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

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"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 Inn

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 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 intervene.

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."

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-"

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 balance.

"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

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 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 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 Bule 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.

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

8 Raymond 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,

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.

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.

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."

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摘要：

"Getawayfromthere!"Theformermercenaryguardsatbackinhischairontheporchofhisinn,settlinghisfeetuponthehitchingrail.Inthebackgroundtheusualeveningserenadewascommencing.Whilerichtravelersstayedatthelargehostelsinthecityoratpalatialinnsalongthesilverybeaches,theInnoftheDentedHelm,ownedbyGhudaBule,catered...

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

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