Exile’s Return. Raymond E. Feist

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       • CHAPTER FIVE •

       Soldier

      KASPAR WAITED SILENTLY.

      He crouched behind some low brush while a patrol of cavalry rode by. He had encountered two other patrols over the last week since leaving Jojanna’s farm. Given what little he knew of these people, he had decided to avoid contact with them. Common soldiers had a decided tendency to use weapons before asking questions, and Kaspar had no desire to end up dead, a prisoner, or enlisted into any army at the point of a sword.

      Leaving the farm had proved more troubling than he had expected. Jorgen seemed especially disturbed by the prospect of being alone with his mother again. On the other hand, the mule would help with all the heavy work, and Kelpita had a son who would come and work with them during harvest so Jojanna wouldn’t lose her grain.

      Kaspar considered how they would have fared had he never arrived. They’d still be scrabbling to run the farm and wouldn’t have had enough wood or the mule.

      Still, it had been harder to say goodbye than he had anticipated.

      A couple of days before, he had skirted a village that appeared to be a staging post for the local patrols, and then had bartered a day’s work at a farm just off the road for a meal. The food had been meagre and they had only offered him water to drink, but he had been glad for it. Kaspar remembered the lavish meals that had been the hallmark of his court, but quickly pushed the memory aside. He’d happily kill someone for a cut of hot rare beef, a bowl of his cook’s spiced vegetables and a flagon of good Ravensberg wine.

      Certain the riders were now gone, Kaspar returned to trudging along the road. What had been a broken old highway appeared to be in better condition the farther south he moved. There were signs of relatively recent repair-work at various places he had passed over the last two days.

      As he rounded a bend in the road, he saw a large town in the distance. The land around him was getting progressively more verdant and abundant. Whatever else this Raj of Muboya had done, he had pacified the territory around his capital to the point at which farmers were prospering again; farms lined the road and orchards were visible up on the hillsides. Perhaps in time this more peaceful aspect would be visited upon the area where Jorgen and his mother lived. He would like to think the boy had a chance for a better life.

      As he approached the gate of the town he saw signs of harsh justice. A dozen corpses in various stages of decay were on display, as well as half a dozen heads impaled on stakes. The men had been hung by ropes on crosses of wood, ‘crucified’ in the Quegan language. He had been told it was a nasty way to die; after a while the body could not prevent fluid from gathering in the lungs and a man would drown in his own spit.

      At the gate a squad of soldiers waited, each dressed like those he had seen on horseback, save that they lacked the cloaks and fancy hats. These ones also wore metal helms with chain guards over their necks.

      One sauntered over to intercept Kaspar. ‘Your business in Delga?’

      ‘Just passing through on my way south.’

      ‘You have an odd accent.’

      ‘I’m not from around here.’

      ‘Your trade?’

      ‘I’m a hunter now. I was a soldier.’

      ‘Or maybe you’re a bandit?’

      Kaspar studied the man. He was thin and nervous and had a habit of looking down his nose when he spoke. He had a weak chin and his teeth were grey. Whatever his rank here, he would be a corporal at the most in Kaspar’s army. He knew the type: self-important, not bright enough to realize he had risen as high as he ever would. Without taking obvious offence, Kaspar smiled. ‘If I were a bandit, I’d be a damn poor one. All I’d have to show for my labours is this sword, the clothing on my back, these boots, and my wits.’ The soldier started to speak, but Kaspar cut him off and continued, ‘I’m an honest man, and am willing to work for my keep.’

      ‘Well, I don’t think the Raj has need of any mercenaries today.’

      Kaspar smiled. ‘I said I was a soldier, not a mercenary.’

      ‘Where did you serve?’

      ‘Somewhere I’m sure you’ve never heard of.’

      ‘Well, get along and see you don’t cause any trouble. I’ve got my eye on you.’ He waved him on.

      Kaspar nodded and walked though the gate. Delga was the first real town he had visited in this land and it had more hallmarks of civilization than Kaspar had encountered in any settlement so far. The inns near the gate were run-down and as seedy as Sagrin’s, which was to be expected. The better inns would probably be located near the merchants’ quarter, so he walked until he reached a market square, which at this hour of the afternoon was thronged with people. Delga had all the signs of being a prosperous community and the people seemed content in their daily tasks.

      Kaspar had studied governance all his life, for he had been born to rule. He had seen enough fools, madmen, and incompetents to last a lifetime and had read about many others. He knew that the populace were the foundation of a strong nation and they could only be taxed to a certain point. Kaspar’s plottings and intrigues had been designed, in part, to minimize the need for overt military confrontation, which was always an expensive undertaking that put a great burden on the people.

      Not that Kaspar had cared much for his people’s happiness, one way or the other – he hadn’t even considered the plight of commoners until he had met Jojanna and Jorgen – but he was concerned for the welfare of his nation in general, and that meant maintaining a contented populace.

      Whatever else, the people of Delga didn’t look overburdened or worried. They showed none of the signs of being concerned about government informants or tax officials seeing too many luxury goods on display.

      The market was a riot of colours and sounds, busy with afternoon trading. Occasionally he heard the sound of coins being counted out or a jingling purse, so he judged that hard money was returning under the Raj’s care.

      At first glance, it seemed this ruler had the support of his people. Uniformed men, wearing a different livery, were strolling through the market, their eyes constantly searching for trouble. Kaspar guessed they were constables or the town watch.

      He made eye contact with one; a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and neck. The man stopped, but Kaspar didn’t avert his gaze and walked over to him. The man wore a blue tunic, but instead of displaying the high boots of a cavalryman with his trousers tucked in the tops, he wore balloon-legged pants that almost hid the boots entirely. His sword was a shorter weapon, and he wore no helm, but rather a felt hat with a broad brim.

      ‘Good afternoon,’ said Kaspar in greeting.

      ‘Stranger,’ said the man curtly.

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