'll listen and we'll drink, but I make no other promises," she said, shoving a stool out for Arisanat to sit.

"I thank you, Mistress..."

"You can call me Lail," she said. "What do I call you?"

"Risan," he answered. "I've important business to be taken care of, and unfortunately I find myself unable to do it myself. But I saw your group here and thought you all look more than capable." He smiled up at the barmaid as she refilled his tankard, then took a long sip of his coffee. "Though if I've misjudged you, I apologize."

Lail folded her arms across her chest, staring at him. Arisanat couldn't shake the feeling she saw through him, but he smiled at her anyway.

"I suppose Geritte told you we're out of work," the one-eyed man said. "Her old man gets mean when she's behind on collecting tabs, so she's jumpy about people who drink too much in here."

The barmaid flinched and hurried away from the table.

Arisanat spread his hands, offering them a guileless smile. "I just asked her who among the regulars might be up for a piece of work that involves good pay and no questions."

"What is it, then?" Lail asked. She drained her tankard and shoved it across the table at him to refill.

"There is a man who has caused me considerable trouble. My business calls me urgently to Salishok." Arisanat shrugged. "One of my ships is reported to have foundered, and I have customers awaiting shipments. I don't have the time to deal with this man personally."