Septimus Heap, Book One_ Magyk - Angie Sage [29]
“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