The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ rode in the last wagon with three other slaves who were recovering from heat-stroke. Water was there for the taking, and their burned skins were dressed with a soft oil and herb poultice, which reduced the fiery pain to a dull itch.

      Borric rose to his knees then stood upon shaky legs as the wagon lurched across the stones in the road. He saw little remarkable about the city, save the surrounding lands were now green rather than sandy. They had been passing small farms for about a half-day. He remembered what he had been taught about the infamous pirate stronghold as a boy.

      Durbin commanded the only arable farm land between the Vale of Dreams and the foothills of the Trollhome Mountains, as well as the one safe harbour to be found from Land’s End to Ranom. Along the south coast of the Bitter Sea the treacherous reefs waited for ships and boats unfortunate enough to be caught in the unexpected northern winds that sprang up routinely. For centuries, Durbin had been home to pirates, wreckers and scavengers, and slavers.

      Borric nodded to Salman. The happy little bandit had proved to be both friendly and garrulous. ‘I’ve lived there all my life,’ said the bandit, widening his grin. ‘My father was born there, too.’

      When the desert men of the Jal-Pur had conquered Durbin hundreds of years before, they had found their gateway to the trade of the Bitter Sea, and when the Empire had conquered the desert men, Durbin was the capital city of the desert men. Now it was the home of an Imperial Governor, but nothing had changed. It was still Durbin.

      ‘Tell me,’ asked Borric, ‘do the Three Guilds still control the city?’

      Salman laughed. ‘You’re a very educated fellow! Few outside Durbin know of this thing. The Guild of Slavers, the Wreckers Guild, and the Captains of the Coast. Yes, the Three still rule in Durbin. It is they, not the Imperial Governor, who decide who is to live and die, who is to work, who is to eat.’ He shrugged. ‘It is as it has always been. Before the Empire. Before the desert men. Always.’

      Thinking of the power of the Mockers, the Guild of Thieves, in Krondor, he asked, ‘What of the beggars and thieves? Are they not a power?’

      ‘Ha!’ answered Salman. ‘Durbin is the most honest city in the world, my educated friend. We who live there lay at night with doors unlocked and may walk the streets in safety. For he who steals in Durbin is a fool, and either dead or a slave within days. So the Three have decreed, and who is foolish enough to question their wisdom? Certainly not I. And so it must be, for Durbin has no friends beyond the reefs and sands.’

      Borric lightly patted Salman on the shoulder and sat down in the back of the wagon. Of the four sick slaves, he was the quickest to recover, as he was the youngest and fittest. The other three were older farmers, and none had shown any inclination to quick recovery. Despair robs you of strength faster than sickness, Borric thought.

      He drank a little water and marvelled at the first hint of ocean breeze that came into the wagon as they headed down the road toward the city gate. One of his father’s advisors, and the man who had taught Borric and Erland how to sail, Amos Trask, had been a pirate in his youth, raiding the Free Cities, Queg, and the Kingdom under the name Captain Trenchard, the Dagger of the Sea. He had been a renowned member of the Captains of the Coast. But while he had told many tales of the high seas, he had said almost nothing of the politics of the Captains. Still, someone might remember Captain Trenchard and that might stand Borric in good stead.

      Borric had decided to keep his identity hidden a while longer. While he had no doubt the slavers would send ransom demands to his father, he thought he might avoid the sort of international difficulties that would arise should it come to pass. Instead, he might bide his time in the slave pens a few days, regain his strength, then flee. While the desert was a formidable barrier, any small boat in the harbour would be his passage to freedom. It was nearly five hundred miles of sailing against prevailing winds to reach Land’s End, Baron Locklear’s father’s city, but it could be done. Borric considered all this with a confidence of one who, at the age of nineteen, did not know the meaning of defeat. His captivity was merely a setback, nothing more.

      The slave pens were sheltered by shingle roofs rested upon tall beams, protecting the slaves from the noon heat or unexpected storms off the Bitter Sea. But the sides were open slats and crossbeams, so the guards could watch the captives. A healthy man could easily climb over the ten-foot fence, but by the time he reached the top and crawled through the space between the fence and the crossbeams supporting the roof three feet above, guards would be waiting for him.

      Borric considered his plight. Once he was sold, his new master might be lax in his security, or he might be even more stringent. Logic dictated he attempt to escape while confined close to the sea. His new owner could be a Quegan merchant, a traveller from the Free Cities, or even a Kingdom noble. What would be worse, he could be carried deep into the Empire. He was not sanguine about letting fate make the choice.

      He had a plan. The only difficulty lay in getting cooperation from the other prisoners. If a long enough diversion could be arranged for, then he could be over the fence and out into the city. Borric shook his head. He realized as plans go, it wasn’t much.

      ‘Pssst!’

      Borric turned to see from where the odd sound came. Seeing nothing, he turned back into himself as he considered improvements on his plan.

      ‘Pssst! This way, young noble.’ Borric looked again through the bars of the pen, but this time down, and in the scant shadows he saw a slight figure.

      A boy, no more than eleven or twelve years old, grinned up at him from the meagre shelter of a large roof support. If he moved more than inches in any direction, he would certainly be spotted by the guard.

      Borric glanced around, seeing the two guards at the corner speaking to one another. ‘What?’ he whispered.

      ‘Should you but divert the guards’ attention for an instant, noble sir, I will be indebted to you for ages,’ came the answering whisper.

      Borric said, ‘Why?’

      ‘I need but a moment’s distraction, sir.’

      Counting no harm from it, save perhaps a blow for insolence, Borric nodded. Moving to where the guards stood, he said, ‘Hey! When do we eat?’

      Both guards blinked in confusion, then one snarled. He jammed the butt of his spear through the staves of the fence, and Borric had to dodge not to be struck. ‘Sorry I asked,’ he said.

      Chuckling to himself, he moved his shoulders under the rough shirt they had given him, fighting the impulse to scratch. The sunburn was healing after being dressed for the last three days, but the peeling skin and the itching were making him doubly cross. The next slave auction was over a week away, and he knew he would be on the block. He was regaining his strength quickly.

      A tug at his sleeve caused him to turn and there beside him was the boy. ‘What are you doing here?’

      The boy gave him a questioning look. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

      ‘I thought you were trying to escape the pens,’ said Borric in a harsh whisper.

      The boy laughed. ‘No, noble youth. I needed the distraction you so magnanimously provided, so I might enter the pen.’

      Borric looked heavenward. ‘Two hundred prisoners all dreaming continuously of a way out of here, and I have to meet the one madman in the world who wishes to break in! Why me?’

      The boy looked up to where Borric’s gaze went, and said, СКАЧАТЬ