The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist
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Suli’s face turned ashen as he crouched, holding on to the tiller as if it were his only connection to life. Borric shouted, ‘Come left!’ and the boy yanked upon the tiller. Again the sound of wood scraping over rock filled their ears, but the boat settled down into a trough and rose without further difficulty.
Borric glanced back and saw the sloop heeling over as the captain gave orders to his frantic crew to turn away from shoals too lethal even for his shallow craft. Borric gave a low whistle of relief.
Turning his mind to what to do next, he signalled Suli to head slightly away from the coast, picking up speed as they moved out of the tide’s pull and into a better angle away from the wind. The freshening breeze moved the boat along, and Borric could see the sloop fall farther behind with every minute as the captain had to stay outside the reef that now lay between the two boats.
Borric lowered the makeshift spinnaker and took the tiller from Suli. The boy grinned at him with an expression that was half-delight, half-terror. Perspiration soaked the lad’s tunic and Borric found himself wiping his drenched brow.
Borric pointed the boat slightly upwind and could see the sloop’s sail falling off even farther as the reef ran off toward the northwest. He laughed. Even with the headsail jib the sloop’s crew was running out, it was too late. By the time they rounded the reef, the pinnace would be so far ahead they could be anywhere upon the sea. It would be nightfall before the distance could be made up, and Borric planned on being far away by nightfall.
The next two hours passed uneventfully, until Suli left his place at the bow and came toward Borric. Borric noticed water splashing under the boy’s feet.
Borric looked down and saw water was gathering in the bilge. ‘Start bailing!’ he yelled.
‘What, master?’
Realizing the boy didn’t understand that term either, he said, ‘Get the bucket from the locker and start scooping up the water and pouring it out!’
The boy turned, got the bucket, and began bailing out the water. For an hour or so it seemed the boy kept even with the incoming water, but after another hour of the exhausting work, the water had gathered about his ankles. Borric ordered him to switch places and took over. After another hour, it was clear that even when bailing at a furious rate, it would prove an eventually hopeless undertaking. Sooner or later the boat was going to sink. The only question seemed to be when and where.
Borric glanced to the south and saw that not only had the coastline been running southwest, away from them, but their course was northwest, toward the Straits of Darkness. By his reckoning, they were now as far away from the coastline as they could get, slightly northeast of Ranom, where the coastline would turn northward. Borric had to make a quick choice, either head for the south shore, or hope that between Suli and himself they could keep the boat afloat long enough to reach the coast somewhere south of LiMeth. As he was about equal distance between either part of the shoreline, he decided his best choice was to keep as much speed as possible and hold his present course.
As the sun sped westward, Borric and Suli alternated bailing out the boat and keeping it pointed toward LiMeth. Near sundown, a scattering of clouds appeared in the north and the wind turned, now blowing into their faces. The pinnace was decent enough travelling into the eye of the wind, but Borric doubted they would survive long enough to reach land if it started to rain. As he considered this, the first drops hit him in the face, and less than an hour later, the rain began to fall in earnest.
As the sun rose, a ship was upon them. Borric had seen its approach for the last quarter hour, as it suddenly had appeared out of the predawn gloom. Both the Prince and Suli, exhausted from a night’s bailing to keep afloat, could barely move. Yet Borric mustered what little reserve of energy he possessed and stood up.
They had taken down the sail at sundown, decided it was better to drift in the dark and have both of them bail for periods, than to sail blindly in the gloom. The sound of breakers would alert them to any chance of coming too close to shore. The only problem was that Borric didn’t have any idea of how the currents in this part of the Bitter Sea ran.
The ship was a small three-masted merchantman, square-rigged with a lateen sail on the back. It could have come from any nation on the Bitter Sea, so it could be their salvation or their doom.
When the ship was close enough for him to be heard, Borric called out, ‘What ship?’
The Captain of the vessel came to the rail as he ordered the helm put over, bringing the ship to a slow pace as it passed Borric’s sinking pinnace, wallowing in the chop. ‘The Good Traveller, out of Bordon.’
‘Where are you bound?’
‘Bound for Farafra,’ came the reply.
Borric’s heart began to beat again. It was a Free Cities trader bound for an Empire city on the Dragon Sea. ‘Have you berths for two?’
The Captain looked down at the ragged pair and their rapidly wallowing boat and said, ‘Have you the price of passage?’
Borric did not wish to part with the coins he had taken from Salaya, as he knew they would need them later. He said, ‘No, but we can work.’
‘I’ve all the hands I need,’ called back the Captain.
Borric knew by stories that the Captain would not likely leave them to drown – sailor’s superstition forbade it – but he could exact a price of an indenture for several cruises; seamen were an inconstant lot and keeping a steady crew was difficult. The Captain was bargaining. Borric pulled out the rusty fishing knife and brandished it. ‘Then I order you to strike your colours; you are all my prisoners.’
The Captain stared in wide-eyed disbelief, then began to laugh. Soon every sailor on the ship was laughing uproariously. After a moment of genuine amusement, the Captain called out, ‘Bring the madman and the boy aboard. Then make for the Straits!’
THE TRUMPETS SOUNDED.
A thousand soldiers came to attention and presented arms. One hundred drummers on horseback began a rhythmic tattoo. Erland turned to James, who rode to his left, and said, ‘This is unbelievable!’
Before them stood the Imperial City, Kesh. They had entered the ‘lower city’ an hour earlier, to be met by a delegation from the City Governor and his retinue. It was the same ceremony they had been forced to endure at each stop along the wearisome journey from Nar Ayab to the capital. When the Governor of Nar Ayab had met them at the outskirts of town, Erland found the welcome a relief from his black mood. He had been numb with Borric’s death for nearly a week, giving himself over to dark bouts of depression, interspersed with rage at the unfairness of it all. The pageantry of the Governor’s welcome had taken his mind off the ambush for the first time, and the novelty of seeing such a display had kept him diverted for over three hours.
But now, the displays wore upon his patience. He had received another extravagant welcome at the cities of Kh’mrat and Khattara, and half a dozen other welcomes that might have been smaller in scale, but were just as formal and tedious at smaller towns along the way. From any official from Regional Governor down to town alderman, Erland had been forced to endure welcoming speeches from them all.
Erland glanced behind to where Locklear rode with the Keshian official sent to meet them at the lower-city gates. The Prince signalled, and both men set heels to their mounts, trotting them to where Erland rode. The official was one Kafi Abu Harez, a noble of the Beni-Wazir, one of the desert people of the Jal-Pur. Many desertmen had come to Imperial service over the last hundred years, with a marked preference and talent for diplomacy and negotiations. Kesh’s old Ambassador to the Western Realm, Abdur Rachman Memo Hazara-Khan, deceased for ten years now, had once told Erland and his brother,