The King's Buccaneer by Raymond E. Feist
“How far?” asked Amos.
“A few days’ travel, maybe more.”
Nicholas said, “We rest for the remainder of the day and all day tomorrow, then we leave at dawn the day after.”
They turned away from the vista and Nicholas put all thoughts of failure behind as they returned to the oasis.
—
THIRTY-FOUR SURVIVORS of the wreck of the Raptor moved purposefully down the incline, heading for the distant river. They had been on the march two days, and after the desert’s terrible heat, the trees’ shade made the still-hot weather seem clement to them. There was ample water, as whatever source fed the spring on the top of the plateau also emptied into a rill they had discovered flowing south out of a fissure in the rocks. Calis advised following it, as it likely ran down to the river, and if not, at least they would have water for part of their journey.
Near noon, they paused to rest and Calis moved out to scout ahead. Nicholas was coming more and more to stand in awe of the half-elf’s strength and stamina. While everyone else showed the ravages of the wreck and the subsequent journey, Calis looked much the same as he had the day they had met, save for a little dirt and a torn tunic.
Calis returned almost at once, saying, “Nicholas, you’d better see this.”
Nicholas gestured to Marcus and Harry to come as well, and the four of them hurried down a small vale the water ran through, reaching an incline of rocks. Calis motioned for them to follow him as he climbed, topping a ridge about a dozen feet above their heads.
Nicholas did so, and when he was standing next to Calis, they could clearly see the river, now a thin blue ribbon cutting through green grasslands.
“How far?” asked Nicholas.
“One, two more days.”
Nicholas grinned and said, “We’re going to make it.”
Marcus smiled faintly, as if not convinced, but Harry returned the grin.
Returning to the others, Nicholas said, “We’re moving in the right direction.” That simple statement seemed to pick up the spirits of the entire company, even Brisa, who had fallen into an atypical silence since crossing the desert. Nicholas almost wished she’d return to her rude teasing of Marcus, so he’d know she was back to her old self, but while the girl wasn’t sullen, she was distant and spoke only to answer direct questions.
Calis returned to his scouting and the others waited, resting during the hottest hours of the day, while he found the easiest way down to the grasslands below.
After more than an hour had passed, Nicholas started to feel alarmed, for Calis was unusually reliable when it came to being where he said he would be when he said he would be there. Nicholas was about to send Marcus after him when the half-elf returned, bearing a creature across his shoulders. It resembled a small deer, but had two twisting horns that swept upward and back from the head.
Ghuda grunted. “Some sort of antelope, though I’ve not seen that kind in Kesh.”
Calis threw it down and said, “There’s a herd down near the edge of the grasslands. I took this one and dressed it out. We’ll have ample to eat if that band doesn’t wander too far.”
A fire was quickly built and the creature was cooked, and Nicholas could swear he had never had meat this savory and filling.
—
THEY WERE LESS than a day from the river when Nicholas saw the smoke west of them. Calis and Marcus saw it at the same instant and Nicholas signaled a halt. He motioned to Ghuda to take Harry and circle from a more easterly quarter, while Marcus and one of the sailors were to approach from the western side. He indicated that Calis should come with him and headed straight toward the smoke. They were now traveling through high grass, sometimes reaching to their chests, and the going was slow. There was always water nearby, and Calis’s prediction of ample hunting in the area had proven true. While their fare wasn’t rich, it was enough to return the entire company to a semblance of health. Nicholas wondered how he looked. Everyone else was filthy, ragged, and gaunt, but most sprains, bruises, and cuts had healed.
Reaching a small rise, Nicholas looked down on a scene of destruction. Six wagons were drawn up in a circle, near the river, and two of them were burning. Another two were on their sides. A dozen horses lay dead in their traces, and there were bodies scattered around. From the gaps in the circle of wagons, it was obvious others had left the scene of battle.
Nicholas said, “I’m going straight in. You move around the edge of the clearing and see if anyone’s still around.”
Calis nodded and Nicholas moved down the hill as the elfling vanished into the high grass. Nicholas reached the first wagon and glanced around. The raid had happened no more than three or four hours earlier, from the state of the still-burning wagons. The others had burned out, leaving charred skeletons.
The wagons were high-sided, with large iron frames that held canvas, forming a roof and covering the sides. The canvas could be raised to admit air and light, and to make unloading easier, or lowered to protect cargo. The wagons were commodious, ample for large cargo or many passengers. The rear of the wagons was solid wood, hinged at the bottom so that, let down, the rear served as a loading ramp, with a smaller, man-sized door in the middle permitting access when the ramp was up. The overturned traces were set up for four horses each.
Nicholas turned over one of the bodies and saw a man of average height, slightly darker in skin than himself, but not as swarthy as most Keshians. He could have been a citizen of the Kingdom from his look. He had a ragged wound in his chest, obviously a sword blow, that had killed him quickly.
It took only a few minutes to realize that nearly everything of value had been taken. Nicholas found a sword under one of the dead horses and pulled it free. It was a broadsword, again like those common to the Kingdom.
Marcus appeared with the sailor, and Nicholas handed him the sword. “We’re too late.”
Marcus said, “Or luckier than we have any right to be.” He pointed to the far side of the circle and Nicholas looked. “There’s twenty, thirty dead men there.” He indicated the bodies scattered outside the wagons and said, “A big company hit this caravan—big enough to have chopped us without a second thought, I’d guess.”
Nicholas nodded. “Maybe you’re right. We have no idea who these people are or who raided them.”
Ghuda and Harry appeared from the east and began examining bodies over there. Nicholas moved toward them and said, “Ghuda? What do you think?”
The old mercenary scratched his face. “Traders and hired guards.” He glanced around and said, “They were hit first from over here,” indicating the tall grasses Nicholas had left. “That was a feint, and then the main party hit from the river side.” He pointed at the mass of bodies on that side. “Most of the fighting was there. It was fast and over quickly. These”—the dead outside the wagons—“are either attackers or those who tried to run.”
To the sailor, Nicholas said, “Go back and get the others, and bring them here.” The sailor saluted and ran off.
“Bandits?” asked Marcus.
Ghuda shook his head. “I don’t think so. This was pretty well laid out. Soldiers, I’d say.”
Nicholas said, “I don’t see any uniforms.”
“Soldiers don’t always wear uniforms,” observed Ghuda.
Just then Calis appeared, a slight figure before him. It was a small man, obviously terrified, who threw himself down upon the ground before Nicholas and the others and began speaking at a furious rate. “Who is this?” asked Nicholas.
Calis shrugged. “A survivor, I think.”
“Can anyone understand that chatter?” asked Nicholas.
Ghuda said, “Listen to what he’s saying.”
Nicholas listened and suddenly realized the man was speaking heavily accented Keshian, or a language so close to Keshian that there was little difference. The difficulty in understanding him stemmed more from the accent and his nearly frantic pleas for them to spare his life than from its being a foreign tongue.
Marcus said,
“Not unlike Natalese, really.” The language of Natal was an offshoot of Keshian, as Natal had once been a province of the Empire.
“Get up,” said Nicholas in Keshian. He was not comfortable in the language, but he had studied it.
The man understood well enough to obey. “Sah, Encosi.”
Nicholas glanced at Ghuda who said, “Sounded like ‘yes, Encosi,’ to me.” When Nicholas showed he didn’t understand, Ghuda said, “Encosi is a title, meaning ‘master,’ or ‘boss,’ or ‘lord.” Used in the area of the Girdle of Kesh when you don’t know what someone’s official rank is.”
“Who are you?” Nicholas asked the little man.
“I am being Tuka; wagon driver, Encosi.”
“Who did this?” asked Nicholas.
The man shrugged. “I am not knowing which company, Encosi.” The way he shifted his gaze from face to face, it was clear he wasn’t entirely convinced those he spoke with might not be responsible.
“Company?” asked Harry.
“They flew no banner, and wore no”—he used a word Nicholas didn’t catch—“Encosi,” said Tuka to Harry.
Ghuda said, “I think he said they wore no badges.”
The man who had named himself Tuka shook his head vigorously. “Yes, a non-lawful company, no doubt, Encosi. Brigands, most certainly.”
Something about the way he spoke confused Nicholas. He motioned for Ghuda to step away and said, “He doesn’t believe that. Why is he lying?”
Ghuda glanced over Nicholas’s shoulder. “I have no idea. We don’t know what the politics around here is like, and it may be we’ve wandered into some sort of fracas between two lords or two business organizations or who knows what. It could also be that he does know who the raiders are, but playing stupid will keep him alive.”
Nicholas shrugged and turned toward the man. “Are you the only survivor?”
The man looked around as if trying to decide which answer would best serve him. The expression was not lost on Ghuda, who drew out a hunting knife and stepped before the man. “Don’t lie, you scum!”
The man fell to his knees and started to beg for his life, imploring them to spare him because of his three wives and uncountable children. Nicholas glanced at Marcus, who nodded slightly to let Ghuda continue. The big mercenary made an almost comic show of menacing the little man, but whatever humor was in it was lost on Tuka. He crawled upon the ground and wept copiously, screaming that he was innocent of any duplicity and calling on at least a half-dozen gods unknown to Nicholas to protect him from harm.
At last Nicholas waved Ghuda away and said, “I won’t let him harm you, if you tell us the truth. We have nothing to do with those who burned these wagons. Now, who are you, where were you headed, and who raided you?”
The little man glanced around the circle of faces, and after another short spurt of imploring heaven for aid and comfort, he said, “Encosi, mercy upon me. I am being Tuka, a servant of Andres Rusolavi, a trader of majestic accomplishments. My master holds patents from six cities and is considered friend by the Jeshandi.” Nicholas hadn’t a clue who or what the Jeshandi were, but motioned for the little man to continue his narrative.
“We were bound home from the Spring Meeting, carrying cargo of great wealth, when we were struck this morning by a band of riders who forced us to circle. My master was served by Jawan’s Company, who fought well, and we were protected against this trivial raid, but then we were assaulted from’ the river, by men in boats, who overcame us. All of my master’s servants and Jawan’s Company were put to the sword, and my master’s four remaining wagons were taken away.” The man looked terrified as he said, “I was upon that wagon”—he pointed to one of the two overturned wagons—“and when it upended, I was thrown into the grass there.” He pointed to a point near where Calis had found him. “I am not being a very brave man. I hid.” He said the last as if shamed to admit his cowardice.
Nicholas said, “Do we believe him?”
Ghuda asked him to step aside and said, “I don’t think he’s lying. He expects we know who these Jeshandi are and who this Jawan was, or he would have said who they were. But he didn’t expect us to know his master, so that’s why he told us what an important man he is.” Ghuda turned to the man and said, “Are you of Rusolavi’s house?”
The man nodded furiously. “As was my father. We are his free servants!”
Ghuda said, “I think we’d best keep who we are to ourselves for a while.”
Nicholas nodded. “You circulate and tell everyone to watch what they say around this fellow, while I ask him some more questions.”
Nicholas motioned for the little man to accompany him over to the wagons, and made a stab at finding out what this valuable cargo was. The others appeared soon after and Ghuda warned them all about keeping their identity secret.
At one point, after Nicholas had some sense of what the caravan was carrying, Tuka asked, “Encosi, which company is this?”
Nicholas glanced at the ragged band of sailors and soldiers who had survived the trip from Crydee, and said, “It’s my company.”
The man’s eyes widened. “May I have the honor of your name, Encosi?”
“Nicholas,” said the Prince, and he almost added, “of Krondor,” but caught himself.
The man’s expression turned to one of puzzlement, but he said, “Of course, mighty one. Your reputation precedes you. Your deeds are legendary, and every other captain shakes with fear or trembles in envy at your name.”
Nicholas didn’t know what to make of the flattery, but as he told the little man to follow him, he said, “We’re not from around here.”
“By your accent and manner of dress, I am gleaning that fact, Encosi. But your fame spreads throughout the land.”
“Speaking of which,” said Nicholas, “what land is this?”
Tuka looked confused at the question, and it wasn’t a function of language. Nicholas judged the context wrong, and said, “How far are we from your destination?”
The little man brightened and said, “We are but four days from the rendezvous at Shingazi’s Landing. There my master intended to load our cargo upon barges and take them downriver.”
“Where?” asked Nicholas as they reached the others.
At this Tuka looked even more confused. “Where? Why, the City of the Serpent River. Where else would one go in the Eastlands, Encosi? There is no other place to go.”
Nicholas glanced at his companions, who waited.
—
MARGARET CRANED HER neck, attempting to see around the large rudder. “It’s a seaport,” she said.
“How interesting,” said Abigail sarcastically. She had alternated between bitter humor and black despair since they left the pursuing ship behind. “We were going to reach one sooner or later.”
“One thing you learn in the wilderness, Abby, is that you’re a fool to follow a trail without marking your way.”
“Whatever that means,” said Abby.
Margaret turned around and sat down on one of the beds. “It means that when we escape, we don’t want to find we haven’t a clue to how to get back.”
“Back where!” said Abby, her bitter anger now directed at Margaret.
Margaret gripped her friend by the arms. Keeping her voice low, she said, “I know you’re upset. I felt just as distressed when we lost Anthony and the others. But they’re coming. They may only be a day or two behind. When we get free of these murderers, we’ll need to backtrack along this route, for that’s where help will be.”
“If we get free,” said Abby.
“Not if—when!” insisted Margaret.
Abby’s eyes teared and she let go of her anger. “I’m so frightened,” she said as Margaret took her in her arms.
Soothing her friend’s terrors, Margaret said, “I know. I’m frightened, too. But we’ve got to do whatever we need to, no matter how scared we are. There’s just no other way.”
Abby said, “I’ll do what you ask.”
“G
ood,” said Margaret. “Always stay close to me, and if I see any opportunity to escape, I mean to take it. Just follow me.”
Abigail said nothing.
The door to the cabin opened unexpectedly. Two black-clad sailors entered, taking up guard positions on either side of the door. Instead of Arjuna Svadjian, a woman entered. Her hair was nearly black, which, coupled with fair skin and blue eyes, gave her an exotic appearance. She wore a robe which, once inside the cabin, she threw back across her shoulders, showing she wore little beneath; her breasts were covered by a light halter, while around her waist she wore but a simple short silken skirt. The scant garments were finely fashioned and well made, and she wore a ransom in jewels.
Margaret knew this was no tavern dancer or even a rich courtesan, for there was something terrifying in this woman’s eyes. She spoke easily, in the King’s Tongue. “You are the Duke’s daughter?”
Margaret said, “Yes, I am. Who are you?”
The woman ignored the question. “You are then the daughter of the Baron of Carse?” she said to Abigail.
Abigail only nodded.
The woman said, “You will be taken from here, and whatever is asked of you, do it. You must know that you may live well, live poorly, or watch some of your countrymen die incredibly painful, lingering deaths—I can assure you we have the means to make it seem an eternity. It is your choice. I urge you to choose well.” In an offhanded manner she added, “The pain of your countrymen is of no consequence, but you nobles of the Kingdom have a strong sense of being caretakers to these cattle. I hope this proves sufficient motivation for your cooperation.”
She motioned with her hand, and from outside the cabin two more guards entered, dragging a young girl with them. Without taking her eyes from Margaret, the woman said, “Do you know this girl?” Margaret recognized her: she was one of the kitchen staff from the castle, named Meggy. Margaret nodded.
“Good,” said the woman. “She is not very well, so killing her will only lose us one mouth to feed.” She waited a moment, then said, “Kill her.”
“No!” screamed Margaret as one of the two guards quickly drew a dagger, gripped Meggy by the hair, and pulled her head back. With a swift stroke of the blade, he easily slashed her throat. So quick was the act that the girl had only a moment to emit a strangled cry and then her eyes glazed over and she collapsed to her knees, as blood fountained from her neck.
“A few days’ travel, maybe more.”
Nicholas said, “We rest for the remainder of the day and all day tomorrow, then we leave at dawn the day after.”
They turned away from the vista and Nicholas put all thoughts of failure behind as they returned to the oasis.
—
THIRTY-FOUR SURVIVORS of the wreck of the Raptor moved purposefully down the incline, heading for the distant river. They had been on the march two days, and after the desert’s terrible heat, the trees’ shade made the still-hot weather seem clement to them. There was ample water, as whatever source fed the spring on the top of the plateau also emptied into a rill they had discovered flowing south out of a fissure in the rocks. Calis advised following it, as it likely ran down to the river, and if not, at least they would have water for part of their journey.
Near noon, they paused to rest and Calis moved out to scout ahead. Nicholas was coming more and more to stand in awe of the half-elf’s strength and stamina. While everyone else showed the ravages of the wreck and the subsequent journey, Calis looked much the same as he had the day they had met, save for a little dirt and a torn tunic.
Calis returned almost at once, saying, “Nicholas, you’d better see this.”
Nicholas gestured to Marcus and Harry to come as well, and the four of them hurried down a small vale the water ran through, reaching an incline of rocks. Calis motioned for them to follow him as he climbed, topping a ridge about a dozen feet above their heads.
Nicholas did so, and when he was standing next to Calis, they could clearly see the river, now a thin blue ribbon cutting through green grasslands.
“How far?” asked Nicholas.
“One, two more days.”
Nicholas grinned and said, “We’re going to make it.”
Marcus smiled faintly, as if not convinced, but Harry returned the grin.
Returning to the others, Nicholas said, “We’re moving in the right direction.” That simple statement seemed to pick up the spirits of the entire company, even Brisa, who had fallen into an atypical silence since crossing the desert. Nicholas almost wished she’d return to her rude teasing of Marcus, so he’d know she was back to her old self, but while the girl wasn’t sullen, she was distant and spoke only to answer direct questions.
Calis returned to his scouting and the others waited, resting during the hottest hours of the day, while he found the easiest way down to the grasslands below.
After more than an hour had passed, Nicholas started to feel alarmed, for Calis was unusually reliable when it came to being where he said he would be when he said he would be there. Nicholas was about to send Marcus after him when the half-elf returned, bearing a creature across his shoulders. It resembled a small deer, but had two twisting horns that swept upward and back from the head.
Ghuda grunted. “Some sort of antelope, though I’ve not seen that kind in Kesh.”
Calis threw it down and said, “There’s a herd down near the edge of the grasslands. I took this one and dressed it out. We’ll have ample to eat if that band doesn’t wander too far.”
A fire was quickly built and the creature was cooked, and Nicholas could swear he had never had meat this savory and filling.
—
THEY WERE LESS than a day from the river when Nicholas saw the smoke west of them. Calis and Marcus saw it at the same instant and Nicholas signaled a halt. He motioned to Ghuda to take Harry and circle from a more easterly quarter, while Marcus and one of the sailors were to approach from the western side. He indicated that Calis should come with him and headed straight toward the smoke. They were now traveling through high grass, sometimes reaching to their chests, and the going was slow. There was always water nearby, and Calis’s prediction of ample hunting in the area had proven true. While their fare wasn’t rich, it was enough to return the entire company to a semblance of health. Nicholas wondered how he looked. Everyone else was filthy, ragged, and gaunt, but most sprains, bruises, and cuts had healed.
Reaching a small rise, Nicholas looked down on a scene of destruction. Six wagons were drawn up in a circle, near the river, and two of them were burning. Another two were on their sides. A dozen horses lay dead in their traces, and there were bodies scattered around. From the gaps in the circle of wagons, it was obvious others had left the scene of battle.
Nicholas said, “I’m going straight in. You move around the edge of the clearing and see if anyone’s still around.”
Calis nodded and Nicholas moved down the hill as the elfling vanished into the high grass. Nicholas reached the first wagon and glanced around. The raid had happened no more than three or four hours earlier, from the state of the still-burning wagons. The others had burned out, leaving charred skeletons.
The wagons were high-sided, with large iron frames that held canvas, forming a roof and covering the sides. The canvas could be raised to admit air and light, and to make unloading easier, or lowered to protect cargo. The wagons were commodious, ample for large cargo or many passengers. The rear of the wagons was solid wood, hinged at the bottom so that, let down, the rear served as a loading ramp, with a smaller, man-sized door in the middle permitting access when the ramp was up. The overturned traces were set up for four horses each.
Nicholas turned over one of the bodies and saw a man of average height, slightly darker in skin than himself, but not as swarthy as most Keshians. He could have been a citizen of the Kingdom from his look. He had a ragged wound in his chest, obviously a sword blow, that had killed him quickly.
It took only a few minutes to realize that nearly everything of value had been taken. Nicholas found a sword under one of the dead horses and pulled it free. It was a broadsword, again like those common to the Kingdom.
Marcus appeared with the sailor, and Nicholas handed him the sword. “We’re too late.”
Marcus said, “Or luckier than we have any right to be.” He pointed to the far side of the circle and Nicholas looked. “There’s twenty, thirty dead men there.” He indicated the bodies scattered outside the wagons and said, “A big company hit this caravan—big enough to have chopped us without a second thought, I’d guess.”
Nicholas nodded. “Maybe you’re right. We have no idea who these people are or who raided them.”
Ghuda and Harry appeared from the east and began examining bodies over there. Nicholas moved toward them and said, “Ghuda? What do you think?”
The old mercenary scratched his face. “Traders and hired guards.” He glanced around and said, “They were hit first from over here,” indicating the tall grasses Nicholas had left. “That was a feint, and then the main party hit from the river side.” He pointed at the mass of bodies on that side. “Most of the fighting was there. It was fast and over quickly. These”—the dead outside the wagons—“are either attackers or those who tried to run.”
To the sailor, Nicholas said, “Go back and get the others, and bring them here.” The sailor saluted and ran off.
“Bandits?” asked Marcus.
Ghuda shook his head. “I don’t think so. This was pretty well laid out. Soldiers, I’d say.”
Nicholas said, “I don’t see any uniforms.”
“Soldiers don’t always wear uniforms,” observed Ghuda.
Just then Calis appeared, a slight figure before him. It was a small man, obviously terrified, who threw himself down upon the ground before Nicholas and the others and began speaking at a furious rate. “Who is this?” asked Nicholas.
Calis shrugged. “A survivor, I think.”
“Can anyone understand that chatter?” asked Nicholas.
Ghuda said, “Listen to what he’s saying.”
Nicholas listened and suddenly realized the man was speaking heavily accented Keshian, or a language so close to Keshian that there was little difference. The difficulty in understanding him stemmed more from the accent and his nearly frantic pleas for them to spare his life than from its being a foreign tongue.
Marcus said,
“Get up,” said Nicholas in Keshian. He was not comfortable in the language, but he had studied it.
The man understood well enough to obey. “Sah, Encosi.”
Nicholas glanced at Ghuda who said, “Sounded like ‘yes, Encosi,’ to me.” When Nicholas showed he didn’t understand, Ghuda said, “Encosi is a title, meaning ‘master,’ or ‘boss,’ or ‘lord.” Used in the area of the Girdle of Kesh when you don’t know what someone’s official rank is.”
“Who are you?” Nicholas asked the little man.
“I am being Tuka; wagon driver, Encosi.”
“Who did this?” asked Nicholas.
The man shrugged. “I am not knowing which company, Encosi.” The way he shifted his gaze from face to face, it was clear he wasn’t entirely convinced those he spoke with might not be responsible.
“Company?” asked Harry.
“They flew no banner, and wore no”—he used a word Nicholas didn’t catch—“Encosi,” said Tuka to Harry.
Ghuda said, “I think he said they wore no badges.”
The man who had named himself Tuka shook his head vigorously. “Yes, a non-lawful company, no doubt, Encosi. Brigands, most certainly.”
Something about the way he spoke confused Nicholas. He motioned for Ghuda to step away and said, “He doesn’t believe that. Why is he lying?”
Ghuda glanced over Nicholas’s shoulder. “I have no idea. We don’t know what the politics around here is like, and it may be we’ve wandered into some sort of fracas between two lords or two business organizations or who knows what. It could also be that he does know who the raiders are, but playing stupid will keep him alive.”
Nicholas shrugged and turned toward the man. “Are you the only survivor?”
The man looked around as if trying to decide which answer would best serve him. The expression was not lost on Ghuda, who drew out a hunting knife and stepped before the man. “Don’t lie, you scum!”
The man fell to his knees and started to beg for his life, imploring them to spare him because of his three wives and uncountable children. Nicholas glanced at Marcus, who nodded slightly to let Ghuda continue. The big mercenary made an almost comic show of menacing the little man, but whatever humor was in it was lost on Tuka. He crawled upon the ground and wept copiously, screaming that he was innocent of any duplicity and calling on at least a half-dozen gods unknown to Nicholas to protect him from harm.
At last Nicholas waved Ghuda away and said, “I won’t let him harm you, if you tell us the truth. We have nothing to do with those who burned these wagons. Now, who are you, where were you headed, and who raided you?”
The little man glanced around the circle of faces, and after another short spurt of imploring heaven for aid and comfort, he said, “Encosi, mercy upon me. I am being Tuka, a servant of Andres Rusolavi, a trader of majestic accomplishments. My master holds patents from six cities and is considered friend by the Jeshandi.” Nicholas hadn’t a clue who or what the Jeshandi were, but motioned for the little man to continue his narrative.
“We were bound home from the Spring Meeting, carrying cargo of great wealth, when we were struck this morning by a band of riders who forced us to circle. My master was served by Jawan’s Company, who fought well, and we were protected against this trivial raid, but then we were assaulted from’ the river, by men in boats, who overcame us. All of my master’s servants and Jawan’s Company were put to the sword, and my master’s four remaining wagons were taken away.” The man looked terrified as he said, “I was upon that wagon”—he pointed to one of the two overturned wagons—“and when it upended, I was thrown into the grass there.” He pointed to a point near where Calis had found him. “I am not being a very brave man. I hid.” He said the last as if shamed to admit his cowardice.
Nicholas said, “Do we believe him?”
Ghuda asked him to step aside and said, “I don’t think he’s lying. He expects we know who these Jeshandi are and who this Jawan was, or he would have said who they were. But he didn’t expect us to know his master, so that’s why he told us what an important man he is.” Ghuda turned to the man and said, “Are you of Rusolavi’s house?”
The man nodded furiously. “As was my father. We are his free servants!”
Ghuda said, “I think we’d best keep who we are to ourselves for a while.”
Nicholas nodded. “You circulate and tell everyone to watch what they say around this fellow, while I ask him some more questions.”
Nicholas motioned for the little man to accompany him over to the wagons, and made a stab at finding out what this valuable cargo was. The others appeared soon after and Ghuda warned them all about keeping their identity secret.
At one point, after Nicholas had some sense of what the caravan was carrying, Tuka asked, “Encosi, which company is this?”
Nicholas glanced at the ragged band of sailors and soldiers who had survived the trip from Crydee, and said, “It’s my company.”
The man’s eyes widened. “May I have the honor of your name, Encosi?”
“Nicholas,” said the Prince, and he almost added, “of Krondor,” but caught himself.
The man’s expression turned to one of puzzlement, but he said, “Of course, mighty one. Your reputation precedes you. Your deeds are legendary, and every other captain shakes with fear or trembles in envy at your name.”
Nicholas didn’t know what to make of the flattery, but as he told the little man to follow him, he said, “We’re not from around here.”
“By your accent and manner of dress, I am gleaning that fact, Encosi. But your fame spreads throughout the land.”
“Speaking of which,” said Nicholas, “what land is this?”
Tuka looked confused at the question, and it wasn’t a function of language. Nicholas judged the context wrong, and said, “How far are we from your destination?”
The little man brightened and said, “We are but four days from the rendezvous at Shingazi’s Landing. There my master intended to load our cargo upon barges and take them downriver.”
“Where?” asked Nicholas as they reached the others.
At this Tuka looked even more confused. “Where? Why, the City of the Serpent River. Where else would one go in the Eastlands, Encosi? There is no other place to go.”
Nicholas glanced at his companions, who waited.
—
MARGARET CRANED HER neck, attempting to see around the large rudder. “It’s a seaport,” she said.
“How interesting,” said Abigail sarcastically. She had alternated between bitter humor and black despair since they left the pursuing ship behind. “We were going to reach one sooner or later.”
“One thing you learn in the wilderness, Abby, is that you’re a fool to follow a trail without marking your way.”
“Whatever that means,” said Abby.
Margaret turned around and sat down on one of the beds. “It means that when we escape, we don’t want to find we haven’t a clue to how to get back.”
“Back where!” said Abby, her bitter anger now directed at Margaret.
Margaret gripped her friend by the arms. Keeping her voice low, she said, “I know you’re upset. I felt just as distressed when we lost Anthony and the others. But they’re coming. They may only be a day or two behind. When we get free of these murderers, we’ll need to backtrack along this route, for that’s where help will be.”
“If we get free,” said Abby.
“Not if—when!” insisted Margaret.
Abby’s eyes teared and she let go of her anger. “I’m so frightened,” she said as Margaret took her in her arms.
Soothing her friend’s terrors, Margaret said, “I know. I’m frightened, too. But we’ve got to do whatever we need to, no matter how scared we are. There’s just no other way.”
Abby said, “I’ll do what you ask.”
“G
Abigail said nothing.
The door to the cabin opened unexpectedly. Two black-clad sailors entered, taking up guard positions on either side of the door. Instead of Arjuna Svadjian, a woman entered. Her hair was nearly black, which, coupled with fair skin and blue eyes, gave her an exotic appearance. She wore a robe which, once inside the cabin, she threw back across her shoulders, showing she wore little beneath; her breasts were covered by a light halter, while around her waist she wore but a simple short silken skirt. The scant garments were finely fashioned and well made, and she wore a ransom in jewels.
Margaret knew this was no tavern dancer or even a rich courtesan, for there was something terrifying in this woman’s eyes. She spoke easily, in the King’s Tongue. “You are the Duke’s daughter?”
Margaret said, “Yes, I am. Who are you?”
The woman ignored the question. “You are then the daughter of the Baron of Carse?” she said to Abigail.
Abigail only nodded.
The woman said, “You will be taken from here, and whatever is asked of you, do it. You must know that you may live well, live poorly, or watch some of your countrymen die incredibly painful, lingering deaths—I can assure you we have the means to make it seem an eternity. It is your choice. I urge you to choose well.” In an offhanded manner she added, “The pain of your countrymen is of no consequence, but you nobles of the Kingdom have a strong sense of being caretakers to these cattle. I hope this proves sufficient motivation for your cooperation.”
She motioned with her hand, and from outside the cabin two more guards entered, dragging a young girl with them. Without taking her eyes from Margaret, the woman said, “Do you know this girl?” Margaret recognized her: she was one of the kitchen staff from the castle, named Meggy. Margaret nodded.
“Good,” said the woman. “She is not very well, so killing her will only lose us one mouth to feed.” She waited a moment, then said, “Kill her.”
“No!” screamed Margaret as one of the two guards quickly drew a dagger, gripped Meggy by the hair, and pulled her head back. With a swift stroke of the blade, he easily slashed her throat. So quick was the act that the girl had only a moment to emit a strangled cry and then her eyes glazed over and she collapsed to her knees, as blood fountained from her neck.