Raymond E. Feist - Kingdom of the Isles 2 - The King's Buccaneer

f>fiOLOGU£

Ghuda stretched. Through the door behind him came a woman's voice: "Get away

from there!"

The former mercenary guard sat back in his chair on the porch of his inn,

settling his feet upon the hitching rail. In the background the usual evening

serenade was commencing. While rich travelers stayed at the large hostels in

the city or at palatial inns along the silvery beaches, the Inn of the Dented

Helm, owned by Ghuda Bule, catered to a rougher clientele: wagon drivers,

mercenaries, farmers bringing crops into the city, and rural soldiers.

"Do I have to summon the city guards!" cried the woman from inside the common

room.

A large man, Ghuda had found enough hard work keeping up the Jnn that he

hadn't run to rat and he still kept his weapons finely honed; more times than

he cared to recall, he had been forced to toss one or another customer through

the door.

Evenings, just before dining, were his favorite time of the day. Sitting in

his chair, he could see the sun set over the bay of Elarial, the brilliant

glare of the day dimming to a gentler blush that colored the white buildings

soft oranges and golds. It was one of the few pleasures he managed to reserve

for himself in

2Raymond E. Feist

an otherwise demanding life. A loud crash sounded from within the building,

and Ghuda resisted the urge to investigate. His woman would let him know when

he was needed to inter-

vene.

'Get out of here! Take that fighting outside!" Ghuda took out a dirk, one of

the two he habitually wore on his belt, and absendy began to polish it. The

sound of broken crockery echoed from within the inn. A girl's shriek followed

quickly after, then the sounds of fists striking bodies

joined in.

Ghuda looked at the sunset as he polished his blade. At almost sixty years

old, his face was an aging map of leather— showing years of caravan guard

duty, fighting, too much bad weather, bad food, and bad wine—dominated by an

oft-broken nose. Most of his hair was gone on top, leaving him with a

shoulder-length grey fringe that began halfway between crown and ears. Never

one to be called handsome, he still had something about him, a calm, open

directness, that caused people to trust and like him.

He let his gaze wander across the bay, silver and rose highlights from die

sunset sparkling atop emerald waters, as seabirds squawked and dove for their

supper. The heat of the day had gone, leaving a soft cool breeze off the bay,

faint with the tang of sea salt, and for a moment he wondered if life could be

better for one of his low station. Then he squinted against the glare of the

sun as it touched the horizon, for out of the west came a figure purposefully

marching down the road toward the little inn.

At first it was nothing more than a black speck against the glare of the

setting sun, but soon it took on detail. Something about the figure set off an

itch in the back of Ghuda's brain, and he fixed his gaze upon the stranger as

he came clearly into view. A slender, bandy-legged man wearing a dusty and

torn blue robe, tied above one shoulder, approached. He was an Isalani, a

citizen of Isalan, one of the nations to the south within the Empire of Great

Kesh. He carried an old black rucksack over one shoulder and used a long staff

as a walking stick.

When the man was close enough for his features to be clearly identified, Ghuda

said a silent prayer: "Gods, not him."

A walling cry of anger came from within the building as

THE KING 's BUCCANEE K

3

Ghuda stood up. The man reached the porch and un-shouldered his bag. A ring of

fuzz surrounded an otherwise bald head; a face resembling a vulture looked

solemn as he regarded Ghuda, then broke into a wide smile. His black eyes were

narrow slits as he grinned at Ghuda. He opened the dusty old bag. In a

familiar, gravelly tone he said, "Want an orange?" He reached into the bag and

withdrew two large oranges.

Ghuda caught the fruit that was tossed to him and said, "Nakor, what in the

Seven Lower Hells brings you here?"

Nakor the Isalani, occasional card sharp and con man, wizard in some sense of

the word, and undoubted lunatic in Ghuda's estimation, was a onetime companion

of the former mercenary. Nine years before, they had met and traveled with a

young vagabond who'd convinced Ghuda—Nakor needed no persuading—to travel on a

journey to the City of Kesh, a descent into the heart of murder, politics, and

attempted treason. The vagabond had turned out to be Prince Borric, heir to

the throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, and Ghuda had emerged from that

encounter with enough gold to travel and find this inn, the previous owner's

widow, and the most glorious sunsets he had ever seen. He wished never again

to experience anything like that journey in this life. Now, with sinking

heart, he knew that wish was likely to be a vain one.

The bandy-legged little man said, "I came to get you."

Ghuda sat back down in his chair as an ale cup came sailing through the door.

Nakor nimbly dodged it and said, "Some good fight you have there. Wagon

drivers?"

Ghuda shook his head. "No guests tonight. That's just my woman's seven kids

tearing up the common room, as usual."

Nakor dropped his rucksack and sat down upon the hitching rail and said,

"Well, give me something to eat, then we'll go-"

Returning to sharpening his dirk, Ghuda said, "Go where?"

"Krondor."

Ghuda shut his eyes a moment. The only person they both knew in Krondor was

Prince Borric. "This is not a perfect existence, by any measure, Nakor, but

I'm contented to remain here. Now go away."

The little man bit into his orange, pulled off a large piece of peel, and spat

it out. He bit deeply into the orange and slurped loudly as he did. Wiping his

mouth with the back of his wrist,

4Raymond E. Feist

he said, "Contented with that?" He pointed into the darkened doorway, through

which the wail of a child carried over the general shouts and breakage.

Ghuda said, "Well, it's a hard life, sometimes, but rarely is anyone trying to

kill me; I know where I'm sleeping every night, and I eat well and bathe

regularly. My woman's affectionate, and the children—" Another child's loud

shriek was punctuated by the sound of an indignant infant's wailing cry.

Looking at Nakor, Ghuda asked, "I'm going to regret asking this, but why do we

need to go to Krondor?"

"Got to see a man," Nakor said as he sat back on the hitching rail, hooking

one foot behind a post to keep his bal-

ance.

"One thing about you, Nakor, you never bore a man to death with unnecessary

details. What man?"

"Don't know. But we'll find out when we get there."

Ghuda sighed. "Last time I saw you, you were riding north out of the City of

Kesh, heading for that island of magicians, Stardock. You were wearing a great

cape and blue robe of magnificent weave, the horse was a black desert stallion

worth a year's wages, and you had a purse full of the Empress's gold."

Nakor shrugged. "The horse ate bad grass, got colic, and ' died." He fingered

the dirty, torn blue robe he wore. "The great cape kept catching in things, so

I threw it away. The robe is the one I still wear. The sleeves were too long,

so I tore them off. The thing dragged on the ground and I kept tripping on the

hem, so I cut it with my dagger."

Ghuda regarded his former companion's ragged appearance and said, "You could

have afforded a tailor."

"Too busy." He glanced at the turquoise sky, shot through with pink and grey

clouds, and said, "I spent all the money and I got bored with Stardock.

Decided to go to Krondor."

Ghuda felt control leaving as he said, "Last time I consulted a map, Stardock

to Krondor by way of Elarial was considered the long way around."

Nakor shrugged. "I needed to find you. So I went back to Kesh. You said you

might go to Jandowae, so there I went. Then they said you'd gone to Farafra,

so there I went. I then followed you to Draconi, Caralyan, then here."

"You seem singularly determined to find me,"

Nakor leaned forward, and his voice changed; Ghuda had

THE KING 's BUCCANE£K 5

heard him take this tone before and knew that what he was saying was

significant. "Great things, Ghuda. Don't ask me why; I don't know. Just say

that sometimes I see things.

"You need to come with me. We are going places few men of Kesh have ever gone.

Now, get your sword and your pack and come with me. A caravan leaves for

Durbin tomorrow. I have gotten you a job as a guard; they remember Ghuda Bule.

From Durbin we can find a ship to Krondor. We need to be there soon."

Ghuda said, "Why should I listen to you?"

Nakor grinned and his voice was again the half-mocking, half-mirthful sound

that was the Isalani's hallmark. "Because you're bored, true?"

Ghuda listened to his youngest stepchild wailing at some outrage done by one

of her six siblings and said, "Well, it's not as if things around here were

eventful . . ." Hearing another shriek, he added, "or really peaceful."

"Come. Tell the woman good-bye and let us go."

Ghuda stood with a mixed feeling of resignation and anticipation. Turning to

the smaller man, he said, "Best go to the caravansary and wait for me. I have

to explain some things to my woman."

Nakor said, "You got married?"

Ghuda said, "We never seemed to quite get around to it."

Nakor grinned. "Then give her some gold—if you have any left—and tell her

you'll be back, then leave. She'll have another man in that chair and in her

bed within the month."

Ghuda stood by the door a moment, regarding the light from the vanished sun as

it faded from sight and said, "I will miss the sunsets, Nakor."

The Isalani continued to grin as he jumped down from the hitching rail, picked

up his bag, and shouldered it. "There are sunsets above other oceans, Ghuda.

Mighty sights and great wonders to behold." Without another word, he turned

toward the road down to the city of Elarial and started walking.

Ghuda Bul6 entered the common room of the inn he had called home for nearly

seven years and wondered if he would ever pass this way again.

1

DECISION

\J» he lookout pointed. A "Boat dead ahead!"

Amos Trask, Admiral of the Prince's fleet of the Kingdom Navy, shouted,

"What?"

The harbor pilot who stood beside the Admiral, guiding the Prince of Krondor's

flagship, die Royal Dragon, toward die palace docks, shouted to his assistant

at the bow, "Wave them off!"

The assistant pilot, a sour-looking young man, shouted back, "They fly the

royal ensign!"

Amos Trask unceremoniously pushed past the pilot. Still a barrel-chested,

bull-necked man at past sixty years of age, he hurried toward the bow with the

sure step of a man who'd spent most of his life at sea. After sailing Prince

Arutha's flagship in and out of Krondor for nearly twenty years, he could dock

her blindfolded, but custom required the presence of the harbor pilot. Amos

disliked turning over command of his ship to anyone, least of all an officious

and not very personable member of the Royal Harbormaster's staff. Amos

suspected diat the second requirement for a position in that office was an

objectionable personality. The first seemed to be marriage to one of the

Harbormaster's numerous sisters or daughters.

Amos reached the bow and looked ahead. His dark eyes

8Raymond E. Feist

narrowed as he observed the scene unfolding below. As the ship glided toward

the quay, a small sailing boat, no more than fifteen feet in length, attempted

to dart into the opening ahead of it. Clumsily tied to the top of the mast was

a pennant, a small version of the Prince of Krondor's naval ensign. Two young

men frantically worked the sails and tiller, one attempting to hold as strong

a line to the dock as possible while the other furled a jib. Both laughed at

the impromptu race.

"Nicholas!" shouted Amos, as the boy lowering the jib waved at him. "You

idiot! We're cutting your wind! Turn about!" The boy- at the helm turned to

look at Amos and threw him an impudent grin. "I should have known," said Amos

to die assistant pilot. To the grinning boy, Amos shouted, "Harry! You

lunatic!" Glancing back, seeing the last of the sails reefed, Amos observed,

"We're coasting to the docks, we don't have room to turn if we wanted to, and

we certainly can't stop."

All ships coming into Krondor dropped anchor in the middle of the harbor,

waiting for longboats to tow them to the docks. Amos was the only man with

rank enough to intimidate the harbor pilot into allowing him to drop sail at

the proper moment and coast into the docks. He took pride in always reaching

the proper place for the land lines to be thrown out and in having never

dashed the docks or required a tow. He had coasted into this slip a hundred

times in twenty years, but never before with a pair of insane boys playing

games in front of the ship. Looking forward at the small boat, which was now

slowing even more rapidly, Amos said, "Tell me, Lawrence, how does it feel to

be the man on the bow when you drown the Prince of Krondor's youngest son?"

Color drained from the assistant pilot's face as he turned toward the small

boat. In a high-pitched voice he began shrieking at the boys to get out of the

way.

Turning his back on the scene below, Amos shook his head as he leaned back

against the railing. He ran his hand over his nearly bald pate, the grey hair

around it—once dark and curly —now tied back behind his head in a sailor's

knot. After a moment attempting to ignore what they were doing, Amos gave in.

He turned around, leaning forward and to the right so he could see past the

bowsprit. Below, Nicholas was leaning into the oar, one leg braced firmly

against the base of the mast, the oar firmly planted against the bow of the

ship. He looked

THE K/NG'S BaccANesn 9

terrified. Amos could hear Nicholas shout, "Harry! You'd better turn to port!"

Amos nodded in silent agreement, for if Harry pulled hard to port, the small

sailboat would swing wide of the lumbering ship, getting banged around,

perhaps swamped, but at least the boys would be alive. If they drifted

suddenly to starboard, the boat would quickly be ground between the ship's

hull and the approaching pilings of the dock.

Lawrence, the assistant pilot, said, "The Prince is fending us off."

"Ha!" Amos shook his head. "Letting us push them into the dock, you mean."

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Amos shouted, "Harry! Hard aport!"

The young squire only yelled a maniacal war whoop in answer as he struggled

with the tiller, to keep the boat centered upon the ship's bow.

"Like balancing a ball on a sword point." Amos sighed. He could tell by the

speed of the ship and its location that it was time to ready the lines. He

turned his back on the boys once more.

From below came the sounds of Harry whooping and yelling in exultation as the

fast-moving ship pushed the small boat along. Lawrence said, "The Prince is

holding the boat in front. He's struggling, but he's doing it."

Amos called, "Ready bowlines! Ready stern lines!" Saiiors near the bow and

stern readied lines to throw to dockmen waiting below.

"Admiral!" said Lawrence in excited tones.

Amos closed his eyes. "I don't want to hear it."

"Admiral! They've lost control! They're veering to starboard!"

Amos said, "I said I didn't want to hear it." He turned toward the assistant

pilot, who stood with a panic-stricken expression on his face as the sounds of

the small boat being crushed between the ship and the dock grated on their

ears. The cracking of wood and tearing of planks were accompanied by shouts

from the men on the dock.

The assistant pilot said, "It wasn't my fault."

An unfriendly smile split Amos's silver and grey beard as he said, "I'll

testify to that at your trial. Now order the lines, or you'll smash us against

the wharf." Seeing the remark didn't

IQ Raymond E. Feist register on the shocked man, Amos shouted, "Secure

the bowlines!"

A second later the pilot called for the stern lines to be secured, and these

were tossed to those waiting below. The ship had lost almost all its forward

movement and, when the lines went taut, stopped altogether. Amos shouted,

"Secure all lines! Run out the gangplank!"

Turning toward the dock, he peered down into the churning water between die

ship and the dock. Seeing bubbles amid die floating wood, line, and sail, he

yelled to the dock gang, "Lower a rope diere to those two idiots swimming

beneath the dock before they drown!"

By die time Amos was off the ship, the two wet youngsters had climbed up to

die dock. Amos came to where they stood and regarded the soaked pair.

Nicholas, youngest son of the Prince of Krondor, stood with his weight shifted

slightly to the right. His left boot had a raised heel to compensate for the

deformed foot he'd possessed since birth. Otherwise Nicholas was a well-made,

slender boy of seventeen. He resembled his father, having angular features and

dark hair, but he lacked Prince Arutha's intensity, though he rivaled him in

quickness. He had his mother's quiet nature and gentle manner, which somehow

made his eyes look different from his father's, though they were the same dark

brown. At the moment he looked thoroughly embarrassed.

His companion was another matter. Henry, known to the court as Harry because

his rather, the Earl of Ludland, was also named Henry, grinned as if he hadn't

been the butt of the joke. The same age as Nicholas, he was a half-head

taller, had curly red hair and a ruddy face, and was considered handsome by

most of the younger court ladies. He was a playful youngster who often let his

adventuresome nature get the better of him, and from time to time his sense of

fun took him beyond the limits of good judgment. Most of the time, Nicholas

traveled beyond that border with him. Harry ran a hand through his wet hair

and laughed.

"What's so funny?" asked Amos.

"Sorry about the boat, Admiral," answered the Squire, "but if you could have

seen die assistant pilot's face . . ."

Amos frowned at the two youngsters, then couldn't hold in

THE K/NG 'S BUCCAN£E R

11

his own laughter. "I did. It was a sight to behold." He threw wide his arms

and Nicholas gave him a rough hug.

"Glad you're back, Amos. Sorry you missed the Midsummer's Feast."

Pushing the Prince away with exaggerated distaste, Amos said, "Bah! You're all

wet. Now I'm going to have to go change before I meet with your father."

The three began walking toward the wharf next to the palace. "What news?"

asked Nicholas.

"Things are quiet. Trading ships from the Far Coast, Kesh, and Queg, and the

usual traffic from the Free Cities. It's been a peaceful year."

Harry said, "We were hoping for some rousing tales of adventure." His tone was

slightly mocking.

Amos playfully smacked him in the back of the head with the flat of his hand.

"I'll give you adventure, you maniac. What did you think you were doing?"

Harry rubbed at the back of his head and attempted an aggrieved expression.

"We had right-of-way."

"Right-of-way!" said Amos, halting in disbelief. "In the open harbor, perhaps,

with ample room to turn, but 'right-of-way' doesn't halt a three-masted

warship bearing down on you with no place to turn and no way to stop." He

shook his head as he resumed walking toward the palace. "Right-of-way indeed."

Looking at Nicholas, he said, "What were you doing out on the bay this time of

day? I thought you had studies."

"Prelate Graham is in conference with Father," answered Nicholas. "So we went

fishing."

"Catch anything?"

Harry grinned. "The biggest fish you've ever seen, Admiral."

"Now that it's back in the bay, it's the biggest, you mean," answered Amos

with a laugh.

Nicholas said, "We didn't catch anything worth talking about."

Amos said, "Well, run along and change into something less damp. I'm going to

refresh myself, then call upon your father."

"Will you be at dinner?" asked the young Prince.

"I expect."

"Good; Grandmother is in Krondor."

12

Raymond E. Feist

Amos brightened at that news. "Then I will most certainly

** Nicholas gave Amos a crooked half-smile that was the im-

— of hU fX's and said, "I doubt anyone thmks it comci-

£« d£ ** «*«" » ™e Mother jUSt m "me t0

grinned. "It's my boundless charm." With a tnfheadsof bothiys he said, "Nowgo!

I must rwue Geoffrey, then I'm off to my quarters to change So something more

fitting for dinner with . your father. He winked at Nicholas and strode

off, whistling a nameless

tune.

1C.

Nicholas and Harry hurried along, stockings squishing in their boots, toward

the Prince's quarters. Harry had a small room near Nicholas's, as he was

officially Prince Nicholas's

Squire.

The Prince's palace in Krondor rested hard against the bay, having in ancient

times been the defensive bastion of the Kingdom on the Bitter Sea. The royal

docks were separated from the rest of the harbor by an area of open shoreline

that was contained within the walls of the palace, Nicholas and Harry cut

across the open expanse of beach and approached the palace from the water.

The palace rose majestically atop a hill, outlined against the afternoon sky,

a sprawling series of apartments and halls grafted around the original keep,

which still served as the heart of the complex. Dwarfed by several other

towers and spires added over the last few centuries, the old keep still

commanded the eye, a brooding reminder of days gone by, when the world was a

far more dangerous place.

Nicholas and Harry pushed open an old metal gate, which provided access to the

harbor for those who worked in the kitchen. The pungency of the harbor, with

its smells of fish, brine, and tar, gave way to more appetizing aromas as they

neared the kitchen. The boys hurried down past the washhouse and the

bakehouse, through a small vegetable garden, and down a low flight of stone

stairs, moving, among servants' huts.

They approached the servants' entrance to the royal family's private

apartments, not wishing a chance encounter with any of Prince Arutha's staff

or, more to the point, with the Prince himself.

THE KING'S BUCCANSZK.

13

Reaching the doors used by the serving staff closest to their own rooms,

Nicholas opened it just as a pair of the palace serving girls approached from

within carrying bundles of linens bound for the washhouse behind the palace.

He stood aside, though his rank gave him precedence, out of respect for their

heavy loads. Harry gave both the girls, only a few years older than himself,

his version of a rakish grin. One giggled and the other fixed him with a look

appropriate to finding a rodent in the larder.

As the young women hurried off, conscious of their impact on the rwo

adolescent boys, Harry grinned and said, "She wants me."

Nicholas gave him a hard push that sent him stumbling through the door,

saying, "Just about as much as I want the belly flux. Keep dreaming."

Hurrying up the stairs to the family's quarters, Harry said, "No, she does.

She hides it, but I can tell."

Nicholas said, "Harry the lady's man. Lock up your daughters, Krondor."

After the bright afternoon sunlight, the hallway was positively gloomy. At the

end of the hall, they turned up stairs that took them out of the servants'

area to the apartments of the royal family. At the top of the stairs, they

opened the door and peeked through. Seeing no one of rank, the two boys

hurried to their respective doors, located halfway down the hall from the

servants' door. Between this door and his own a mirror hung, and, catching his

own reflection, Nicholas said, "It's a good thing Father didn't see us."

Nicholas entered his own quarters, a large pair of rooms, with enormous

closets and a private garderobe, so he didn't have to leave the room to

relieve himself. He quickly stripped off his wet clothing and dried himself.

He turned and caught sight of himself in a large mirror, a luxury of immense

value, as it was fashioned from silvered glass imported from Kesh. His

body—that of a boy on the way to becoming a man—showed a broadening chest and

shoulders; he had a man's growth of body hair, as well as a need to shave

daily. But his face was still a boy's, lacking the set of features that only

time can give.

As he finished drying, he looked at his left foot as he had every day of his

life. A ball of flesh, with tiny protuberances that should have been toes,

extended from the base of an other-

14 Raymond E. Feist

wise well-formed left leg. The foot had been the object of medicine and magic

since his birth, but had resisted all attempts at healing. No less sensitive

to touch and sensation as the right foot, it nevertheless was difficult for

Nicholas to command; the muscles were connected incorrectly to bones the wrong

size to perform the tasks nature intended. Like most people with a lifetime

affliction, Nicholas had compensated to the point of rarely being aware of it.

He walked with only a slight limp. He was an excellent swordsman, perhaps the

equal of his father, who was counted the best in the Western Realm. The Palace

Swordmaster judged him as already a better swordsman than his two elder

brothers were at his age. He could dance, as required by his office—son of the

ruler of the Western Realm —but die one thing that he could not compensate for

was a terrible reeling that he was somehow less than he should be.

Nicholas was a soft-spoken, reflective youngster who preferred the quiet

solitude of his father's library to the more boisterous activities of most

boys his age. He was an excellent swimmer, a fine horseman, and a fair archer

in addition to being skilled at swordplay, but all his life he had felt

deficient. A vague sense of failure, and a haunting guilt, seemed to fill him

unexpectedly, and often he would find his mind seized by dark brooding. With

company, he was often merry and enjoyed a joke as well as the next boy, but if

left alone, Nicholas found his mind seized by worry. That had been one reason

Harry had come to Krondor.

As he dressed, Nicholas shook his head in amusement. His companion for the

last year, Squire Harry had provided an abrupt change to Nicholas's solitary

ways, forever dragging the Prince off on some foolish enterprise or another.

Life for Nicholas had become far more exciting since the arrival of the middle

son of the Earl of Ludland. Given his rank and two competitive brothers, Harry

was combative and expected to be obeyed, barely observing the difference in

rank between himself and Nicholas. Only a pointed order would remind Harry

that Nicholas wasn't a younger brother to command. Given Harry's domineering

ways, the Prince's court was probably the only place his father could have

sent him to have his nature tempered before he became a regular tyrant.

Nicholas brushed out his wet, neck-length hair, cut in imitation of his

father's. Alternately drying it with a towel, then

THE KING 's BUCCANEE K

15

brushing it, he got it to some semblance of respectability. He envied Harry

his red curls, hugging his head. A quick toweling and a brush, then off he

went.

Nicholas judged himself as presentable as he was likely to make himself under

the circumstances, and left his room. He entered the hall to discover Harry

already dressed and ready, attempting to delay another serving woman, this one

several years his senior, as she was bound upon some errand or another.

Harry was dressed in the green and brown garb of a palace squire, which in

theory made him part of the Royal Steward's staff, but within weeks of his

arrival he had been singled out to be Nicholas's companion. Nicholas's two

older brothers, Borric and Erland, had been sent to the King's court at

Rillanon five years before, to prepare for the day Borric would inherit the

crown of the Isles from his uncle. King Lyam's only son had drowned fifteen

years earlier, and Arutha and the King had decided that should Arutha survive

his older brother, Borric would rule. Nicholas's sister, Elena, was recently

married to the eldest son of the Duke of Ran, leaving the palace fairly empty

of companions of suitable rank for the young Prince before Harry was sent into

service by his father.

Clearing his throat loudly, Nicholas commanded Harry's attention long enough

for the serving woman to make her getaway. She gave the Prince a courteous bow

coupled with a grateful smile as she hurried off.

Nicholas watched her flee and said, "Harry, you've got to stop using your

position to annoy the serving women."

"She wasn't annoyed—" began Harry.

Raymond E. Feist - Kingdom of the Isles 2 - The King's Buccaneer

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