The King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  It was Hatonis who asked the first question. “One thing: what were you doing there?”

  Nicholas glanced at Ghuda, who shrugged, and Amos, who indicated Nicholas should speak on. Nicholas said, “I need your oath that what I tell you does not leave this room.”

  Vaslaw nodded. Nicholas said, “I am the son of the Prince of Krondor.”

  Hatonis said, “Father said your father ruled some city. I’ve never heard of Krondor. Is it in the Westlands, as my sister asked?”

  “No,” answered Nicholas. He then spent the next hour telling them of the Kingdom of the Isles and the Empire of Great Kesh, of their journey across the water and the raids.

  By the time he had finished, the meal was over and they lingered over brandies and sweetened coffee. Vaslaw said, “I will not call a guest in my home a liar, Nicholas, but I can scarcely credit your tale. I can imagine lands such as you describe, barely, as a storyteller’s device—far-reaching kingdoms and armies in the tens of thousands. But in real life? That I find impossible to believe. We’ve had our share of would-be conquerors in our past; at the time we were having our troubles, the Priest-King of Lanada attempted to conquer the other cities along the river. The Overlord allied with the Raj of Maharta to balk his ambitions. No, such men are always stopped.”

  “Not always,” said Nicholas. “My ancestors were conquerors, though now they are heroes in our history.” Glancing at Amos, he said, “But we wrote the history.”

  Amos grinned. “Nicholas speaks only the truth. You will have to take ship and come visit someday, Vaslaw. You will find it strange, I am sure, but it is true.”

  It was Regin who asked, “Very well, but what possible reason would some mysterious agency have to make war across such a vast ocean—the one we call the Blue Sea—for booty and slaves, when there are wealthy prizes so close here?”

  Nicholas spoke to Vaslaw. “You said there were fourteen tribes and named them. Was there once a fifteenth?”

  Vaslaw’s expression turned hard. He motioned to the servants to leave. Then he said to his other guests and his daughters, “You must leave as well.”

  Tashi looked about to voice a protest over being excluded, but her father cut her off with a near shout: “Leave!”

  When the room was empty save for Nicholas and his friends and Vaslaw, his son, and son-in-law, the old man said, “Hatonis is my last living male heir, and Regin shall be next chieftain when I die. But no other may hear further. What do you say, Nicholas?”

  Nicholas dug the talisman from his pouch and handed it to Vaslaw. The old man looked hard at it and said, “The Snakes are back.”

  Hatonis said, “Snakes, Father?” Regin also looked confused.

  The old man put the talisman down. “When I was a boy, my father who was Chieftain before me told me of the Snake Clan.” He was silent for a while, then said, “Once we numbered a score of clans. Three died out, the Wolverine, Dragon, and Otter, and two others were destroyed in blood feud or war, the Hawk and Boar. In the memory of my grandfather’s father’s, the Snakes, like the rest of us, lived here in the city. There was betrayal, and a dishonor so black no man was permitted to speak of it, and the Snakes were hunted down—to the last man it was thought—and killed.” His voice lowered. “Do you know what we mean when we say ‘to the last man’?” Nicholas said nothing. “Every man, woman, and child who had Snake blood was hounded to earth and put to the sword, no matter how young or innocent. Brothers killed their own sisters who had married Snakes.” He composed his thoughts. "You are aliens here, so there is much about the clans that you do not understand. We are one with our clan totems. Those of us who practiced magic took their form, and knew their wisdom. We spoke to them and they guided our young men on their vision quests. Something happened to the Snake Clan, which had once numbered among the mightiest. Something led them into darkness and evil ways, and they became anathema to their kin.”

  Nicholas said, “Look at this.” He produced the ring. “This was taken from the hand of a moredhel—kin of those you know as the ‘long-lived’—near my uncle’s home.”

  Vaslaw looked at Nicholas a long time, then said, “What are you not telling me?”

  Nicholas said, “There is one thing of which I may never speak, though it would cost my life. I’ve sworn an oath, as have my kin. But there is a reason we are connected, those who came with me across the sea, and you here, now. We have a common foe, and it is they who lie behind all that has transpired, I am sure.”

  “Who?” asked Hatonis. “The Overlord and Dahakon?”

  “Perhaps, but even beyond such as they,” answered Nicholas. “What do you know of the Pantathian serpent priests?”

  Vaslaw’s reaction was instantaneous. “Impossible! Now you spin more tales. They are creatures of legend. They live in a mysterious land, Pantathia, somewhere to the west—snakes who walk and speak like men. Such creatures do not exist save in tales told by mothers to frighten naughty children.”

  Amos said, “They are not a legend.” Vaslaw looked at the old sea captain. “I have seen one.” He told them briefly of the siege of Armengar, when Murmandamus marched against the Kingdom.

  “Again I’m tempted to call a guest in my house a liar,” said Vaslaw.

  Amos grinned and there was no warmth in it. “Resist the temptation, my friend. I’ve been known to spin a tale now and again, but on this you have my oath: it’s true. And no man has ever called me oath breaker and lived.”

  Nicholas said, “I know nothing of your customs, as you’ve observed. But could it have been in the ancient days that this oneness with their totem could make the Snake Clan vulnerable to the influences of the Pantathians?”

  “No one living knows what horror caused the obliteration of the Snake Clan, Nicholas. That dark secret died with those Chieftains who obliterated them.”

  Nicholas said, “But whatever that terrible deed was, it could have been something to do with the Pantathians, correct?”

  The old man looked shaken. “But if the snake people are at the root of these current problems, how do we resist? They are phantoms, and no man here has seen one. Do we ride in all directions seeking them?”

  “We are not without hope,” said Amos.

  “Why?” asked Regin.

  “Because I’ve also seen a Pantathian die.”

  Nicholas said, “They are mortal creatures. I don’t know yet what their plans are, and I know only that my purpose must be to find those taken from my homeland and return them. But in so doing, I believe that simple act will frustrate these snake creatures, and bring them looking for me.”

  Vaslaw said, “What would you have of the Lion Clan?”

  “For the moment, peace,” said Nicholas. “I would be happy to see you avenge yourselves upon those responsible for the death of your people. It would be in keeping with my purpose, I am sure. And I may need your help.”

  “If we can, we will,” said the old man. “Each chieftain in his turn must swear many oaths when accepting his office, but one oath is especially stressed, above all but protecting the clan to death. That oath is to hunt down any Snake. It is said as ritual, and no chieftain in four generations expected to honor it.” He fingered the snake talisman. “Until now.”

  —

  CALIS CROUCHED LOW behind a hedge that shielded him from a large building. He had already explored several other buildings, locating an armory, a storage complex, a kitchen complex, and servants’ quarters that were deserted. There were signs that until recently these buildings had been in use. Another kitchen complex was being utilized, and a great deal of food was being prepared, which puzzled the half-elf, as the main house was mostly dark. Only one area seemed occupied if the lights in the windows were an indication.

  He had followed a pair of men dressed in black, wearing red cloths tied on their heads, who carried hot stew in buckets from that kitchen. They had entered the large building, admitted through double doors by similarly dressed guards carrying swords and bows.

  C
alis inspected the wall from his vantage point. The building was without windows. It looked like nothing so much as a large warehouse. He glanced around, seeking any sight of anyone else lurking nearby, then sprinted for the wall. With a prodigious leap he jumped straight to the top of the tile roof.

  And almost fell down over the other side. The building was a hollow square, a covered hallway surrounding a large open court. The roof was narrow and peaked, no more than fifteen feet wide, shingled in red tiles over what was some sort of storage area.

  Crouching down, he peered into the gloom, his more-than-human eyes showing him clearly what was in the courtyard. Elven-reared to hold his emotions within, he was nevertheless shaken by what he saw. His hand gripped his bow tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

  More than a hundred prisoners lay shackled to heavy wooden pallets under the sky. While the season was spring, it was still cold at night. Those down below showed the ravages of being kept outside. They were haggard and gaunt and many were obviously ill. From the number of empty pallets, more than half those taken from the Far Coast had died.

  But what caused Calis to feel shock and revulsion was the sight of the creatures who roamed among the prisoners. They were grotesque imitations of humans. They moved and gestured, and some moved their lips in imitation of speech, but the voices were wrong, mostly nonsense syllables. The two men carrying the stew moved through the yard, providing a bowlful for each prisoner.

  Calis moved slowly along the peak of the roof, seeking to learn as much as he could about the environs and seeking sight of Margaret and Abigail. Mounting a rescue would be difficult. While those guarding the prisoners did not appear to be plentiful, there was a lot of ground to cover getting out of the estate, and most of those below looked barely fit to move, let alone run.

  Calis made a complete circuit of the building, committing every detail to memory. For a moment he studied two creatures who squatted next to a pair of prisoners. One creature rubbed the hair of a prisoner, who weakly attempted to pull away. The creature’s gesture was almost soothing. Then it struck Calis: the creature resembled the prisoner! He again scanned the area, and now he could see clearly that for each prisoner chained to a pallet, there was one creature who was beginning to resemble that man or woman! Calis continued around the building one last time to ensure he wasn’t mistaken. When he reached the point where he had jumped up, he sprang down, hurrying to a hiding place behind the hedge. There had been no sign of the two noblewomen from Crydee.

  Calis felt a small surge of doubt. Should he return to Marcus and inform him of the prisoners or continue his search?

  Caution overrode any sense of urgency; his nature was not given to impatience. He headed back toward the outer wall and the path back to Marcus.

  —

  NAKOR WATCHED WITH fascination. He had been observing the still figure in the chair for almost half a day, and despite there being absolutely no movement from the man, Nakor was nevertheless enthralled.

  Since entering the palace, Nakor had wandered completely unhindered through halls and galleries. There were no soldiers stationed inside, except for the entrance hall, and the few servants he spied had been easily avoided. Most of the rooms were unused—and uncleaned, given the layers of dust he encountered. He found it easy to slip into the palace kitchen and take what he needed, and he always had his apples, though he felt a twinge of nostalgia for his oranges. He had grown accustomed to them.

  He had slept in soft beds, and even taken a bath and put on a new robe, one that had been fashioned for someone not much larger than himself. He was now resplendent in a lavender robe cropped at the knee and elbow, with a dark purple sash trimmed in golden thread. He considered the possibility of renaming himself Nakor the Purple Rider, but decided the name somehow lacked panache. When he returned to the Kingdom, he would find himself a new blue robe, if he could manage the time.

  Early that morning he had spied the beautiful dark-haired Lady Clovis hurrying along, and he decided to follow her. She had moved deep into the palace, down into a lower chamber below ground level. There she had met with the Overlord and they had spoken briefly. Nakor had been too distant as he hid to either hear them or read their lips—a trick he often found useful—but when the Overlord had departed, Nakor had decided to follow the woman. Something about her was disturbingly familiar.

  She had entered a long tunnel, and he had been forced to hang back so he could follow unseen. He walked for nearly a half hour before he reached the far end of the tunnel, where he found a locked door. Picking the lock caused only a short delay, and he discovered stairs leading down. Without hesitation he hurried down them, after closing the door behind him, and entered a completely dark tunnel. Nakor paused. The darkness held no fear for him, but he was not gifted with unusual sight or hearing, and he was leery of using any of his light tricks, as they would be mistaken for magic and he had no wish to be eaten by Dahakon—if indeed that was his practice. Nakor was beginning to doubt it. But it was a good story and Nakor was enough of a pragmatist to consider the unfortunate consequences of discovering it wasn’t just a story. He reached into his bag and felt around for another seam he had created in it, one that went to a different place than the seam leading to the fruit bin in Ashunta. He stuck his arm in up to the shoulder and felt around on the table he had prepared before leaving to find Ghuda, almost two years before. He had moved a variety of useful items to a cave in the hills near Landreth, a short distance from Stardock, and had pushed rocks down to hide the cave from view, protecting his cache from chance discovery. Then he had carefully created the tear in what he called the stuff, at a proper height and distance from the table for him to reach anything on its surface by extending his arm through the bag.

  He found the object he sought and awkwardly pulled out a lamp. Closing the seam, he paused a moment. Shutting his eyes, he extended his senses along the lines of power he detected running above him. No sudden disturbance of the fabric of stuff announced some mystic alarm. Nakor shrugged and grinned in the darkness. The magician’s fabled arcane alarm must be another lie. So many lies had been uncovered in his searching the palace, and he was certain he would uncover more before this journey was through. He dug into his belt pouch and pulled out a flint and steel, and quickly had the lamp going.

  Now that he could see, he stood and examined his surroundings. The tunnel sloped downward slightly and vanished into gloom. Nakor followed it until it leveled out. He examined the walls and saw green mold growing and puddles of water beneath his feet. He closed his eyes, gauged how far he had come since leaving the palace, and decided he must now be standing beneath the river. Grinning to himself, he decided he knew where the tunnel was going. The destination pleased him, so he hurried along.

  After walking for nearly another half hour, he came to a ladder leading upward, iron rungs hammered into the side of the tunnel, vanishing into a well above. Being in no hurry, he blew out the lamp and climbed the rungs. When he reached the top he hit his head on a hard surface. Rubbing his bump, he cursed silently, then felt around in the dark. He discovered a latch, and pulled on it, and heard a metallic click as a release was sprung. He pushed upward and the trapdoor grudgingly moved. After the darkness, he was almost blinded by the light. He peered cautiously upward and saw that he was in a covered well near the foundation of the burned-out farm. Delighted at the discovery, he lowered the trapdoor as he returned below. He left it unlatched against the possible need of a quick exit.

  Once he was back in the tunnel, he relit the lamp and continued on. He found his way to another flight of steps and took them up to another locked door. This he carefully picked, and when he had it open, he peeked through. Seeing no signs of movement, he hurried through, locking the door behind him. He blew out the lamp, for torches burned in sconces on the wall. Putting the lamp carefully back into his bag, he wandered into the basement of what he was certain was Dahakon’s estate across the river from the palace. Things like secret tunnels and hidden passages app
ealed to Nakor, and he thought this day’s exploration delightful. Besides, he was fascinated by the beautiful woman who was not who she appeared to be.

  He prowled around for most of the morning, looking for her, but all he saw were silent servants wearing black tunics and trousers, and red cloths tied around their heads. At noon he smelled food and snuck into a kitchen in a building near the rear of the main house. He saw three men leave, two carrying a hot cauldron of food. Ducking into the kitchen, crouching low, he peered into the building and saw two cooks hard at work. He stole a loaf of hot bread near the door and ducked back outside. Turning a corner, he almost walked into a pair of the black-clad men, but fortunately for him, their backs were turned. He hurried the other way and hid behind a low hedge for a minute.

  Chewing the bread, he decided to investigate the main house before he prowled the grounds. As he started to get to his feet, he noticed something odd in the grass. Lowering himself even closer to the grass, he saw a footprint, barely recognizable as one because the blades had almost completely recovered from being stepped on. Nakor was captivated by the way whoever had walked here had carried himself in such a way that no dirt beneath the grass had been gouged and few of the blades were crushed or broken. He grinned, for no human could have done this. Calis had been here the night before.

  Nakor was pleased, for now he felt less concerned about the need to return and inform Nicholas of what he had found. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he had found, so he thought he had better go investigate and be certain before he returned to the hostel. And, as he counted such things, he was having a great deal of fun.

  Inside the house again, he discovered a series of rooms in the center of the building. In them he found signs of the sorts of practices that were ascribed to Dahakon. The remains of several unfortunates were displayed on the wall, hanging from hooks or impaled on stakes, or upon shelves. One poor man hung from a hook through his chest, without an inch of skin upon his body. A large man-sized table was covered in brown stains that could only be blood, and the room reeked of chemicals, incense, and decay. In another, Nakor found a library, which almost made his heart leap. So many books he hadn’t read! He moved to the closest shelf and examined titles. Some he knew by reputation, but most were alien to him. He could read most of the languages represented there, but a few were strange.