The Chaoswar Saga: A Kingdom Besieged, A Crown Imperilled, Magician’s End. Raymond E. Feist

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      Pug made his way down the long circular stairs from his office, in the tower atop the one opposite Amirantha’s. He wondered how the Warlock was getting on with his visit to E’bar and was certain he and Gulamendis were furiously comparing notes. He hoped the visit would produce something more tangible than the numerous dead ends they’d encountered.

      After the bloody mess that had been the Gates of Darkness down in the Valley of Lost Men in northern Kesh, Pug had asked every contact he had around the globe – and there were many – to spread the word that there was wealth, safety, or both for any demon-summoner who wished it; all the Conclave wanted was more information.

      Reaching the bottom of the tower, Pug was forced to admit the results had been less than spectacular. Those few magic-users who had made their way to Sorcerer’s Isle had proven to be charlatans, of limited knowledge and skill, ignorant of anything larger than their own narrow experience. A few had added one or two facts to Pug’s knowledge, but only to corroborate what he had suspected to be the case before they arrived: there were upheavals on an unimagined scale in progress in the demon realm.

      Amirantha had also been trying to make sense of the ancient volume of demon lore they had retrieved from the island of Queg. He had done a fair job of divining what was nonsense, what was a metaphorical approximation of reality, and what could be called ‘facts’. Though Pug was beginning to think the demon realm’s very nature made ‘facts’ somewhat mutable.

      As he entered the great room, Pug caught sight of his son. ‘Magnus.’

      Magnus turned and regarded him. After a brief second he said, ‘Something’s up. What?’

      ‘Let’s rebuild the villa.’

      The younger magician hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’ Looking at the empty teapot in his father’s hand he said, ‘May I join you?’

      ‘Always.’

      The kitchen was empty but the fire still burned in the metal stove constructed within the roasting hearth. Pug filled the pot with water from a large bucket, then rinsed it out, and refilled it. He put it down in front of the fire on the hot metal plate, and waited for it to boil.

      ‘What caused you to change your mind?’ asked Magnus.

      ‘It’s time.’ So much of what he fought against was a dark despair that arose from a bargain struck with Lims-Kragma, the Death Goddess, when he had been given three choices: to end his life at the hands of the demon Jakan, to take up the burden of becoming an avatar of the God of Magic, hastening his return to Midkemia, or to come back and finish the struggle, but at a price. The price was to watch everyone he loved die before him. So far that had included a son, adopted daughter, then another son and his wife. Of his bloodline, only Magnus remained. There were the three foster-grandsons, Jommy, Tad, and Zane … Pug was forced to admit he had let his fear of the curse allow him to become estranged from his great-grandsons, Jimmy and Dash Jamison. While not blood relatives (they were his adopted daughter’s children) they still were dear to him. And there was Jim Dasher, Jimmy Jamison’s grandson. Pug sighed; he liked the complex, dangerous man, mostly because there were moments when he glimpsed his many-great-grandfather, Jimmy the Hand, in him, but if there was any spark of affection it had not been fanned into a flame. He liked Jim, but he hardly loved him.

      Over the years Pug had become adept at steeling himself against feelings that might cause him to betray his higher calling, to protect this world and everyone else on it. Yet those feelings were there – hidden, buried even – but there nevertheless.

      As they waited for the kettle to boil, Magnus said, ‘Who should oversee the rebuilding?’

      ‘I will, I think,’ said his father. ‘I know every beam and stone of that place as well or better than anyone else.’ He smiled. ‘I lived there longer than anyone else.’

      Magnus returned the smile. ‘It’s good to see you … this way, Father.’

      ‘Losing your mother and brother was hard on you, too, Magnus. I lost sight of that in my own grief, I’m sorry to say.’

      Magnus was silent for a moment. His face reminded Pug of Miranda’s. It was longer than his father’s, with higher cheekbones; but his eyes were from some mysterious ancestor unknown to Pug. They were as blue as frozen ice, and could gaze right through a person. He said softly, ‘I have never been a man to measure my sorrows against another’s sorrows, Father. I thought you were not as well.’

      ‘I just mean that becoming lost in my own misery, I perhaps didn’t give as much attention to your pain; that is all.’ Pug lowered his eyes. ‘It’s a poor father who turns his back on his son’s hurt, no matter how grown the son.’

      Magnus nodded. ‘We are both the sort to retreat into ourselves at times like that. There is no fault in this; it’s a matter of our nature.’ With a slight smile he said, ‘Besides, I’m too big for you to pick up so I can cry on your shoulder.’

      Pug was forced to laugh. ‘It’s been a few years since I did that, hasn’t it?’

      The water reached a simmer and Magnus fetched the pot. He put it down on the table and said, ‘What now?’

      Pug looked at his son and picked up the pot. ‘Now, I’ve got a mess of an office to deal with; tomorrow we begin rebuilding.’

      Magnus impulsively reached out and hugged his father, then said, ‘Good.’

      Pug left the kitchen while his son sat back down at the table. After a moment Magnus let out a long sigh and allowed himself a short time to reflect. As tears welled up in his eyes he wiped them away and stood up. There was a great deal of work to be done and it would not wait because some wounds would not heal. And perhaps the work would help the healing. Still, deep within was a sense that even after all the years since his mother’s and brother’s deaths, there was no hope of those wounds healing, but perhaps time might deaden them.

      The lookout aloft shouted ‘Sails in sight!’ and the captain called for men aloft. As much as he hated being barefoot in the cold, Jim Dasher, freebooting merchant sailor out of Hansulé, endured it. Jim knew enough of the barmen, whores, and dockworkers to convince anyone he was Jaman Rufiki. His dark hair but fair skin made him look like a Sea of Kingdoms man, which fitted with his false life story: born in Pointer’s Head, whence he had first shipped out, then spent years along the Great Sea, from Ithra down to Brijané.

      He had used his transportation orb to arrive in Queral unseen, where he was met by his agents. No one south of that city had reported in the last three months and he suspected his safe houses in the south of the Empire might have been compromised. He didn’t wish to risk appearing in a room full of murderers in Hansulé, so he arrived at the nearest city where he knew he’d be safe, purchased as fast a horse as he could and rode it nearly to death getting to Hansulé.

      There he had found what Franciezka’s agents had reported to her; a massive fleet at anchor, nearly two hundred ships. He wondered if another hundred had departed since her agents had last reported or if their report had been inaccurate. One night in the local taverns had given him his answer: the initial three hundred had departed southward, as reported, and another hundred had left just the week before, also heading south.

      Jim had been left to ponder what madness had gripped the Imperial Keshian Court. Peace had benefited both nations since the ill-fated attempt by Kesh to lay siege to Krondor after the Serpent War. The West СКАЧАТЬ