Exile’s Return. Raymond E. Feist

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      He hurried to it and pulled up a bucket on a long rope. The water was clear and cool and he drank his fill.

      When he finally dropped the bucket down into the water, he saw a woman standing in the doorway of the building, the boy peering out from behind her. She levelled a crossbow at him. Her face was set in a determined expression, brow knit and eyes narrow, her jaw clenched. She said something in the same language used by the nomads and it was obviously a warning.

      Kaspar spoke Quegan, hoping she might recognize a few words, or at least infer from his tone his intent. ‘I will not harm you,’ he said slowly as he sheathed his sword. ‘But I have to see what you have to eat.’ He pantomimed eating and then indicated the house.

      She barked a reply and motioned with the crossbow for him to be off. Kaspar was enough of a hunter to know that a female protecting her young was worthy of the greatest caution.

      He slowly approached and again spoke slowly. ‘I mean you no harm. I just need to eat.’ He held his hands palms outward.

      Then the aroma hit him. Something was cooking inside and it almost made Kaspar ache to smell it; hot bread! And a stew or soup!

      Calmly he said, ‘If I don’t eat soon, I’m as good as dead, woman. So if you mean to kill me, do it now and be done with it!’

      His reflexes saved him, for she hesitated an instant before tightening her fingers on the release of the crossbow. Kaspar threw himself to the left and the bolt split the air where he had stood a moment earlier. Kaspar rolled, came to his feet and charged.

      As soon as the woman saw that her bolt had missed, she raised her crossbow to use it as a club. She brought it crashing down on Kaspar’s shoulder as he forced his way through the doorway. ‘Damn!’ he shouted as he wrapped his arms around her waist, bearing her to the floor.

      The boy shouted angrily and started striking Kaspar. He was small but strong and Kaspar could feel the blows. He lay on top of the struggling woman and held tightly to the hand that still held the crossbow. He squeezed until she cried out and released it, then stood up just in time to avoid being brained by the metal skillet the boy swung at his head.

      He grabbed the boy’s wrist and twisted, causing the youngster to shout as he let go of the skillet. ‘Now stop it!’ Kaspar yelled.

      He drew his sword and pointed it at the woman. The boy froze, his face a mask of terror.

      ‘All right, then,’ he said, still speaking Quegan. ‘One more time: I am not going to hurt you.’ He then made a show of putting away his sword. He moved passed the woman and picked up the crossbow. He handed it to the boy. ‘Here, lad, go find the bolt outside and see if you can manage to crank it up. If you must kill me, feel free to try again.’

      He pulled the woman to her feet and studied her. She was rawboned, but he could see she had been pretty once, before a hard life had aged her. He couldn’t tell if she was thirty or forty years of age, her face being burned to brown leather by the sun. But her eyes were vivid blue and she held her fear in check. Softly he said, ‘Fetch me food, woman.’ Then he let her go.

      The boy stood motionless, holding the crossbow as Kaspar looked around. There was only one room in this hovel, but a curtain had been hung so the woman had a bit of privacy when she slept. Her sleeping pallet and a small chest could be glimpsed from where he sat. Another pallet was rolled up under a single table. There were two stools. A makeshift cupboard sat next to an open hearth upon which there sat a kettle of simmering stew. An oven below it had just produced bread, and Kaspar reached down and grabbed one of the still-warm loaves. He tore off some of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he sat down on one of the stools. He looked at his unwilling hostess and said, ‘Sorry to be such a boor, but I prefer ill manners to starvation.’

      As the flavour of the bread registered, he smiled. ‘This is very good.’ He motioned to the stew pot and said, ‘I’ll have some of that.’

      The woman hesitated, then moved to the hearth. She ladled some of the stew into a bowl and placed it before Kaspar, then handed him a wooden spoon. He nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’

      She stepped away, gathering the boy to her side. Kaspar ate the stew and before asking for another bowl, he looked at the motionless pair. Quegan didn’t seem to be working, but it was the closest language to what he had heard the nomads speak. He pointed to himself and said, ‘Kaspar.’

      The woman didn’t react. Then he pointed to them and said, ‘Names?’

      The woman might be frightened, he thought, but she wasn’t stupid. She said, ‘Jojanna.’

      ‘Joyanna,’ Kaspar repeated.

      She corrected him. ‘Jojanna,’ and he heard the soft sound of an ‘h’ after the ‘y’ sound.

      ‘Joy-hanna,’ he said, and she nodded as if that were close enough.

      He pointed to the boy.

      ‘Jorgen,’ came the reply.

      Kaspar nodded and repeated the boy’s name. He started to help himself to more stew and judged he had consumed most of their evening meal. He looked at them and then poured the content of the bowl back into the pot. He contented himself with another hunk of bread, then pointed to them. ‘Eat.’ He motioned for them to come to the table.

      ‘Eat,’ she repeated, and Kaspar realized it was the same word, but with a very different accent. He nodded.

      She carefully ushered the boy to the table and Kaspar got up and moved over to the door. He saw an empty bucket so he picked it up and turned it over to use as a makeshift stool. The boy watched him with serious blue eyes and the woman kept glancing at him as she put food on the table for the boy.

      When they were both seated, Kaspar said, ‘Well, Jojanna and Jorgen, my name is Kaspar, and until a few days ago I was one of the most powerful men on the other side of this world. I have fallen to his low estate, but despite my scruffy appearance, I am as I have said.’

      They looked at him uncomprehendingly. He chuckled. ‘Very well. You don’t need to learn Quegan. I need to learn your language.’ He hit the bucket he sat on and said, ‘Bucket.’

      The woman and her son were silent. He stood up, pointed to the bucket and said the word again. Then he pointed at them and gestured at the bucket again. ‘What do you call this?’

      Jorgen understood and spoke a word. It was unlike anything Kaspar had heard. He repeated it and Jorgen nodded. ‘Well, it’s a start,’ said the former Duke of Olasko. ‘Maybe by bed-time we can speak enough for me to convince you not to cut my throat while I sleep.’

       • CHAPTER THREE •

       Farm

      KASPAR AWOKE ON THE FLOOR OF THE SMALL HUT.

      He had slept in front of the door to prevent Jorgen or his mother from fleeing. Levering himself up on one elbow, he peered around in the early morning gloom. There was only a small window near the chimney to his right, СКАЧАТЬ