Shards of a Broken Crown. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ a small birch tree. Jimmy did likewise and moved silently away.

      Dash moved through the thinning trees, bordering a burned-out farm, he judged from the appearance of tree stumps nearby. The sound resolved itself into a repeated hammering at ice.

      Dash saw a man in the distance.

      A slender figure, he crouched over the frozen ice on a large pond, perhaps a hundred yards away from where Dash watched, hammering at the ice with a rock. Up and down the rock moved, and Dash couldn’t help but be fascinated with the sight.

      Dash couldn’t get a good look at the man, but his clothing seemed a hodgepodge of rags and ill-matched garments. He might have worn boots, but all Dash could see was a collection of rags tied around each foot for warmth.

      Dash saw movement in the woods beyond the pond and judged Jimmy was in place. He waited.

      Jimmy walked slowly out of the woods and the man leaped to his feet with astonishing speed. He turned away as Jimmy shouted, “Wait! I won’t hurt you!”

      Dash slowly took out his sword as the tatters-clad man hurried toward him, trying to keep his movement from alerting the ragged man. As the man reached the first line of trees, Dash stepped out, extending his foot, and tripped him.

      The man went down in a tangle of clothes and turned over, scuttling backward as he shouted, “Don’t kill me!”

      Dash moved quickly to put the point of his sword before the man’s face, as Jimmy caught up, out of breath.

      Dash said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” To demonstrate his good intentions, he quickly sheathed his sword. “Get up.”

      The man got up slowly as Jimmy leaned over, hands on knees, and said, “He’s fast.”

      Dash grinned. “You’d have caught him had you had another mile or so to overtake him. You’ve always had endurance, if not speed.” Turning his attention to the figure on the ground, he said, “Who are you and what were you doing?”

      The man slowly rose, as if ready to bolt at the slightest threat, and said, “I am called Malar Enares, young masters.” He was a slender man, with a hawk nose sticking out over a large rag wrapped around his face. His eyes were dark, and they shifted back and forth between the brothers. “I was fishing.”

      Jimmy and Dash exchanged glances, and Dash said, “With a rock?”

      “To break the ice, young sir. Then when the fish comes up to sun himself, I would strip bark and make a noose.”

      Jimmy said, “You were going to snare a fish?”

      “It is easy if you but have patience and a steady hand, young sir.”

      Dash said, “I hear Kesh in your speech.”

      “Oh, no, mercy, young sir. I am but a humble servant of a great trader of Shamata, Kiran Hessen.”

      Jimmy and Dash had both heard the name. A trader with Keshian connections who did a great deal of business with the late Jacob Esterbrook. Since the destruction of Krondor, the boys’ father, Lord Arutha, had pieced together several accounts that had clearly indicated two facts, that Esterbrook had been a long-standing agent of Great Kesh, and that he and his daughter were both dead. Jimmy could see what Dash was thinking: if Esterbrook had been a Keshian agent, so then could Kiran Hessen.

      “Where is your master now?” asked James.

      “Oh, dead I fear,” said the thin man with a display of regret. “Fourteen years was I his servant, and he a generous master. Now I am alone in this cold place.”

      James said, “Well, why don’t you tell us this story.”

      “And show us how you planned on catching those fish,” said Dash.

      “If I might have some hair from your horses’ manes,” said the ragged man. “Then it would be so much easier.”

      “Horses?” asked Dash.

      “Two young noblemen such as yourselves didn’t walk into this forsaken wilderness, I am certain,” supplied Malar. “And I heard one of them snorting a moment again.” He pointed. “That way.”

      Jimmy nodded. “That’s fair.”

      “What do you need hair from their manes for?” asked Dash.

      “Let me show you.”

      He walked toward the place where Dash’s horse had been tied, and said, “The ice was almost broken when you startled me, young sir. If you would but use the hilt of your sword to break it open, that would be a great service.”

      Jimmy nodded and started back toward the icy pond.

      Dash asked, “Now, about how you came to be lost in this forsaken wilderness.”

      “As you are no doubt aware,” began Malar, “there was much trouble between Kesh and the Kingdom lately, with Shamata for a time being deeded to the Empire.”

      “So we had heard,” said Dash.

      “My master, being of Kingdom allegiance, decided it wise to visit his holdings in the North, first in Landreth, then Krondor.

      “We were traveling to Krondor when we encountered the invaders. We were overtaken and my master and most of his other servants were put to the sword. I and a few others managed to flee into the hills, south of here.” He pointed southward with his chin, as he reached Dash’s horse. Malar reached up and gripped a few hairs from the horse’s mane, yanking expertly, and came away with several long strands of hair. The horse moved at the unexpected pressure, snorting displeasure. Dash reached out and took the reins from the tree branch where they were tied, and Malar yanked out some more hairs. He repeated the procedure twice more. “That is sufficient,” he observed.

      “So you’ve been in these hills how long?”

      “More than three months, young sir,” said Malar, as he started deftly weaving the hair into a braid. “It has been a bitter time. Some of my companions died from hunger and cold, and two were captured by a band of men – outlaws or invaders, I do not know which. I have been alone for all of three weeks or so, I judge.” He sounded apologetic as he said, “It is difficult to keep track of time.”

      “You’ve survived in these woods for three weeks with nothing but your bare hands?” asked Dash.

      Malar started walking toward the pond, continuing to weave the horse hair. “Yes, and a terrible thing it has been, sir.”

      “How?” asked Dash.

      “As a boy I was raised in the hills above Landreth, to the north of the Vale of Dreams. Not as hostile a land as this, but still a place where the unwary can perish easily. My father was a woodsman, who put food on your table with bow and snare, as well as gold in his pouch from guiding men through the hills.”

      Dash laughed. “He guided smugglers.”

      “Perhaps,” said Malar with a broad shrug. “In any event, while the winters in the hills near my home are nowhere near as inhospitable as here, still a man must have СКАЧАТЬ