The Trail

Sally saw them coming. She jumped back from the window, straightened her skirts and collected her thoughts. Go for it, girl, she told herself. You can do it. Just put on your Welcoming Landlady face and they won't suspect a thing. Sally took refuge behind the bar and, for the first time ever during cafe hours, she poured herself a tankard of Springo Special and took a large gulp.

Eurgh. She had never liked the stuff. Too many dead rats in the bottom of the barrel for her taste.

As Sally took another mouthful of dead rat, a powerful searchlight beam cut into the cafe and swept over the occupants. Briefly, it shone straight into Sally's eyes and then, moving on, lit up the pale faces of the Northern Traders. The Traders stopped talking and exchanged worried glances.

A moment later Sally heard the heavy thud of hurried footsteps coming up the gangway. The pontoon rocked as the Pack ran along it, and the cafe shook, its plates and glasses nervously clinking with the movement. Sally put her tankard away, stood up straight and with great difficulty put a welcoming smile on her face.

The door crashed open.

The Hunter strode in. Behind him, in the beam of the searchlight, Sally could see the Pack lined up along the pontoon, pistols at the ready.

"Good evening, sir. What can I get you?" Sally trilled nervously.

The Hunter heard the tremor in her voice with satisfaction. He liked it when they were frightened. He walked slowly up to the bar, leaned over and stared at Sally intently. "You can get me some information. I know you have it."

"Oh?" Sally tried to sound politely interested. But that wasn't what the Hunter heard. He heard scared and playing tor time. Good, he thought. This one knows something.

"I am in pursuit of a small and dangerous group of terrorists," said the Hunter, carefully watching Sally's face. Sally struggled to keep her Welcoming Landlady face, but for a fraction of a second it slipped, and the briefest of expressions flitted across her features: surprise. "Surprised to hear your friends described as terrorists, are you?

"No," said Sally quickly. And then, realizing what she had said, stuttered, "I - I don't mean that. I..."

Sally gave up. The damage was done. How had it happened so easily? It was his eyes, thought Sally, those thin, bright slits of eyes like two searchlights shining into your brain. What a fool she was to think she could outwit a Hunter. Sally's heart was pounding so loudly she was sure the Hunter could hear it.

Which of course he could. That was one of his favorite sounds, the beating heart of cornered prey. He listened for a delightful moment longer and then he said, "You will tell us where they are."

"No," muttered Sally.

The Hunter seemed untroubled by this small act of rebellion. "You will," he told her matter-of-factly.

The Hunter leaned against the bar. "Nice place you've got here, Sally Mullin. Very pretty. Built of wood, isn't it? Been here a while if I remember right. Good dry seasoned timber by now. Burns exceedingly well, I'm told."

"No..." whispered Sally.

"Well, I'll tell you what, then. You just tell me where your friends have gone, and I'll mislay my tinder box..."

Sally said nothing. Her mind was racing, but her thoughts made no sense to her. All she could think of was that she had never got the fire buckets refilled after the Washing-up Boy set the tea towels alight.

"Right, then," said the Hunter. "I'll go and tell the boys to get the fire started. I'll lock the doors behind me when I go. We don't want anyone running out and getting hurt, do we?"

"You can't..." gasped Sally, understanding that the Hunter was not only about to burn down her beloved cafe but intended to burn it down with her inside it. Not to mention the five Northern Traders. Sally glanced at them. They were muttering anxiously among themselves.

The Hunter had said all he'd come to say. It was going pretty much as he had expected, and now was the time to show that he meant business. He turned abruptly and walked toward the door.

Sally stared after him, suddenly angry. How dare he come into my cafe and terrorize my customers! And then swagger off to burn us all to cinders? That man, thought Sally, is nothing but a bully. She didn't like bullies.

Sally, impetuous as ever, ran out from behind the bar. "Wait!" she yelled.

The Hunter smiled. It was working. It always did. Walk away and leave them to think about it for a moment. They always come around. The Hunter stopped but did not turn.

A hard kick on his leg from Sally's sturdy right boot caught the Hunter by surprise. "Bully," shouted Sally.

"Fool," gasped the Hunter, clutching his leg. "You will regret this, Sally Mullin."

A Senior Pack Guard appeared. "Trouble, sir?" he inquired.

The Hunter was not pleased to be seen hopping about in such an undignified manner. "No," he snapped. "All part of the plan."

"The men have collected the brushwood, sir, and set it under the cafe as you ordered. The tinder is dry and the flints are sparking well, sir."

"Good," said the Hunter grimly.

"Excuse me, sir?" said a heavily accented voice behind him. One of the Northern Traders had left their table and made his way over to the Hunter.

"Yes?" replied the Hunter through gritted teeth, spinning around on one leg to face the man. The Trader stood awkwardly. He was dressed in the dark red tunic of the Hanseatic League, travel-stained and ragged. His straggly blond hair was held in place by a greasy leather band around his forehead, and his face was a pasty white in the glare of the searchlight.

"I believe we have the information you require?" the Trader continued. His voice was slowly searching for the right words in an unfamiliar language, rising as though asking a question.

"Have you now?" replied the Hunter, the pain in his leg leaving him as, at last, the Hunt began to pick up the Trail.

Sally stared at the Northern Trader in horror. How did he know anything? Then she realized. He must have seen them from the window.

The Trader avoided Sally's accusing stare. He looked uncomfortable, but he had obviously understood enough of the Hunter's words to also be afraid. "We believe those you seek have left? In the boat?" the Trader said slowly.

"The boat. Which boat?" snapped the Hunter, back in charge now.

"We do not know your boats here. A small boat, red sails? A family with a wolf."

"A wolf. Ah, the mutt." The Hunter moved uncomfortably close to the Trader and growled in a low voice, "Which direction? Upstream or downstream? To the mountains or to the Port? Think carefully, my friend, if you and your companions wish to keep cool tonight."

"Downstream. To the Port," muttered the Trader, finding the hot breath of the Hunter unpleasant.

"Right," said the Hunter, satisfied. "I suggest you and your friends leave now while you can."

The other four Traders silently got up and walked over to the fifth Trader, guiltily avoiding Sally's horrified gaze. Swiftly they slipped out into the night, leaving Sally to her fate.

The Hunter gave her a little mocking bow. "And good night to you too, Madam," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality." The Hunter swept out and slammed the cafe door behind him.

"Nail the door shut!" he shouted angrily. "And the windows. Don't let her escape!"

The Hunter strode off down the gangway. "Get me a fast-pursuit bullet boat," he ordered the Runner waiting at the end of the gangway. "At the quay. Now!"

The Hunter reached the riverbank and turned to survey Sally Mullin's beleaguered cafe. As much as he wanted to see the first lick of the flames before he left, he did not stop. He needed to catch the Trail before it went cold. As he strode down to the quay to await the arrival of the bullet boat, the Hunter smiled a satisfied smile. No one tried to make a fool of him and got away with it.

Behind the smiling Hunter trotted the Apprentice. He was somewhat sulky at having been left outside the cafe in the cold, but he was also very excited. He wrapped his thick cloak around him and hugged himself with anticipation. His dark eyes shone, and his pale cheeks were flushed with the chill night air. This was turning into the Big Adventure his Master had told him it would be. It was the start of his Master's Return. And he was part of it because without him it could not happen. He was Advisor to the Hunter. He was the one who would Oversee the Hunt. The one whose Magykal powers would Save the Day. A brief tremor of doubt crossed the Apprentice's mind at this thought, but he pushed it away. He felt so important it made him want to shout. Or jump about. Or hit someone. But he couldn't. He had to do as his Master told him and follow the Hunter carefully and quietly. But he might just hit the Queenling when he got her - that would show her.

"Stop daydreaming and get in the boat, will you?" the Hunter snapped at him. "Get in the back, out of the way."

The Apprentice did as he was told. He didn't want to admit it, but the Hunter scared him. He stepped carefully into the stern of the boat and squeezed himself into the tiny space in front of the feet of the oarsmen.

The Hunter looked approvingly at the bullet boat. Long, narrow, sleek and as black as the night, it was coated with a polished lacquer that allowed it to slip through the water with the ease of a skater's blade on ice. Powered by ten highly trained oarsmen, it could outrun anything on the water.

On the prow it carried a powerful searchlight and a sturdy tripod on which a pistol could be mounted. The Hunter stepped carefully into the prow and sat on the narrow plank behind the tripod, where he set about quickly and expertly mounting the Assassin's silver pistol onto it. He then took a silver bullet from his pouch, looked at it closely to make sure it was the one he wanted and laid it down in a small tray beside the pistol in readiness. Finally the Hunter took five standard bullets from the boat's bullet box and lined them up beside the silver bullet. He was ready.

"Go!" he said.

The bullet boat pulled smoothly and silently out from the quay, found the fast current in the middle of the river and disappeared into the night.

But not before the Hunter had glanced behind him and seen the sight he had been waiting for.

A sheet of flame was snaking up into the night.

Sally Mullin's cafe was ablaze.