Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist

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       • Chapter One • Homecoming

      THE INN WAS QUIET.

      Walls darkened by years of fireplace soot drank in the lantern light, reflecting dim illumination. The dying fire in the hearth offered scant warmth and, from the demeanour of those who chose to sit before it, less cheer. In contrast to the mood of most establishments of its ilk, this inn was nearly sombre. In murky corners, men spoke in hushed tones, discussing things best not overheard by the uninvolved. A grunt of agreement to a whispered proposal, or a bitter laugh from a woman of negotiable virtue, were the only sounds to intrude upon the silence. The majority of the denizens of the inn, called The Sleeping Dockman, were closely watching the game.

      The game was pokiir; common to the Empire of Great Kesh to the south and now replacing lin-lan and pashawa as the gambler’s choice in the inns and taverns of the Western Realm of the Kingdom. One player held his five cards before him, his eyes narrowed in concentration. An off-duty soldier, he kept alert for any sign of trouble in the room, and trouble was rapidly approaching. He made a display of studying his cards, while discreetly inspecting the five men who played at the table with him.

      The first two on his left were rough men. Both were sunburned and the hands holding their cards were heavily callused; faded linen shirts and cotton trousers hung loosely on lank but muscular frames. Neither wore boots or even sandals, barefoot despite the cool night air, a certain sign they were sailors waiting for a new berth. Usually such men quickly lost their pay and were bound again for sea, but from the way they had bet all night, the soldier was certain they were working for the man who sat to the soldier’s right.

      That man sat patiently, waiting to see if the soldier would match his bet or fold his cards, forfeiting his chance to buy up to three new cards. The soldier had seen his sort many times before; a rich merchant’s son, or a younger son of a minor noble, with too much time on his hands and too little sense. He was fashionably attired in the latest rage among the young men of Krondor, a short pair of breeches tucked into hose, allowing the pants legs above the calf to balloon out. A simple white shirt was embroidered with pearls and semiprecious stones, and the jacket was the new cutaway design, a rather garish yellow, with white and silver brocade at the wrists and collar. He was a typical dandy. And – from the look of the Rodezian slamanca hanging from the loose baldric across his shoulder – a dangerous man. It was a sword used only by a master or someone seeking a quick death. In the hands of an expert it was a fearsome weapon; in the hands of the inexperienced it was suicide.

      The man had probably lost large sums of money before and now sought to recoup his previous losses by cheating at cards. СКАЧАТЬ