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

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      ‘You talk like one of the commoners, most noble lord. Yet your accent is that of one from the highest born families, even royalty itself.’

      Borric considered. ‘We’re going to have to change that. If we are forced to hide in the city for any length of time, I must pass as a commoner.’

      The boy sat. ‘I can teach you.’ Looking down at the manacles, he said, ‘Why the special confinement, son of a most noble father?’

      ‘They think I’m a magician.’

      The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Then why have they not put you to death? Magicians are most troublesome to confine. Even the poor ones can visit boils and hairy warts upon those who displease them.’

      Borric smiled. ‘I’ve almost convinced them I am a poor tutor.’

      ‘Then why have they not removed the chains?’

      ‘I’ve almost convinced them.’

      The boy smiled. ‘Where shall we go, master?’

      ‘To the harbour, where I plan to steal a small boat and make for the Kingdom.’

      The boy nodded his approval. ‘That is a fine plan. I shall be your servant, young lord, and your father will reward me richly for helping his son escape this evil den of black-souled murderers.’

      Borric had to laugh. ‘You’re given to a noble turn of phrase yourself, now, aren’t you?’

      The boy brightened. ‘One must be gifted in the use of words to earn one’s living as a beggar, my most glorious lord. To simply ask for alms will bring nothing but kicks and cuffing from all but the kindest of men. But to threaten them with curses of the most elaborate sort will bring gifts.

      ‘If I say, “May your wife’s beauty turn to ugliness,” what merchant would bother to hesitate in his passing. But should I say, “May your mistress grow to resemble your wife! And may your daughters do likewise!’” then he’ll pay many coppers for me to remove the curse, lest his daughters grow to look like his wife and he can find no husbands for them, and his mistress grow to look like his wife and he lose his pleasure.’

      Borric grinned, genuinely amused. ‘Have you such powers of cursing that men fear you so?’

      The boy laughed. ‘Who’s to say? But what man would hoard a few coppers against the chance the curse might work?’

      Borric sat down. ‘I shall share my meals with you, as they account the bread and stew. But I must be free of this place before they finally tally for auction.’

      ‘Then they will raise alarm and search for you.’

      Borric smiled. ‘That is what I wish them to do.’

      Borric ate his half of his dinner and gave the plate to the boy. Suli wolfed the food down and licked the tin plate to get the last bits.

      For seven days they had shared Borric’s rations, and while they both felt hunger, it was sufficient for them; the slavers gave generous portions for those heading toward the auction. No dark circles under eyes, nor hollow cheeks, nor shrunken frames would lower price if a few meals would prevent it.

      If any others had noticed the unorthodox manner in which the boy had joined the company in the pen, no one commented upon it. The slaves were quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts, and little attempt was made to converse. Why bother to make friends with those you would most likely never see again?

      Whispering so that no one would overhear, Borric said, ‘We must flee before the morning tally.’

      The boy nodded, but said, ‘I don’t understand.’ For seven days, he had been hiding behind the assembled slaves, ducking not to be included in the head count. Perhaps he had been seen once or twice, but the guards would not bother to recheck the number if they had one too many heads, simply assuming they had miscounted. If there had been too few, they would have recounted.

      ‘I need as much confusion in their search for us as possible. But I want most of the guards back at the auction the day following. You see?’

      The boy made no pretence of understanding. ‘No, master.’

      Borric had spent the last week profitably picking the boy’s brain for every piece of information he could about the city and what lay in the area surrounding the Slavers Guild. ‘Over that fence is the street to the harbour,’ Borric said, and Suli nodded to show he was correct. ‘Within minutes, dozens of guards will be racing down that street to find us before we can steal away on a boat for Queg or elsewhere, right?’

      The boy nodded. It was the logical assumption. ‘No one in his right mind would risk the desert, right?’

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘Then we’re going to head toward the desert.’

      ‘Master! We will die!’

      Borric said, ‘I didn’t say we’d go into the desert, just we’d head that way and find a place to hide.’

      ‘But where, master? There are only the houses of the rich and powerful between here and the desert, and the soldiers’ barracks at the Governor’s house.’

      Borric grinned.

      The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, gods preserve us, master, you can’t mean …’

      Borric said, ‘Of course. The one place they’ll never look for two runaway slaves.’

      ‘Oh, kind master. You must be joking to torment your poor servant.’

      ‘Don’t look so crestfallen, Suli,’ said Borric, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. ‘You gave me the idea.’

      ‘I, master? I said nothing about delivering ourselves up to the Governor.’

      ‘No, but if you hadn’t been trying to hide from the slavers in the slave pen, I’d have never thought of this.’

      Borric slipped the manacles and motioned for the boy to stand. The guards at the far end of the pen were playing a game of knucklebones and the one delegated to keep watch was dozing. Borric pointed upward and the boy nodded. He stripped his robe, leaving himself unclothed save for his breechcloth, and Borric made a cup with his hands. The boy took one step and Borric half-lifted, half-threw him up into the overhanging beams of the roof supports. The boy moved agilely along the beams to the farthest corner from the gambling guards, near where the single guard dozed.

      Hesitation and any sort of noise would undo them, so Borric found himself holding his breath while the little beggar scampered to the corner of the pen. There Borric quickly climbed a few feet of fence, and reached up to grip the robe the boy had tied around the beam. Hauling himself over the fence with two pulls, he swung down to where the sleeping guard lay. Suli Abul climbed down to hang almost directly over the sleeping guard.

      In a coordinated movement, the boy lifted the guard’s metal helm from his head as Borric swung the manacles. The iron struck the guard on the side of the head with a dull crack, and the man slumped down.

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