The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ the noon break when the drivers and guards halted to rest, and then with the evening meal, the only meal, Borric corrected himself. It was a dried mush bread, with little flavour and little that gave strength. He hoped the soft things in the bread were indeed raisins; he had not bothered to look. Food kept him alive, no matter how distasteful it might be.

      The slaves were a sullen group, each man lost in his own suffering. Weakened by the heat, few had anything to say to each other; talk was a needless waste of energy. But Borric had managed to glean a few facts from one or two of them. The guards were less vigilant now that the caravan was into the wastes; even should a slave escape, where would he go? The desert was the surest guard of all. Once in Durbin, they would rest for a few days, perhaps as long as a week, so bloody feet and burned skins could heal, and weight could be regained before they were offered upon the block. Travel-weary slaves brought little gold.

      Borric attempted to consider his choices, but the heat and sunburn had weakened him, made him ill, and the lack of food and water was keeping him dull and stupid. He shook his head and tried to focus his attention on ways to escape, but all he could manage was to move his feet, one then the other, pick them up and let them fall before him, over and over, until allowed to halt.

      Then the sun vanished and it was night. The slaves were ordered to sit near the campfire as they had been for the last three nights and listened to the guards having sport with the five remaining women captives. They no longer struggled or screamed. Borric ate his flat piece of bread and sipped his water. The first night after entering the desert, one man had gulped his water, then vomited it a few minutes later. The guards would give him no more. He had died the next day. Borric had learned his lesson. No matter how much he wished to tilt back his head and drain the copper cup, he lingered over the stale, warm water, sipping it slowly. Sleep came quickly, the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion, with no real rest obtained. Each time he moved, angry sunburns brought him awake. If he faced away from the fire, his back smarted at any touch of heat, yet if he moved from the fire, the cold brought him chills. But no matter how close or far the source of his discomfort, he soon was overcome by his fatigue, until he moved, when the cycle began again. And then suddenly, spear butts and boot kicks roused Borric to his feet with the others.

      In the cool of the morning, the almost damp night air seemed nothing so much as a lens for the sun, bringing the searing touch of Prandur to torment the slaves. Before an hour was passed, two more men were fallen, left where they hit the sand.

      Borric’s mind retreated into itself. An animal consciousness was all that remained, a cunning, vicious animal that refused to die. Every iota of energy he possessed was given over to but one task, to move forward and not to fall. To fall was to die.

      Then after a time of mindless moving forward, hands seized him. ‘Stop,’ commanded a voice.

      Borric blinked and through flashing yellow lights, he saw a face. It was a face composed of knots and lumps, angles and planes, skin dark like ebony over a curly beard. It was the ugliest face Borric had ever beheld. It was magnificent in its repulsiveness.

      Borric began to giggle, but all that came from his parched throat was a dry wheeze. ‘Sit,’ said the guard, helping Borric to the ground with a surprising gentleness. ‘It’s time for the midday halt.’ Glancing around to see if he was being observed, he opened his own water skin and poured some out upon his hand. ‘You northerners die from the sun so quickly.’ He washed the back of Borric’s neck and dried his hand by running it through Borric’s hair, cooling his baking head slightly. ‘Too many have fallen along the way; Kasim will not be pleased.’ Quickly he poured a mouthful for the young Prince, then moved on, as if nothing had passed between them.

      Then another guard brought around the water skin and cups and the clamour for water began. Each slave who could still speak announced his thirst, as if to remain silent was to chance being ignored.

      Borric could barely move, and each motion brought waves of bright yellow and white light and red flashes behind his eyes. Yet, almost blindly, he pushed out his hand to take the metal cup. The water was warm and bitter, yet sweeter than the finest Natalese wine to Borric’s parched lips. He sipped the wine, forcing himself to hold it in his mouth as his father had taught him, letting the dark purple fluid course around his tongue, registering the subtle and complex components of the wine’s flavour. A hint of bitterness, perhaps from the stems and a few leaves left in the vat of must, while the winemaker attempted to bring his wine to just the proper peak of fermentation before barrelling the wine. Or perhaps it was a flaw. Borric didn’t recognize the wine; it lacked noticeable body and structure, and was deficient in acid to balance the fruit. It was not a very good wine. He would have to see if Papa was testing him and Erland by putting a poor local wine on the table, to see if they were paying attention.

      Borric blinked and through eyes gummy from heat and dryness, he couldn’t see where the tip was. How was he to spit the wine if there was no tip bucket to spit into? He mustn’t drink it, or he would be very drunk, as he was only a small boy. Perhaps if he turned his head and spit behind the table, no one would notice.

      ‘Hey!’ shouted a voice. ‘That slave is spitting out his water!’

      Hands ripped the cup from Borric’s hands and he fell over backwards. He lay on the floor of his father’s dining hall and wondered why the stones were so warm. They should be cool. They always were. How did they get so warm?

      Then a pair of hands lifted him ungently from his sitting position, and another helped to hold him up. ‘What’s this? Trying to kill yourself by not drinking?’ Borric opened his eyes slightly and saw the vague outline of a face before his.

      Weakly, he said, ‘I can’t name the wine, Father.’

      ‘He’s delirious,’ said the voice. Hands lifted him and carried him and then he was in a darker place. Water was daubed over his face and poured over his neck, wrists, and arms. A distant voice said, ‘I swear by the gods and demons, Salaya, you haven’t the brains of a three days’ dead cat. If I hadn’t ridden out to meet you, you’d have let this one die, too, wouldn’t you?’

      Borric felt water course into his mouth and he drank. Instead of the bitter half-cup, this was a veritable stream of almost fresh water. He drank.

      Salaya’s voice answered: ‘The weak ones fetch us nothing. It saves us money to let them die on the road and not feed them.’

      ‘You idiot!’ shouted the other. ‘This is a prime slave! Look at him. He’s young, not more than twenty years, if I know my business, and not bad looking under the sunburn, healthy, or at least he was a few days ago.’ There was a sound of disgust. ‘These fair-skinned northerners can’t take the heat like those of us born to the Jal-Pur. A little more water, and some covering, and he’d have been fit for next week’s block. Now, I’ll have to keep him an extra two weeks for the burns to heal and his strength to return.’

      ‘Master—’

      ‘Enough, keep him here under the wagon while I inspect the others. There may be more who will survive if I find them in time. I do not know what fate befell Kasim, but it was a sorry day for the Guild when you were left in charge.’

      Borric found this exchange very odd. And what had happened to the wine? He let his mind wander as he lay in the relative cool, under the wagon, while a few feet away, a Master of the Guild of Durbin Slavers inspected the others who in a day’s time would be delivered to the slave pens.

      ‘Durbin!’ said Salman. His face of dark knots split in a wide grin. He drove the last wagon in the train, the one in which Borric rode. The two days since Borric was carried into the shade of the wagon had returned him from the edge of death. He now rode in the last wagon with three other slaves СКАЧАТЬ