Rage of a Demon King

by Raymond E. Feist

  Gathering his thoughts, he realized he was halfway to his office. He had told Karli he would spend the night at the town house, claiming that the affairs at the palace would force him to work late into the night. The truth was he was going to send a message to Sylvia Esterbrook, asking to see her tonight. Since returning from rescuing Erik and the others, he had thought of little else. Images of her body haunted his dreams, and memories of her scent and the soft feel of her skin made him unable to think of more important things. The one night he had spent with her after his return only reinforced his hunger to be with her.

  He reached his office and rode through the gate, past workmen hurriedly attempting to finish the improvements to the property he had ordered when first back from his sea voyage. A second story was being added to the old warehouse, a loft, actually, where he could conduct business without being on the busy warehouse floor. His staff was growing and he needed more room. He had already made an offer for a piece of property adjoining his from the rear, and would have to completely tear down an old block of apartments rented to workmen and their families, and then build new facilities. He paid too much, he knew, but he was desperate for the space.

  He dismounted and motioned for one of the workers to take his horse. “Give him some hay; no grain,” he instructed as he made his way past wagons being loaded and unloaded. “Then saddle another horse and have it ready for me.” Workers repairing broken wheels and replacing shoes on draft animals set up a raucous hammering, and men shouted instructions to one another across the floor.

  Overseeing the chaos were two men, Luis de Savona, Roo’s companion from the early days of Calis’s “company of desperate men,” and Jason, a former waiter at Barret’s who had been the first there to befriend Roo, and who was also a genius with figures.

  Roo smiled. “Where’s Duncan?”

  Luis shrugged. “Abed with some whore, probably.”

  It was midday, and Roo shook his head. His cousin was reliable in certain ways, but in others he had no sense of loyalty. Still, there were only a handful of men in the world Roo would trust at his back in a knife fight, and Duncan was one of them.

  “What news?” asked Roo.

  Jason held out a large document. “Our attempt to establish a regular route to Great Kesh is ‘under consideration,’ according to this very wordy document that just arrived from the Keshian Trade Legate’s office. We are, however, welcome to bid on odd jobs as they come to our attention.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words,” said Luis.

  “Since we took over the operation of Jacoby and Sons, I halfway expected we’d keep their regular clients.”

  “We have,” said Jason, “except for the Keshian merchants.” He shook his head, his young features a mask of solemnity. “Once it became known you’d taken over on Helen Jacoby’s behalf, every Keshian trading concern began canceling contracts as fast as possible.”

  Roo frowned. Tapping his chin with his finger, he asked, “Who’s getting those contracts?”

  Luis said, “Esterbrook.” Roo turned and stared at his friend, who continued. “At least, either companies he holds a minor interest in, or ones owned by men he has major influence over. You know he was doing a lot of business with the Jacobys before you finished with them.”

  Roo glanced at Jason. “What did you find when you went over the Jacoby accounts?”

  Jason had thoroughly investigated all those accounts while Roo had sailed across the sea to rescue Erik. Roo had killed Randolph and Timothy Jacoby when they had tried to ruin him, and rather than put Randolph Jacoby’s wife, Helen, and their children out on the streets, he had agreed to run Jacoby and Sons on her behalf.

  Jason said, “Whatever business Jacoby and Esterbrook had, there was little record keeping involved. There were some minor contracts, but nothing out of the ordinary, just a few odd personal notes I can’t make sense of. But one thing doesn’t fit.”

  “What?” asked Roo.

  “The Jacobys were too rich. There was gold accounted to them in several countinghouses that . . . well, I don’t know where it came from. I have accounts going back ten years”—he waved at a pile of ledgers on the floor nearby—“and there’s just no source for it.”

  Roo nodded. “Smuggling.” He remembered his first confrontation with Tim Jacoby, over some smuggled silk Roo had managed to get his hands on. “How much gold?”

  Jason said, “More than thirty thousand sovereigns, and I haven’t found every account yet.”

  Roo considered silently for a minute. “Don’t say anything about this to anyone. If you have any reason to speak to Helen Jacoby, just tell her things are going better than we had thought. Keep it vague, just enough solid information to reassure her that she and her children are protected for life, no matter what happens to me. And ask her if she needs anything.”

  “Aren’t you going to see her?” asked Luis.

  “Soon.” He glanced around. “We need to build more resources, and fast, so start keeping your ears open for businesses we can buy into or take over outright. But keep it quiet; any mention of the name Avery and Son or the Bitter Sea Company and prices will rise faster than a spring flood.” The others acknowledged his instructions, and Roo said, “I’m going next to Barret’s, to see my partners, and if I’m needed, that’s where you’ll find me for the balance of the day.”

  Roo left his associates and mounted his fresh horse. As he considered what he had been told, he reached Barret’s Coffee House before he knew it.

  Roo dismounted, tossing the reins to one of the waiters. He pulled a silver coin from his vest and handed it to the boy. “Stable him behind my house, Richard.”

  The youngster led the mount away, smiling. Roo made it a point to remember the names of all the waitstaff at Barret’s and to tip lavishly. He had been employed there only three years before and knew how difficult the work could be. Besides, if he needed something from a waiter, a message carried across town or a special dish prepared for a business associate, he got quick service in exchange for his largesse.

  Roo moved past the first rail as another waiter quickly opened the gate for him, then made his way to the stairs up to the balcony overlooking the central part of the floor. His partners, Jerome Masterson and Stanley Hume, were waiting for him. He took his seat and said, “Gentlemen?”

  Jerome said, “Rupert. A pleasant morning to you.” Hume echoed the greeting, and they began to conduct the morning business of the Bitter Sea Company, the largest trading concern in the Kingdom of the Isles.

  2

  Warning

  Erik fumed.

  He had spent the day working on a plan to employ the Hadati hillmen he had taken from the Baron of Tyr-Sog, only to be told they had left the Prince’s castle, and no one seemed sure where they had gone or at whose orders. He had finally ended up outside the office of the Knight-Marshal of Krondor, who was ensconced within his private chamber in a meeting with Captain Calis.

  Finally a clerk indicated Erik could enter, and both William and Calis greeted him. “Sergeant Major,” said William, indicating an empty chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about the Hadati, m’lord,” said Erik, not taking the seat.

  “What about them?” asked Calis.

  “They’re gone.”

  “I know,” said Calis with a faint smile.

  Erik said, “What I mean is, I had plans—”

  Knight-Marshal William held up his hand. “Sergeant Major, whatever plans you had are certainly similar to our own. However, your particular talents aren’t needed in that area.”

  Erik’s eyes narrowed. “In what area?”

  “Teaching hillmen how to fight in the hills,” said Calis. He motioned for Erik to sit, and Erik did as he was instructed.

  William pointed to a map on the wall across the room. “We’ve got a thousand miles of hills and mountains running from just north of the Great Star Lake up to Yabon, Sergeant.

  We’re going to
need men who can live up there without supplies from Krondor.”

  Erik said, “I know, m’lord—”

  William interrupted him again. “Those men already meet our needs.”

  Erik was silent a moment, then said, “Very well, m’lord. But, for my curiosity’s sake, where are they?”

  “On their way to a camp north of Tannerus. To meet with Captain Subai.”

  “Captain Subai?” asked Erik. The man named was head of the Royal Krondorian Pathfinders, an elite scouting unit that traced its lineage back to the Kingdom’s first foray into the West. They had long since changed their mission of being trailbreakers and explorers; they now served as long-range military scouts and intelligence officers. “You’re turning them over to the Pathfinders?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Calis. He sounded tired, and Erik studied his leader’s features. There were dark smudges under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept much in recent days, and his face was a little more pinched than usual. Those signs might go unnoticed by someone who hadn’t spent every waking moment for months in Calis’s company, but to Erik they communicated much: Calis was worried and was working late into the night. Erik suppressed a rueful smile. He had started to think like the very nursemaid Calis had warned him not to become, and besides, he was just as guilty of overwork as his leader.

  Calis spoke. “We need couriers and exploring officers.”

  This was a term new to Erik. “Exploring officers?” he asked.

  “It’s a madman’s job,” offered Calis. “You pack your horse with a few rations and a canteen of water; then you ride like hell through the enemy’s pickets, move behind their lines, stay alive, meet with agents and spies, occasionally assassinate someone or burn down a stronghold, and otherwise wreak havoc wherever you can.”

  “You forgot the important part,” offered William. “Staying alive. Getting back with what you know is more important than all the rest.”

  “Information,” said Calis. “Without it, we’re blind.”

  Erik realized with a sudden clarity that what he had lived through on two journeys to Novindus—the hardships, the loss of good men—was all to return with vital information. As with many things that Erik had learned in the military, he thought he understood something only to discover later he possessed merely a surface apprehension of the way things were, as a deeper appreciation of the topic seemed to unfold in his mind. Tactics and strategy were like that. William kept telling him he had a knack, yet often Erik felt stupid, as if he were missing the obvious.

  Almost blushing, Erik said, “I understand.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Calis in a friendly tone.

  William said, “We’re delighted to put the Hadati to such use, though they will likely be used as scouts and couriers; few of them are competent enough horsemen to serve as explorers.”

  “I can train them,” said Erik, suddenly interested.

  “Perhaps. But we’ve got some Inonian mountain rangers coming in from the East. They are experienced riders.”

  Erik had seen the occasional Inonian in Darkmoor. Swarthy, tough little men from the Inonia region along the coast of the Kingdom Sea nearest the southeastern borders with Kesh, they were reputed to be as fierce in their ability to defend their mountain highlands as the Hadati or dwarves. Erik knew them firsthand only for the excellent wines they traded in exchange for Darkmoor’s best; their wines were distinctive, using different varieties of grapes from those found in Darkmoor, often spiced or treated with resins or honey, but treasured for that very difference. The Inonians also produced the finest olive oil known, and that was the primary source of their prosperity.

  “From what I understand,” offered Erik, “Inonian horsemen are able enough.”

  “In the mountains,” said William, standing up as if to throw off the weight of fatigue. “Hit-and-run tactics are the rule. They also don’t marshal many men at a time, doing most of their damage with a dozen or fewer raiders.” He waved to a bookshelf on the opposite side of his office. “We have at least one account of the Kingdom’s conquest of their region in there. They have some nasty tricks that may help us when the invaders get here.” He stretched. “They ride small, tough ponies, and getting them to accept our faster horses may take some doing; you may have to give them some instruction, too.”

  Calis grinned, and Erik knew without asking that the eastern hill fighters were unlikely to take being trained gracefully. “But for the moment,” the Captain said, “you’re to head back into the hills with another batch of soldiers.”

  “Again?” Erik barely suppressed a groan.

  “Again,” said Calis. “Greylock and Jadow have got sixty survivors of their boot camp they swear will take to your training like a baby to the teat. You and Alfred and another six of your men will take them out tomorrow morning.”

  William said, “Teach them everything you can, Sergeant Major.”

  “And keep your eye out for potential corporals,” Calis added. “We need more sergeants, too.”

  “Yes, sir.” Erik rose, saluted, and turned to leave.

  Calis said, “Erik?”

  “Yes?” asked Erik as he paused at the door.

  “Why don’t you go out tonight and have some fun? You look like hell. Consider that an order.”

  Erik shrugged, shook his head, and said, “You’re no daisy.”

  Calis smiled. “I know. I’m taking a long hot bath; then I’m turning in early tonight.”

  William said, “Go find a girl and a drink and relax.”

  Erik left the Knight-Marshal’s office and moved to his own quarters. He had been working in the marshalling yard all day, and if he was going anywhere he wanted to bathe and change.

  After his bath and in a fresh tunic, he felt hunger and considered heading to the mess. He weighed his choices and decided a meal in town might be just the thing.

  Erik decided to walk to the Broken Shield, the inn operated by Lord James for the men, giving them a place to drink and meet the whores hand-selected by the Duke to ensure no one said anything to a potential agent of the enemy.

  Evening was falling and the city was ablaze in torch and lantern light as Erik reached the inn. James had picked a location far enough from the palace to look a likely hangout for soldiers wishing to be away from the scrutiny of their officers, yet close enough that a message could reach anyone in minutes. Only Erik, the officers, and a few others realized that every person within the inn was an agent or employee of the Duke.

  Kitty waved as Erik entered the room and he found himself smiling at her. He had been the one who had told the girl of Bobby de Loungville’s death, and since then he had looked in on her from time to time. She had shown no reaction to the news, excusing herself for a few minutes, and when she had returned, only slightly red eyes had betrayed her feelings. Erik suspected the former thief had been in love with the man who had held the position of sergeant major before him. Bobby had been a difficult, even cruel, man at times, but he had, treated the young girl with nothing but respect since she had come to the inn.

  Erik had asked James if the girl did more than tend bar, but the Duke had simply replied he was pleased with the girl’s services since she had become one of his agents. Erik knew her primary job was to keep alert for any Mocker, a member of the Guild of Thieves of Krondor, attempting to enter the Broken Shield.

  “What’s new?” asked Erik as he reached the bar.

  “Not much,” said Kitty, retrieving a large jack from under the counter, then filling it at the ale tap. “Just those two in from somewhere.” With a motion of her chin she indicated two men sitting at a corner table.

  “Who are they?” asked Erik, then took a long pull on the ale. Say what you will, he thought, about being told to frequent only this one inn: at least the Duke kept it serving only the finest ale and food.

  Kitty shrugged. “Didn’t say. They sound like Easterners to me. Certainly not from around here.” She picked up a bar rag and began wiping imaginary spi
lls. “One of them is quiet, the dark fellow in the corner, but the other talks enough for both of them.”

  Erik shrugged. While the inn was known to locals as being the hangout of garrison soldiers off duty, a few strangers wandered in from time to time, and although the staff was always on the lookout for spies and informers, most of those strangers had legitimate business in the area. Those few who didn’t were either followed out by Duke James’ agents or conducted to a basement room for interrogation, depending on the Duke’s instructions.

  Erik glanced around and noticed that none of the girls who serviced the soldiers were in view. He glanced at Kitty and found he preferred talking to her for the moment. “The girls keeping out of sight?”

  “Meggan and Heather are working tonight,” said Kitty. “They ducked out when the strangers arrived.”

  Erik nodded. “The special girls?”

  “One’s on the way,” said Kitty. The special girls were agents of the Duke, and when a stranger stayed too long at the inn, one quickly appeared, ready to accompany the stranger and ferret out whatever information might prove useful.

  Erik found himself wondering who had taken up the role of “Spymaster,” as Erik was certain that had been one of Bobby de Loungville’s many masks. Certainly it wasn’t Captain Calis, and Erik knew it wasn’t himself.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Kitty.

  “Just wondering about our”—glancing at the two strangers, he changed what he was about to say—“landlord’s employees.”

  Kitty raised her eyebrows in question. “What do you mean?”

  Erik shrugged. “It’s probably none of my business, anyway. A man can get too curious.”