The King's Buccaneer by Raymond E. Feist
Harry forced his way close enough to get a good look, then turned and sprinted back through the crowd, knocking aside anyone in his way. A string of curses and oaths followed after him as he ran toward the hostel.
A few minutes later, he pushed his way into the commons, past a dozen curious soldiers and headed for Nicholas’s room. Without knocking, he pushed his way in, to find Nicholas going over his plan for the night with Amos, Ghuda, Marcus, and Calis. Anthony and Nakor had already left to do some mysterious errand the little man insisted was vital.
“What?” said Nicholas. “You’re supposed to be with the wagons.”
“They’re moving the prisoners!” said Harry, almost breathless.
“Where?” said Amos.
Harry sucked in a breath. “To the southwest. It looks like they’re heading for the docks!”
“Damn!” said Nicholas, pushing his way past the others, who all followed after Nicholas and Harry. In the common room, Nicholas turned and said, “Calis, Marcus, head for the river docks. If you don’t hear from us, do as we’ve planned. If anything changes, we’ll send a runner.”
Outside the hostel, they split up, and Harry, Amos, Ghuda, and Nicholas hurried after the wagons. They dodged behind the procession and ducked around gawkers, keeping the last wagon, flanked by two mounted guards, in sight. Nicholas said, “I recognize one of those faces—it’s Edward, a page from the castle.”
He indicated a young man who sat in the rear of the last wagon, staring off into space with a vacant expression.
Amos said, “He looks like something’s wrong with him.”
Ghuda said, “They all do.”
Nicholas moved to the side of the street and ran along to make up some of the distance, then ducked back into the road, almost knocking over a woman carrying a tray of fruit, who had been watching the wagons. She shouted at him, and one of the guards turned to see what the disturbance was.
Nicholas turned to the woman and said, “Sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going, you fool!” she shouted.
“Who’re you calling a fool!” he shouted back.
Then Ghuda grabbed his arm and said, “He’s stopped watching.”
They were off, and Nicholas craned his neck to see the wagons. They followed until they were at the docks. As market traffic thinned out, they were forced to fall farther behind the wagons, lest they be noticed. When they could finally get close, by ambling down toward a line of sheds as if on some errand, they caught a good look at the proceedings. Longboats waited to carry the prisoners to a ship in the harbor.
Amos pulled Nicholas and Harry back between two sheds, and Ghuda ducked in behind them. “What is this?” Amos said.
Nicholas said, “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with our people.”
“Maybe these aren’t our people,” said Harry. “Maybe these are the copies.”
Nicholas swore. “If that’s true, we still have to go into the estate to find out.” He thought a minute, then said, “Harry, go back to the river docks and tell Calis and Marcus to head across now. I want Calis to get in and see if our people are still there. If they are, have them bring word back to Praji and Vaja and go forward with the plan. If they’re not…or if our people are dead, it’s useless to raid for revenge. Have them hold the boats at the river docks until I tell them what to do. If our people are there, you’re in charge of the river boats. Get them down to the meeting place and get our people aboard, then head for the harbor.”
Harry said, “Got it,” and turned to leave.
“Harry!” shouted Nicholas after him.
Harry halted. “What?”
“Stay alive.”
Harry grinned back. “You too, Nicky,” he answered, and ran off.
The three who remained watched until the first group of boats reached the first ship, then Amos swore. “They’re taking both ships out!”
“When?” asked Nicholas.
Amos had asked around about the local tides and sailing conditions, but couldn’t get too much information without arousing suspicions. He said, “My best guess is sometime between midnight and dawn, whenever the tide turns.”
“Is there anything else there we can steal?”
Amos glanced around the bay. “Lot of ships have come and gone. But…” He pointed. “That begala.” He indicated a smaller sailing vessel with two masts, lateen-rigged. “She’s a coaster, but she’s fast. If we get out of the harbor before those warships leave, we can intercept one up the coast. They’ll have to keep close to the wind coming out of the harbor, until they turn southeast to run around that peninsula east of here. We can take whichever ship is second in line—the other can’t turn to come back and help in time. But we have to close before they turn, or both ships will just run away from us.”
Ghuda said, “Can that little ship hold everyone?”
“No,” said Amos. “We’ll have to come back, load up, then take out after the first ship.”
Nicholas said, “We need to take one before we worry about the other. Come on. Let’s get back to the hostel and send word to the river about the change.”
They set out, and suddenly Nicholas said, “Oh, gods!”
“What?” asked Amos.
“Nakor.”
Ghuda said, “ ‘Oh, gods,’ is right.”
“Does anyone know what he and Anthony are doing?”
“No,” said Nicholas. “We can only hope it doesn’t stir up a hornets’ nest before we’re out of the city.”
They hurried back to the hostel.
—
AS NIGHT FELL, Calis vaulted over the wall of the estate. He hurried, unconcerned about being observed. He was familiar with the scant security under normal conditions, and Nicholas’s message about the prisoners being moved to the ship made it even less likely anyone was about the estate.
As he turned the corner of a large hedge, part of a landscaped yard going to seed, he almost knocked over a guard. Before the man could react, Calis struck out with the flat of his hand, catching the man in the throat, crushing his windpipe. The guard fell over backward, thrashing on the ground. Calis hurried along, not waiting to watch him die.
Calis was not given to vainly cursing luck or fate, but despite the long odds of a guard left behind to patrol the estates, he still knew that time was more important than stealth. The condition of the prisoners the last time he saw them meant their captors had no concern beyond keeping them alive to make their living copies, and since it now appeared that task was complete, there would be no reason to keep them alive.
The crunch of boots on gravel announced the approach of another guard, and Calis hugged the ground behind a small gardener’s shed. When the soldier walked past, Calis stood up and quickly reached out, grabbing the man by the chin and back of the head. Before the startled soldier could raise his own hands, Calis snapped his neck.
Calis ran. He reached the side of the walled court where the prisoners were kept and leaped, landing on the wall. Crouching low, he saw the prisoners still lying upon their pallets, abandoned by their keepers and the creatures that were transformed into copies.
Calis saw they were unconscious, to the last of them, but still alive. He leaped down into the compound and approached the nearest prisoner. Kneeling next to a young man, now gaunt and filthy, he attempted to rouse him. The man groaned softly, but wouldn’t awaken.
Looking up, he saw that something had changed since the last time he had been to the compound. The elfling stood and trotted to the other end of the square. There was a life-sized statue there, of what at first looked to be an elf but, upon closer examination, was something else entirely. Then Calis felt his hair stand up on his neck and arms, and a rush of fear shot through him. Never in his life had he felt such dread, but never before had he encountered what stood before him. The idol was a Valheru, an icon of the long-lost masters of Midkemia. And something basic and profound in Calis’s being responded. He might only be half-elven by birth, but that half cried ou
Calis circled the statue, examining it. It was a female Valheru, wearing armor and helm. The motif was that of snakes, embossed on her helm and the shield she carried. Calis then knew that Nicholas’s worst fear was well founded: the Pantathian serpent priests were behind all that had transpired so far, without a doubt. This was Alma-Lodaka, the Valheru who had created the Pantathians millennia ago, raising serpents to consciousness and intelligence, to serve in her home, amusing but trivial creatures. But in the centuries since the Valheru had quit Midkemia, these creatures had evolved, becoming a death cult who worshipped their lost goddess, Alma-Lodaka, believing that should they conspire to bring her back to this world, all would die and enter her service, and the Pantathians would be elevated to the rank of demigods as reward for their loyalty.
Calis snapped out of his reverie and left the compound. He pushed open one of the double doors and got his first look at the interior of the square building. It was empty, save for more chains and some abandoned tools.
Calis hurried, for he needed to get word to Marcus and across the river to Harry. He knew that if he didn’t get help back to the prisoners soon, they would most likely die.
—
MARGARET FOUGHT AGAINST the restraints, tendrils of silk blowing in the breeze, which wrapped around her ankles and wrists, holding her in place. She sought to shout, to scream in anger and fear, yet her mouth filled with the soft stuff and prevented her. In the gloom a figure approached.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, sitting upright. The bed was drenched with perspiration. The room was dark. Her head throbbed with the worst headache she had known in her young life, what she imagined a hangover felt like, from things she’d overheard after the big celebrations at Castle Crydee.
From her bed, Abigail stirred, making sleepy questioning noises.
Margaret drew a deep breath and composed herself. Her heart pounded and she felt as if she had been running. She got out of bed and found herself uncoordinated, her mind spinning, only the stab of fear that she had felt a moment before giving her anything close to clarity. She put out one hand and steadied herself against the wall, while her blood rushed in her ears and her pounding heart echoed in her head with a dull throb.
She reached for the water jar kept on the table between her bed and Abigail’s and found it empty. That struck her as being odd.
She moved to Abigail’s bed and said, “Abby?” Her voice sounded like a dull croak in her own ears.
She sat down and shook Abigail, who stirred, mumbling as if trying to speak in her sleep. Margaret tried to raise her voice and said, “Abby!” shaking her friend as hard as she could.
Abigail sat up and asked, “What—?”
Margaret stared at her friend. Abigail looked as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Her eyes were circled by dark rings, and her face was paler than usual. Her hair was unkempt and dirty, and she kept blinking, as if fighting to awaken.
Margaret said, “You look terrible.”
Abigail blinked harder, shook her head, and said, “You don’t look like much yourself.” Her voice sounded as harsh and dry as had Margaret’s.
Margaret forced herself to her feet and went to a mirror. The image that greeted her was older than the last she had seen. Her face was as drawn as Abigail’s, as if she also hadn’t slept for days.
Her nightshirt was damp and stank. She made a face. “I smell as if I haven’t bathed in days.”
Abigail’s expression was still vague. And she asked, “What?”
“I said…” Margaret glanced around the room. “Where are they?”
“They?”
Crossing to her friend, Margaret took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Abby?”
“What?” said Abigail irritably, pushing her away.
“Those things: where are they?”
“What things?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Pushing past Margaret, Abby said, “Remember what? Where’s breakfast? I’m starving.”
Margaret moved back from her friend. Her nightshirt was also heavily soiled, stained below the waist, and her bed reeked. “You’re a mess.”
Abigail looked around, still as if unable to get her bearing. “Mess?”
Margaret then noticed it was dark outside. From the way she felt, and the mess in both their beds, she knew that they hadn’t merely wakened early. They had slept the clock round at least one full day, more likely two or three. Never before had they been allowed to do that. Every day a servant had come to wake them an hour after dawn, bringing them their morning meal. Margaret went to the window and looked out into the garden. It was deserted. She waited a moment and there wasn’t a sound. Usually at night she could hear people moving somewhere on the grounds, and occasionally she had heard a distant voice, or what sounded like a scream.
Hurrying to the door, she tried the handle. It opened. Peering down the corridor in either direction, she saw no other signs of life. She turned to Abigail and said, “There’s no one around.”
Abigail stood quietly, her eyes fixed on a point in the air. Margaret moved to stand before her and said, “Abby!”
The other girl blinked, but she said nothing. While Margaret watched, Abigail seemed to wilt, her body going limp as she sank back toward the bed. Her eyes closed and she was almost sitting when Margaret grabbed her shoulders. Bracing the other girl while she fought her own dizziness, Margaret shook her friend and shouted her name.
Getting no results, Margaret cursed the empty water jar. She kept her hold on Abigail and half pushed, half carried her to the door that opened onto the garden. She unlatched that door and pulled her friend through, propelling her toward the pool in the middle.
Margaret then pushed Abigail into the water. She sank a moment, then with a convulsion sat up in the shallow pool, spitting and coughing. “What!” she said, her tone furious. “Why did you do that?” she demanded.
Margaret stripped off her filthy nightshirt, sat in the pool next to her friend, and began washing days of sweat and waste from her. “Because you stink as badly as I do and I couldn’t seem to wake you.”
Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Is that us?”
“It is,” answered Margaret, slipping under the water and wetting her hair. She came up and blew water from nose and mouth. “I don’t know how clean we can get, but if we’re going to get out of here, I didn’t want anyone finding us by our stink.”
“Get out?” said Abigail, now fully awake.
Margaret made a valiant attempt to scrub her hair with fresh water. “The door is unguarded, and I don’t hear anyone around, and those two creatures are gone.”
Abigail moved to the small sculpture of a water bearer, ducking her head under the water flowing from its jug to rinse away the dirt in her hair. “How long?”
“Were we asleep?”
Abigail nodded.
“I don’t know,” said Margaret. “From the mess in our beds, a few days, maybe a week. I feel terrible, but I’m starving and thirsty.”
Abigail drank from the fountain and said, “I feel rotten, too.” She stuck her head under the fountain for a moment, then said, “I’m as clean as I’m going to be without soap.” She tried to stand up, but her wobbly knees betrayed her and she fell back into the water.
“Careful,” said Margaret, moving to drink from the fountain. “You’re a lot more shaky than I am.”
“I wonder why?” said Abigail, brushing her wet hair back with both hands as she carefully stood up in the knee-high water.
Margaret finished cleaning herself and walked out of the pool. She gave her friend a hand as they returned to their room. “I don’t know. I probably fought harder against whatever they were—” She stopped, and her
Abigail blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“The two creatures that were in here with us.”
“The lizard things?” asked Abigail, disgust on her face.
“They changed, they grew hair, and their bodies changed—and at the end they looked and sounded like us!”
Abigail looked frightened. “Margaret, how could anyone do that?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve got to get out of here. Anthony and the others are out there somewhere, looking for us, and we’ve got to warn them that there are those things out there that look like us.”
They opened the wicker hamper used to keep their clean clothes and Margaret drew out an underskirt. She tossed it to Abigail and said, “Dry off.” She grabbed another to use as a towel, throwing it on the bed when she was done. She selected the two least confining gowns and passed one to Abigail. “Leave off the underskirts; we need to move as easily as possible. We may be climbing walls.”
She put on soft slippers, and when she was dressed, she looked to see how Abigail was doing. The other girl was moving sluggishly, but she was almost dressed. Margaret helped her on with her slippers.
Margaret stood up and went to the door, peeking out to make sure no one had appeared while they bathed. Seeing no one, she guided Abigail out into the hall. At the end of the hall, she opened the door to the outside and looked around. There was no one in sight. Signaling for silence, she led Abigail into the night.
—
“DO I REALLY need this?” asked Anthony, indicating the pouch he carried.
“Yes,” said Nakor. “You never know what might come in handy. This woman who calls herself Clovis is dangerous, and she uses tricks. Maybe not as powerful as Pug, but enough to kill us both with a look. We need to be ready for anything. What we have in the pouch will be totally unexpected.”
“But…” began Anthony, then stopped. He knew better than to argue with the occasionally cryptic little man. The content of the bag confounded him; he couldn’t see what it might be good for.