Septimus Heap, Book One_ Magyk - Angie Sage [28]
The Hunter listened intently for sounds rising up from the water, but all he heard was the silence that the blanketing of snow brings. He scanned the water for clues—perhaps a shadow under the banks, a startled bird, a telltale ripple—but he could see nothing. Nothing. It was strangely quiet and still, the dark river silently winding through the bright snowy landscape lit by the shimmer of the full moon. It was, thought the Hunter, a perfect night for a Hunt.
The Hunter stood immobile, tense, waiting for the Sighting to show itself to him.
Watching and waiting…
Something caught his eye. A white face at the window of the cafe. A frightened face, a face that knew something. The Hunter smiled. He had a Sighting. He was back on the Trail.
11
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 for 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