The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist
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GHUDA STRETCHED.
Through the door behind him came a woman’s voice: ‘Get away from there!’
The former mercenary guard sat back in his chair on the porch of his inn, settling his feet upon the hitching rail. In the background the usual evening serenade was commencing. While rich travelers stayed at the large hostels in the city or at palatial inns along the silvery beaches, the Inn of the Dented Helm, owned by Ghuda Bulé, catered to a rougher clientele: wagon drivers, mercenaries, farmers bringing crops into the city, and rural soldiers.
‘Do I have to summon the city guards!’ cried the woman from inside the common room.
A large man, Ghuda had found enough hard work keeping up the inn that he hadn’t run to fat and he still kept his weapons finely honed; more times than he cared to recall, he had been forced to toss one or another customer through the door.
Evenings, just before dining, were his favorite time of the day. Sitting in his chair, he could see the sun set over the bay of Elarial, the brilliant glare of the day dimming to a gentler blush that colored the white buildings soft oranges and golds. It was one of the few pleasures he managed to reserve for himself in an otherwise demanding life. A loud crash sounded from within the building, and Ghuda resisted the urge to investigate. His woman would let him know when he was needed to intervene.
‘Get out of here! Take that fighting outside!’
Ghuda took out a dirk, one of the two he habitually wore on his belt, and absently began to polish it. The sound of broken crockery echoed from within the inn. A girl’s shriek followed quickly after, then the sounds of fists striking bodies joined in.
Ghuda looked at the sunset as he polished his blade. At almost sixty years old, his face was an aging map of leather – showing years of caravan guard duty, fighting, too much bad weather, bad food, and bad wine – dominated by an oft-broken nose. Most of his hair was gone on top, leaving him with a shoulder-length grey fringe that began halfway between crown and ears. Never one to be called handsome, he still had something about him, a calm, open directness, that caused people to trust and like him.
He let his gaze wander across the bay, silver and rose highlights from the sunset sparkling atop emerald waters, as seabirds squawked and dove for their supper. The heat of the day had gone, leaving a soft cool breeze off the bay, faint with the tang of sea salt, and for a moment he wondered if life could be better for one of his low station. Then he squinted against the glare of the sun as it touched the horizon, for out of the west came a figure purposefully marching down the road toward the little inn.
At first it was nothing more than a black speck against the glare of the setting sun, but soon it took on detail. Something about the figure set off an itch in the back of Ghuda’s brain, and he fixed his gaze upon the stranger as he came clearly into view. A slender, bandy-legged man wearing a dusty and torn blue robe, tied above one shoulder, approached. He was an Isalani, a citizen of Isalan, one of the nations to the south within the Empire of Great Kesh. He carried an old black rucksack over one shoulder and used a long staff as a walking stick.
When the man was close enough for his features to be clearly identified, Ghuda said a silent prayer: ‘Gods, not him.’
A wailing cry of anger came from within the building as Ghuda stood up. The man reached the porch and unshouldered his bag. A ring of fuzz surrounded an otherwise bald head; a face resembling a vulture looked solemn as he regarded Ghuda, then broke into a wide smile. His black eyes were narrow slits as he grinned at Ghuda. He opened the dusty old bag. In a familiar, gravelly tone he said, ‘Want an orange?’ He reached into the bag and withdrew two large oranges.
Ghuda caught the fruit that was tossed to him and said, ‘Nakor, what in the Seven Lower Hells brings you here?’
Nakor the Isalani, occasional card sharp and con man, wizard in some sense of the word, and undoubted lunatic in Ghuda’s estimation, was a onetime companion of the former mercenary. Nine years before, they had met and traveled with a young vagabond who’d convinced Ghuda – Nakor needed no persuading – to travel on a journey to the City of Kesh, a descent into the heart of murder, politics, and attempted treason. The vagabond had turned out to be Prince Borric, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, and Ghuda had emerged from that encounter with enough gold to travel and find this inn, the previous owner’s widow, and the most glorious sunsets he had ever seen. He wished never again to experience anything like that journey in this life. Now, with sinking heart, he knew that wish was likely to be a vain one.
The bandy-legged little man said, ‘I came to get you.’
Ghuda sat back down in his chair as an ale cup came sailing through the door. Nakor nimbly dodged it and said, ‘Some good fight you have there. Wagon drivers?’
Ghuda shook his head. ‘No guests tonight. That’s just my woman’s seven kids tearing up the common room, as usual.’
Nakor dropped his rucksack and sat down upon the hitching rail and said, ‘Well, give me something to eat, then we’ll go.’
Returning to sharpening his dirk, Ghuda said, ‘Go where?’
‘Krondor.’
Ghuda shut his eyes a moment. The only person they both knew in Krondor was Prince Borric. ‘This is not a perfect existence, by any measure, Nakor, but I’m contented to remain here. Now go away.’
The little man bit into his orange, pulled off a large piece of peel, and spat it out. He bit deeply into the orange and slurped loudly as he did. Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he said, ‘Contented with that?’ He pointed into the darkened doorway, through which the wail of a child carried over the general shouts and breakage.
Ghuda said, ‘Well, it’s a hard life, sometimes, but rarely is anyone trying to kill me; I know where I’m sleeping every night, and I eat well and bathe regularly. My woman’s affectionate, and the children—’ Another child’s loud shriek was punctuated by the sound of an indignant infant’s wailing cry. Looking at Nakor, Ghuda asked, ‘I’m going to regret asking this, but why do we need to go to Krondor?’
‘Got to see a man,’ Nakor said as he sat back on the hitching rail, hooking one foot behind a post to keep his balance.
‘One thing about you, Nakor, you never bore a man to death with unnecessary details. What man?’
‘Don’t know. But we’ll find out when we get there.’
Ghuda signed. ‘Last time I saw you, you were riding north out of the City of Kesh, heading for that island of magicians, Stardock. You were wearing a great cape and blue robe of magnificent weave, the horse was a black desert stallion worth a year’s wages, and you had a purse full of the Empress’s gold.
Nakor shrugged. ‘The horse ate bad grass, got colic, and died.’ He fingered the dirty, torn blue robe he wore. ‘The great cape kept catching in things, so I threw it away. The robe is the one I still wear. The sleeves were too long, so I tore them off. The thing dragged on the ground and I kept tripping on the hem, so I cut it with my dagger.’
Ghuda regarded his former companion’s ragged appearance and said, ‘You could have afforded a tailor.’
‘Too busy.’ He glanced at the turquoise sky, shot through with pink and grey clouds, and said, ‘I spent all the money and I got bored with Stardock. Decided to go to Krondor.’
Ghuda felt control leaving as he said, ‘Last time I consulted a map, Stardock to Krondor by way of Elarial was considered the long way around.’
Nakor shrugged. ‘I needed to find you. So I went back to Kesh. You said you might go to Jandowae, so there I went. Then they said you’d gone to Faráfra, so there I went. I then followed you to Draconi, Caralyan, then here.’
‘You seem singularly determined to find me.’
Nakor leaned forward, and his voice changed; Ghuda had heard him take this tone before and knew that what he was saying was significant. ‘Great things, Ghuda. Don’t ask me