The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ brute called Biggo, who had regained consciousness an hour after being tossed into the cell, said, ‘Don’t terrorize the lad, Slippery Tom. This is the death room. He’s too much on his mind to be thinkin’ of romance.’ His speech had the lilt of Kornachmen of Deep Taunton, rarely heard in the West.

      Slippery Tom, ignoring the jape and the accompanying laughter, said, ‘It’s a cold morning, Biggo.’

      Seeing Erik now awake, Biggo said, ‘He’s not a bad sort for a liar and murderer, is Slippery Tom; he’s just scared.’

      Roo’s eyes widened. ‘Who isn’t?’ he said with a frantic note in his voice. He closed his eyes tight, as if to shut out everything by force of will.

      Erik sat back against the unyielding stone wall. He knew Roo had spent a fitful night, awakening several times shouting in his sleep as he wrestled with personal demons. Erik glanced around the cell. Other men slept or sat quietly in their place as the night wore on. Erik knew that the bravado Roo had exhibited since awakening in the cell the day before had been some sort of madness: he couldn’t accept the inevitability of his own death.

      Biggo said, ‘Spanking young bottoms is common enough in the prison gangs, but Slippery is just looking for someone warm to cozy up to, lad.’

      Roo opened his eyes. ‘Well, he smells like something died in his shirt last week.’

      Tom said, ‘And you don’t exactly remind me of flowers, youngster. Now shut up and go back to sleep.’

      Biggo grinned, and his bearlike face looked nothing so much as that of an overgrown child, one with broken and crooked teeth. The beating administered by the guards the day before had done nothing to enhance his appearance; blue, purple, and red lumps decorated his visage. ‘I like to sleep cuddled with someone warm. Like me Elsmie. She was sweet.’ He sighed as he closed his eyes. ‘Too bad I’ll never see her again.’

      ‘You talk like we’re all going to be convicted,’ said Roo.

      ‘This is the death cell, me lad. You’re here because you’re going to be tried for your life, and not one in a hundred who has sat here lived two days past his trial. You think you got a way to beat the King’s justice, boyo?’ asked Biggo with a laugh. ‘Well, good on you if you do. But none here are babes, and we all knew what the deal was when we took to the dodgy path: “get caught, take your punishment.” That’s the way of it, for a fact.’ He closed his eyes, leaving the two young men to their own thoughts.

      Erik had been awake most of the night, falling asleep only a few hours before, wrestling with the same questions. He had never been a religious sort, going to temple on the festival days, joining the vineyard workers in the blessing of the vineyards every year. But he hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like to face Lims-Kragma in her hall. He vaguely knew that every man came to stand before her, to account for his deeds, but he always thought of that as some sort of priest talk, what Owen Greylock had called a ‘metaphor’ where one thing said stood for another. Now he wondered: Would he simply end? When the box was kicked out from under his feet and the rope either snapped his neck or choked the life from him, would it turn all dark and meaningless? Or would he awake in the Hall of the Dead, as the priests claimed, joining the long line of those waiting for Lims-Kragma’s judgment? Those found worthy were sent on to a better life, they said, while those found wanting were sent back to learn those lessons that had eluded them while living. There was talk that at some point those who lived pure lives of harmony and grace were elevated somehow, beyond human understanding, to a higher existence.

      Erik turned his mind away from the question, again; there was no answer he knew, until he actually faced death. Either way, he thought with a silent shrug, it’ll be something interesting or I’ll not mind. He closed his eyes on this thought, finding it strangely comforting.

      The door at the far end of the hall clanked open, iron bands striking cold stone. Two guards with drawn swords led a prisoner into the hallway. Another two guards walked before and after him, holding wooden poles looped through iron rings on a wooden yoke set around his neck. The pressure on the yoke kept the man from being able to reach either guard, and the awkward procession made its way to the door of the death cell.

      The prisoner was otherwise undistinguished. He seemed a young man, little older than Erik or Roo, though this was hard to determine, as his race was alien to the two young men from Ravensburg. He was one of the yellow-skinned men from Kesh, from a province called Isalani. A few had passed through Ravensburg from time to time, but they were still the object of interest to the provincial residence of that town.

      This man was plainly dressed, in a simple robe, with an empty carry-cloth – a large cloth used to carry belongings, in place of a backpack – hung around his neck. His feet were bare, and his head was uncovered, showing a thatch of thick black hair roughly cut above the ears, but falling long in back. Black eyes regarded the unfolding events without expression.

      When the door was reached, the first guard unlocked it and ordered the prisoners to move to the far end of the long cell. Once they had obliged him, he opened the door and the two men with the poles steered the prisoner to the opening. With practiced dexterity, the lead guard unfastened the neck yoke and the two guards slipped the poles out. The collar was removed, and with unnecessary force the remaining guard put his boot to the prisoner’s back and shoved him into the cell.

      The prisoner stumbled one step, but caught himself and stood motionless. The others looked on in curiosity.

      ‘What was that all about?’ asked one man.

      The new prisoner shrugged. ‘I disarmed a few of their guards when they tried to arrest me. They objected to that.’

      You disarmed them?’ said another prisoner. ‘How did you do that?’

      The young man sat down on the vacant stone bench. ‘I took their weapons from them. How else would you imagine I did it?’

      A few of the prisoners asked the newcomer his name, but no conversation was forthcoming, as the new prisoner closed his eyes while remaining seated upright. He crossed his legs before him, each foot resting upon the opposite thigh, and put his hands, palms upward, on his knees.

      The other prisoners looked at him for a few minutes, then returned to sitting and waiting for whatever fate would bring them next.

      An hour later the hall door opened again and a company of soldiers entered. The man Erik had met before, Lord James, walked in. Then the men in the cell began to mutter as a woman entered, followed in turn by a pair of guardsmen. The woman was old, or at least she appeared that way to Erik. Older than his mother, at any rate. Her hair was a startling white and her brows were pale enough for him to think her hair had always been this color. The lines in her face notwithstanding, Erik thought she was nice to look at, and she must have been beautiful when young. Her eyes were an odd blue, almost violet in the darkness of the cell, and she carried herself with the bearing of nobility, despite an expression of sadness on her face.

      Erik wondered what could be the cause of this expression of regret: could she have some sort of feeling about the men who would be tried in the Prince’s chamber this day? She stopped before the bars, and the sullen prisoners were completely silent. For some reason, Erik found himself standing, feeling the urge to touch his forelock, as he would to any lady of quality who passed on the road in her carriage. Roo followed his example and soon the other men were standing as well.

      The woman ignored the filth and wretched stench of the cell as her hands closed upon the bars. She was silent while her eyes searched out every face, and when her gaze at last turned upon СКАЧАТЬ