Читать книгу The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 20

THE LOOKOUT POINTED.

‘Farafra!’

The captain called to trim sails as they rounded the headlands and came into view of the Keshian seaport. A sailor at the rail turned to Borric and said, ‘Some fun tonight, eh. Madman?’

Borric smiled ruefully. From behind, the Captain said, ‘Get aloft and make ready to reef in sail!’ The sailors jumped to obey. ‘Two points to port,’ commanded the Captain, and Borric turned the large ship’s wheel to bring the ship to the indicated heading. Since joining the crew of The Good Traveller, he had earned the grudging respect of the Captain and crew. Some tasks he did well, while others he seemed to have no understanding of, but learned quickly. His sense of the ship, and shifts in current and wind, learned while sailing small boats as a boy, had earned him the job of helmsman, one of three sailors the Captain allowed the task.

Borric glanced upward, where Suli ran along a spar, negotiating the sheets and hawsers like a monkey. Suli had taken to the sea like one born to it. In the month they had been at sea, his child’s body had put on a little bulk and muscle, made strong by constant exercise and the plain but filling food, hinting at the man he would be someday.

The Prince had kept his identity to himself, which probably wouldn’t have mattered. After his lunatic behaviour with the knife, he was called by crew and Captain alike ‘the Madman’, Claiming to be a Prince of the Isles was unlikely to change their minds, he was sure. Suli was just ‘the Boy’. Nobody had pressed them for why they had been drifting at sea in a boat near to sinking, as if to know such things was to invite trouble.

From behind, the Captain said, ‘A Farafran pilot will take us into harbour. Bloody nuisance, but that’s the way the Port Governor likes it, so we must heave to and wait.’ The Captain called out to reef sails and made ready to drop anchor. A pair of green and white pennants were run up, a request for a pilot. ‘Here’s where you leave us, Madman. The pilot will be here within the hour, but I’m putting you over the side and will have you rowed to a beach outside the city.’

Borric said nothing. The Captain studied the Prince’s face and said, ‘You’re a fit lad, but you were no kind of real sailor when you came aboard.’ His eyes narrowed as he said, ‘You know a ship like a sailing master knows one, not like crew; you knew nothing of the most common sailor’s duty.’ As he spoke, the Captain kept glancing about, ensuring everyone was performing his tasks as he should. ‘It’s like you’ve spent your days upon the quarterdeck and never a minute below or aloft, a boy captain.’ Then his voice lowered, ‘Or the son of a rich man who owns ships.’ Borric moved the wheel slightly as the ship’s speed dropped off, and the Captain continued, ‘Your hands showed calluses, but those of a horseman, a soldier, not a sailor.’ He glanced about to see if anyone was shirking his duty. ‘Well, I’m not asking to know your story, Madman. But I do know that the pinnace you had was from Durbin. You’d not be the first pair to want out of Durbin in a hurry. No, the more I think on it, the less I wish to know. I can’t say you’ve been a good sailor, Madman, but you’ve given your best, and been a fair deck hand with no complaining, and no man can ask for more.’ He glanced aloft, saw the sails were all in, and called out for the anchor to be dropped. Lashing the wheel while Borric held it steady, the Captain said, ‘Normally, I’d have you bursting your liver hauling cargo until sundown with the rest of the men, not counting your work for passage finished until then, but there’s something about you which tells me trouble’s following in your wake, so I’ll have you off and unnoticed.’ He looked Borric up and down. ‘Well, get below and get your things. I know you robbed my men blind with your card tricks. It’s a good thing I haven’t paid them yet, or you’d have all their earnings, as well as the rest.’

Borric saluted and said, ‘Thank you, Captain.’

He turned toward the companionway and slid down the ladder to the main deck, yelling up to Suli, ‘Boy! Come below and get your things!’

The Durbin beggar boy swung down the ratlines and met Borric at the entrance to the forecastle. They went inside and gathered together their few belongings. Besides the sheath knife and belt, Borric had won a small stake of coins, a pair of sailor’s tunics, a second pair of trousers, and a couple of like pieces of clothing for Suli.

By the time they emerged from below, the crew was idly standing around, waiting upon the arrival of the Farafran pilot. Several bade the two good-bye as they crossed to the rope ladder which hung off the lee side of the ship. Below, a small captain’s boat waited, with two sailors to row them to shore.

‘Madman. Boy!’ said the Captain as they turned to descend the ladder. Both hesitated. He held out a tiny pouch. ‘It’s a quarter wages. I’ll not turn a man penniless into a Keshian city. It would be kinder to have left you to drown.’

Suli took the pouch and said, ‘The Captain is kind and generous.’

As the boat was rowed toward the breakers, Borric took the pouch of coins and hefted it. He put it inside his tunic, next to the pouch he had taken off of Salaya. Letting out his breath, he considered his next action. To get to the city of Kesh, obviously, but how, that was the question. Deciding not to dwell on that until land was underfoot, he asked Suli, ‘What did the Captain mean he’d not turn a man penniless into a Keshian city?’

It was one of the two rowing sailors who answered, before the boy could speak. ‘To be penniless in Kesh is to be a corpse. Madman.’ He shook his head slightly at Borric’s ignorance. ‘Life is cheap in Kesh. You could be the bloody King of Queg and if you didn’t have a coin upon you, they’d let you die in the street, step over you as they go about their business, and curse your soul to the Seven Lower Hells for your corpse being in the way.’

Suli said, ‘It’s true. Those of Kesh are animals.’

Borric laughed. ‘You’re of Kesh.’

The boy spit over the side. ‘We of Durbin are not truly of Kesh, no more than the desert men. We have been conquered by them; we pay their taxes, but we are not Keshians.’ He pointed toward the city. ‘Those are not Keshians. We are never allowed to forget this. In the city of Kesh the true Keshians are found. You shall see!’

‘Boy’s right. Madman,’ said the talkative sailor. ‘True Keshians are a strange lot. Don’t see many along the Dragon Sea or anywhere else ‘cept near the Overn Deep. Shave their heads and walk around naked they do and don’t care if you make free with their women. It’s a fact!’ The other sailor grunted, as if this was but another story yet to be proven to his satisfaction. The first said, ‘They ride in their chariots, and they think they’re better ‘an us. They’d kill you as soon as look at you.’ Both sailors pulled hard as they neared the breaker line, and Borric felt the boat rising on the back of a comber. The first sailor returned to his narrative. ‘And if one of ‘em does kill ya, why the courts’ll just turn ‘im loose. Even if he’s just as common as you are, Madman. It’s being trueblood.’

The second sailor said, ‘That’s fact enough. Watch yourself with the truebloods. They think different than the rest of us. Honour’s different. If you challenge one, he might fight you, might not, he won’t care a fig about honour. But if he figures he’s a grievance agin’ you, why he tracks you, like you’d hunt an animal.’

The first sailor added, ‘And he’ll follow you to the edge of the world if he has to; that’s a fact, too. Hunting’s the thing, with ’em.’

The breaker caught the boat and propelled it into the beach. Borric and Suli jumped out into waist-high water and helped the two rowers turn the boat around. Then, when the tide began to surge back out toward sea, they gave the boat a shove, so that the rowers would have some momentum to carry them over the breakers. Wading out of the water, the Prince turned to the beggar boy and said, ‘Not the sort of welcome to Kesh I had anticipated, but at least we’re alive,’ he jiggled the pouch under his tunic, ‘have some means to eat, and are free of pursuit.’ He glanced back to where the ship waited for the Keshian pilot. He knew that sooner or later one of the seamen would mention the man and boy picked up outside of Durbin, and those who might be in this part of the Empire seeking news of him would connect that fact with his escape. Then the hunt would be on again. Taking a deep breath, Borric said, ‘At least no pursuit for the moment.’ Slapping the boy playfully upon the back, he said, ‘Come along and let’s see what this Keshian city has to offer by way of a good, hot meal!’ To that prospect, Suli agreed vigorously.

Where Durbin had been crowded, dirty, and miserable, Farafra was exotic. And crowded, dirty, and miserable. By the time they were halfway to the centre of the city, Borric understood exactly what the Captain had meant by his remark. For within twenty yards of the sea gate, next to the docks where they entered the city, a dead body lay rotting in the sun. Flies crawled over it and from the mangled appearance of the torso dogs had feasted sometime before dawn. People passing the corpse ignored it, the only noticeable reaction being an occasional averting of the eyes.

Borric looked around and said, ‘Doesn’t the city watch or someone do something?’

Suli was peering in every direction, constantly on the lookout for any opportunity to make a coin or two. Absently he said, ‘If some merchant nearby decides the stink is bad for business, he’ll pay some boys to drag it to the harbour and toss it in. Otherwise it will lie there until it’s no longer there.’ Suli seemed to take for granted that eventually some magic agency would dispose of the corpse.

A few feet away, a man in a robe squatted over the gutter, ignoring those who passed by. As Borric watched, the man stood, and moved into the flow of traffic, leaving behind fresh proof he hadn’t been squatting to say devotions to some god, but rather to answer the call of nature. ‘Gods above,’ said Borric. ‘Aren’t there public jakes in this city?’

Suli looked at him with a curious expression. ‘Public? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Who would build them and clean them? Why would anyone bother?’

Borric said, ‘Never mind. Some things are just hard to get used to.’

As they entered the flow of traffic from the docks into the city, Borric was astounded by the impossible variety of people. All manner of speech could be heard, and all fashions of dress could be observed. It was unlike anything he had seen before or expected to behold. Women passed by dressed in desert garb, covered from head to foot in plain blue or brown robes, nothing shown but their eyes, while a few feet away, hunters from the grassy plains stood inspecting goods, their dark, oiled bodies naked save for a simple thong breechclout, but their vanity showed in the copper bracelets, necklaces, and earrings they wore and in their choice of weapons. Clan tattoos marked faces here, and odd temple robes marked beliefs there. Women with skin as dark as morning’s coffee passed wearing brightly coloured cloth wrapped round from under-arm to knee, with high conical hats of the same cloth. Babies with serious eyes seemed to guard the rear from slings hung over their mothers’ backs. Children of every possible description raced through the street, chasing a dog who dodged through the forest of human legs before him. Borric laughed. ‘That dog runs as if his life depended upon it.’

Suli shrugged. ‘He does. Those street boys are hungry.’

Borric could hardly take it all in. There was just too much that was too new to comprehend. Everywhere he looked, hundreds of people moved by, going one way or another, some strolling, others hurrying, but all oblivious to the throng surrounding them. And more than the press of bodies and the constant babble of voices, there was the smell. Unwashed bodies, expensive perfumes, human excrement, cooking, exotic spices, animal odours, all filled his nose with the reek of this alien land. The street was packed, with little room to move without coming in contact with strangers. Borric was aware of the weight of his two purses in his tunic, as safe a place for them as he could manage. Any pickpocket was going to have to stick his arm down the front of Borric’s shirt, which seemed unlikely. Borric felt his senses assaulted, and he needed a respite.

They came to an open-front alehouse and the Prince motioned the boy to turn in. In the relative dark, they saw a pair of men speaking softly at a corner table, but otherwise the room was empty. Borric ordered a bitter ale for himself and a light ale for the boy, paying from the meagre purse the Captain had given him, preferring to keep his more ample purse hidden in his shirt front. The brew was average in quality, but welcome for the long interval since Borric had tasted such.

‘Clear the way!’ A woman’s shriek was followed by the clatter of hooves and more shouts, punctuated by the crack of a whip. Borric and Suli both turned to see what the fuss was. Before the open front of the alehouse, a strange scene was unfolding. A pair of splendid bay horses pulling an ornate chariot were rearing and whinnying as they were halted by their driver.

The cause of the sudden stop was a large man, who stood fore square in the centre of the street. Behind the driver, the charioteer shouted, ‘Fool! Idiot! Get out of the way!’

The man in the street walked toward the two horses and grabbed the bridle of each. He clucked with the side of his tongue and pushed, and the horses moved backwards. The driver cracked his whip behind the ear of one of the horses, shouting loudly. But the horses obeyed the constant pressure from the front, rather than the noise from the back. The chariot was being backed up despite the driver’s curses and protestation, while the charioteer behind him looked on in stunned disbelief. The driver drew back to crack a whip again and the man pushing the horses said, ‘Crack that thing once more, and it will be the last stupid act of your life!’

‘Fascinating,’ Borric remarked. ‘I wonder why our large friend is doing that?’

The ‘large friend’ was a mercenary soldier by his look, wearing leather armour over his green tunic and trousers. Upon his head rested an old metal helm, much dented and in desperate need of a wire brush and polish, and across his back was a leather sheath, containing what appeared to be a half-and-a-half, or bastard-sword. Upon his sides, two long dirk handles showed weapons at his belt.

The man behind the chariot driver looked upon the man blocking his way in outrage. He was undressed, save for a white kilt and an odd weapon harness, crossed leather straps over his shoulders, forming an X across his chest. Spears were within easy reach of him, tied to the side of the chariot, looking like a boat’s mast as they pointed straight up. A bow was also slung to the side of the vehicle. With his face turning crimson, the charioteer shouted, ‘Make way, you idiot!’

Suli whispered to Borric, ‘The man in the chariot is of true Keshian blood. He is also a member of the Order of Imperial Charioteers. He is therefore upon the business of the Empire. The man who has halted them is a very brave man or a fool.’

The man who held the horses merely shook his head and spit. He forced the horses to retreat until the chariot began to turn to the right, backing into a pot dealer’s small shop. The pot merchant shouted in alarm and jumped to get out of harm’s way, but the man with the large sword ceased pushing the horses just short of wreaking havoc on the man’s livelihood. The mercenary released the bridle and bent down to pick something up, then sauntered aside. ‘You can go now,’ he said.

The chariot driver was about to start the horses on their way again, when the charioteer pulled the whip out of his hand. As if anticipating the move, the warrior wheeled about as the leather lash sang through the air and let it catch upon a leather bracer he wore on his left arm. Quickly grabbing the whip, he yanked hard and almost pulled the charioteer over the side of his chariot. Then just as the man was regaining his balance, the mercenary drew one of his two long dirks and cut the lash. The charioteer fell backwards and almost went over the other side. As the angry charioteer started to right himself again, the mercenary struck the nearest horse on the flank, shouting ‘Ya!’ at the top of his lungs. Caught unawares, the driver was barely able to pull them around and head them down the street without driving through a packed mob of merchants and shoppers.

Laughter filled the boulevard as the enraged charioteer called back curses upon the large warrior. The warrior watched the departing chariot, then entered the ale shop and came to stand beside Suli.

‘Ale,’ he said, putting down what he had picked up in the street. It was a copper coin.

Borric shook his head. ‘You were almost run down because you stopped to pick up a copper?’

The man removed his metal helmet, revealing damp hair clinging to his head, where he had hair, for the man was at least in his forties or fifties and had lost most of the hair on top. ‘You can’t take the chance of waiting, friend,’ he said slowly, his accent giving him a full-mouth sound as he spoke, as if he was speaking around cotton wadded in his cheeks. ‘That’s five luni, it’s more money than I’ve seen in a month.’

Something in his accent sounded familiar upon Borric’s ear, and he said, ‘Are you from the Isles?’

The man shook his head. ‘Langost, a town in the foothills of the Peaks of Tranquillity. Our people were from Isles stock, though. My grandfather’s father was from Deep Taunton. I take it you’re from the Isles?’

Borric shrugged as if it really didn’t matter. ‘Most recently from Durbin,’ he said. ‘But before that I was in the Isles.’

‘Farafra isn’t paradise, but it’s a better place than that pesthole Durbin.’ The man stuck out his hand ‘Ghuda Bulé, caravan guard, late of Hansulé, and before that Gwalin, and before that Ishlana.’

Borric shook the man’s hand, heavily callused from years handling both sword and livestock. ‘My friends call me Madman,’ he said with a grin. ‘This is Suli.’

Suli solemnly shook hands with the fighter, as if one among equals.

‘Madman? Must be a story about that name, or didn’t your father like you?’

Borric laughed. ‘No, I did some crazy things once and the name stuck.’ Borric shook his head. ‘Caravan guard? That would explain why you knew how to move those chariot horses.’

The man smiled, little more than curling his lip slightly, but his blue eyes danced. ‘Charioteers and their drivers give me gas. And one thing I do know about horses is that when someone is pushing on their faces, they don’t like it and will back up. You can try that with a fool wiggling their reins and trying to flick a whip behind their ear, but I wouldn’t try it with a rider on their back with a strong leg and a pair of spurs.’ He chuckled. ‘Pretty stupid, wasn’t it?’

Borric laughed. ‘Yes, it was.’

Ghuda Bulé drained the last of the ale from his cup and said, ‘Well, best be off to the caravansary. My most recent woman threw me out of her crib this morning when she finally figured out I wasn’t going to marry her and get a job in the city, after all. So, I’m without funds and that means time to find work. Besides, I’ve about had my fill of Farafra and could do with a change of scenery. Good day to you both.’

Borric hesitated an instant, then said, ‘Let me buy you one.’

Ghuda put the helm he had just retrieved back on the bar. ‘You talked me into it, Madman.’

Borric ordered another round. When the barkeep had put the drinks down, Borric turned to the mercenary and said, ‘I need to get to the city of Kesh, Ghuda.’

Ghuda turned about as if looking to see where he was. ‘Well, first walk that way,’ he said, pointing down the street, ‘until you reach the southern tip of the Spires of Light – it’s a large mountain range; you’ll notice them right away. Then turn left to bend around them, then right where the River Sarné runs along the north tip of the Guardians. Follow the river to a place on the Overn Deep where a lot of people live, and that’s the city of Kesh. Can’t miss it; big palace on top of a plateau, more truebloods than a dog has fleas running around. If you start now, you should get there in six or eight weeks.’

‘Thanks,’ said Borric drily. ‘I mean I need to get there and I’d like to hire on a caravan heading that way.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ghuda noncommittally, nodding.

‘And it would help if I had someone known around here to vouch for me.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ghuda. ‘So you’d like me to take you along to the caravansary and tell some unsuspecting caravan master that you’re my old friend from home, a truly cracking good swordsman, who, by the way, is called the Madman.’

Borric closed his eyes as if he had a headache. ‘Not quite.’

‘Look, friend, I thank you for the drink, but that doesn’t entitle you to risk my good name by making recommendations that are bound to reflect badly on me in time.’

Borric said, ‘Wait a minute! Who said it would reflect badly on you? I’m a competent swordsman.’

‘Without a sword?’

Borric shrugged. ‘That’s a long story.’

‘It always is.’ Ghuda picked up his helm and put it crookedly upon his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll pay you.’

Ghuda took his helmet off and put it back on the bar. He signalled to the barman for another round. ‘Well, then, let’s cut to the heart of it. Reputations have a certain value, don’t they? What do you suggest?’

‘What will you earn on a trip from here to Kesh?’

Ghuda considered. ‘It’s a pretty uneventful route, well patrolled by the army, so there’s little pay, which is why there are always caravans needing guards. A large caravan, perhaps ten ecu. A small one, five. And food on the trip of course. Maybe a bonus if there are bandits along the way we have to fight.’

Borric did a quick calculation in his head – he could only think in terms of Kingdom coins – and reviewed the money he had in his purse from Salaya and his poker winnings on ship. ‘I’ll tell you what. Get the three of us hired on to guard a caravan and I’ll double whatever is paid you.’

‘Let me get this right: we get you on a caravan to Kesh and you’ll give me your wages when we get there?’

‘That’s right.’

‘No,’ he said, drinking down his ale. ‘What guarantee do I have you’ll not skip out with the money before I can collect?’

Borric gave him an exasperated look. ‘You’d doubt my word?’

‘Doubt your word? Sonny, we’ve just met. And what would you think if you were me and this was being proposed to you by someone who’s called “Madman”?’ He looked significantly down at his empty cup.

Borric signalled for another round. ‘All right, I’ll pay you half on account before we leave and the rest when we get there.’

Ghuda still wasn’t convinced. ‘And what about the boy? No one will consider him a likely guard.’

Borric turned to look at Suli who was now clearly wobbling from the influence of three ales. ‘He can pass work. We’ll hire him on to the caravan as a cook’s monkey.’

Suli just nodded, bleary-eyed. ‘Cook.’

‘But can you handle a blade, Madman?’ asked Ghuda, seriously.

Borric said matter-of-factly, ‘Better than any man I’ve met.’

Ghuda’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a boast!’

Borric grinned. ‘I’m still alive, aren’t I?’

Ghuda stared at Borric a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ah, that’s good.’ Killing what was left of his ale, Ghuda pulled out his two long dirks, and reversed the one in his left hand, handing it to Borric. ‘Show me what you’ve got. Madman.’

Suddenly Borric was twisting and parrying a vicious lunge, barely able to avoid a potentially killing stroke. He didn’t hesitate as he struck the mercenary as hard a blow to the head as he could with his left hand. As Ghuda shook his head to clear it, Borric lunged, and the mercenary was falling away from the point, striking a table with his back.

The barman shouted, ‘Here you two! Stop breaking up my shop!’

Ghuda sidled along the table, as Borric measured him. ‘We can stop any time you’re convinced,’ said the Prince, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders hunched, the point of the dirk aimed at Ghuda.

The mercenary grinned, his manner playful. ‘I’m convinced.’

Borric flipped the dirk, catching the blade between thumb and forefinger, and handed it back to Ghuda. The mercenary took it and said, ‘Well, we’d better find a weapons dealer and get you set up. You may know how to handle a weapon, but it does you little good if you don’t have one.’

Borric put his hand down the front of his baggy tunic and pulled out his purse. He took out a pair of copper coins and handed them to the furious barkeep. ‘Suli, let’s be off—’ He discovered the boy slumped at the foot of the bar, snoring loudly.

Ghuda shook his head. ‘Can’t say as I trust anyone who can’t hold his drink.’

Borric laughed as he pulled the drunken boy to his feet. Shaking him severely, he said, ‘Suli, we have to go.’

Through bleary eyes, the boy said, ‘Master, why is the room spinning?’

Ghuda grabbed his helm and said, ‘I will wait for you outside. Madman. You tend the boy.’ The mercenary exited the shop and stood next door examining some copper jewellery while the sounds of a boy being very sick emerged from the ale shop.

Three hours later, two men and a very pale boy passed through the eastern city gate, and entered the caravansary. The large field, surrounded on three sides by tents and sheds, was located just to the east of the city, less than a quarter mile from the gates of Farafra. Close to three hundred wagons of varying sizes were spread around the meadow. Dust filled the air as horses, oxen and camels moved from one place to another.

Suli hefted the large sack he carried, full of various items Ghuda had insisted they buy. Borric had followed the mercenary’s lead in the matter, save when it came to his own armour. Borric now wore an old but serviceable jacket of leather, with leggings and bracers. He couldn’t find a light helm, so rather than one he didn’t care for, he chose a leather band with a cloth headcover, to keep his lengthening hair back and perspiration out of his eyes. The covering also protected the back of his neck from the harsh Keshian sun. A longsword hung from his left hip, and a dirk from his right. He’d have preferred a rapier, but they were rarer in Farafra than in Krondor and beyond his means. The day’s shopping had eaten away at his meagre supply of coins and he was aware that he was still a long way from the city of Kesh.

As they moved along past the corrals where horses were kept, they came to the main concourse, a series of wagons arrayed in two lines. Strolling along between them were a full score of armed men, as well as merchants seeking transport for their goods.

Moving down the concourse, the three were called to by a man atop each wagon. ‘Bound for Kimri. I need guards for Kimri!’ At the next, a man shouted to them, ‘Ghuda! I need guards for Teleman!’ The third called, ‘Top price paid. We’re leaving tomorrow for Hansulé!’

Halfway down the concourse, they found a caravan bound for the city of Kesh. The caravan master looked them over and said, ‘I know you by name, Ghuda Bulé. I can use you and your friend, but I don’t want the boy.’

Borric was about to speak, but Ghuda cut him off. ‘I don’t go anywhere without my Good Luck Cook.’

The stout caravan master looked down upon Suli, perspiration beading upon his hairless head as he said, ‘Good Luck Cook?’

Ghuda nodded, as if it was something so obvious he needn’t comment upon it. ‘Yes.’

‘What, O Master of Ten Thousand Lice, is a Good Luck Cook?’

‘When I was guard on Taymus Rioden’s caravan from Querel to Ashunta, seven years back, we were raided by bandits. Struck as if by lightning. Had no time to even get out a prayer to the Death Goddess.’ He made a good luck sign, as did the caravan master. ‘But I survived as did my Good Luck Cook. Not another man did. I have always had my Good Luck Cook with me since.’

‘As that boy can be no more than twelve summers, Father of Prevaricators, he must have been precocious indeed to have been a caravan cook seven years ago.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t him,’ said Ghuda, shaking his head as if that should be obvious. ‘Different cook. You see, I was down in the gully with my britches around my ankles with the worst case of runs in my life when the bandits struck. Couldn’t even get up to fight. They just never found me.’

‘And how did the cook survive?’

‘He was squatting a few feet away.’

‘And what happened to him?’ asked the caravan master, squinting down at Ghuda with interest.

‘I killed the bastard for almost poisoning me.’

The caravan master couldn’t help himself but laugh. When he was through, Ghuda said, ‘The boy’ll cause you no trouble. He can help the cook around the campfire at night and you needn’t pay him. Just let him eat a full meal every day until we reach Kesh.’

‘Done!’ said the master, spitting in his hand and extending it. Ghuda spit in his and they shook. ‘I can always use a good liar around the fire at night. Make the journey pass quickly.’ To Suli he said, ‘Go find my cook, boy.’ He hiked his finger over his shoulder to where a cook wagon could be seen amidst a dozen freight wagons. ‘Tell him you’re to be his new cook’s monkey.’

Suli looked to Borric, who nodded he should go. As Suli left, the caravan master said, ‘I am Janos Sabér, trader from Kesh. We leave at first light tomorrow.’

Ghuda unslung the small bundle he carried over his shoulder. ‘We’ll sleep under your wagons tonight.’

‘Good. Now, leave me, as I need four more guards before nightfall.’

Borric and Ghuda wandered from the spot, and found some shade under a widely spreading tree. Ghuda took his helm off and ran his hand over his sweaty face. ‘Might as well rest now, Madman. Tomorrow it gets really miserable.’

‘Miserable?’ asked Borric.

‘Yes, Madman. Today we’re merely hot and bored. Tomorrow we will be thirsty, dirty, tired, hot, and bored.’

Borric crossed his arms on his chest and tried to rest. He knew that it had been drilled into him since boyhood that a soldier steals rest whenever the opportunity appears. But his mind raced. How was Erland faring and what was transpiring in Kesh? By his estimate, Erland and the others should be in Kesh by now. Was Erland safe? Did they count Borric dead, or merely missing?

Sighing aloud, he settled down. Soon he was dozing in the afternoon heat, the noise of the busy caravansary becoming lulling in its own fashion.