Raymond Feist - Rise of a Merchant Prince

‘What of him?’

‘Send him with the levy.’

Manfred shook his head and smiled slightly. ‘You have an account with him?’

‘Of sorts,’ said Erik.

Manfred shrugged. ‘There’s not much to recommend the man. He’s a brawler. He’ll never make sergeant because of it.’

‘You have a need for brawlers,’ said Erik. ‘Once they’re broken of brawling, they’re the kind of men we need.’

‘You can have him.’ Turning back into the tent, Manfred vanished.

Roo and Erik returned to their horses and mounted. Erik looked down at Alfred and said, ‘Fare you well, Corporal.’

‘We’ll meet again, bastard,’ said Alfred with a baleful stare.

‘Oh, count on it.’ Erik returned the dark look.

Roo added, with an evil smile, ‘Sooner than you think.’

With heels to their mounts, Roo and Erik left the soldiers behind and returned to Ravensburg.

‘And I’m telling you that if you put any more on that wagon, you’re going to break an axle!’ shouted Tom Avery.

Roo stood nose to nose with his father, who was only slightly taller than his son, and after a moment said, ‘You’re right.’

Tom blinked, then nodded once, curtly, saying, ‘Of course I’m right.’

The two wagons sat in the yard behind Gaston’s shop, loaded with small barrels of wine. Duncan inspected each tie-down carefully, for the third or fourth time, and looked dubious about the prospect of so many barrels of wine remaining secure.

Roo had spent the day conducting business, spending every coin he had as well as what Erik had given him in purchasing a modest-quality wine that, he hoped, would realize him a significant profit once it reached Krondor.

While not an expert on wine, Roo was a child of Ravens-burg and knew more about it than most merchants in Krondor. He knew that the high cost of wine in the Prince’s city was due to the cost of shipping it bottled. Only the most common bulk wine came otherwise, shipped in large barrels. But the smaller barrels of modest-quality wine, used in the taprooms in the area, were never shipped much farther away than a neighboring village, because the wine commanded little profit in an area where high-quality wine was taken for granted. While still not as fine as the great wines served to the nobility, this wine would stand out in Krondor’s common inns. Roo had shrewdly purchased wines he knew to be a cut or two above the quality of what he had drunk in the Prince’s city. Roo calculated that if he could get the inns and taverns frequented by the businessmen of the Merchants’ Quarter to buy his wine, he could realize as much as a threefold profit on this venture, including the cost of wagons and horses.

Duncan said, ‘You sure you know how to drive this thing?’

Tom wheeled to face his nephew and said, ‘Roo’s a first-rate teamster, as you’d have been had you not run off after that girl –’

Duncan smiled in remembrance. ‘Alice,’ he supplied. ‘That didn’t last long. Besides’ – he put his hand upon the pommel of his sword – ‘this is how I earned my living for the last fifteen years.’

‘Well, we’ll need it,’ said Tom, rubbing his chin. It was the spot Roo had hit him when the old man had come awake and started to bully his son. Three times he had tried to lay hands on the boy and three times had found himself in the dust, looking up at his son. The last time Roo had punctuated his lack of patience for this conflict with a stiff right jab to the old man’s face. After that, Tom Avery looked on his son with a newfound respect. Turning to Roo, he said, ‘You sure you know your way along this road you told me of?’

Roo nodded. It was a backcountry road, little more than a trail in places, where he and Erik had encountered Helmut Grindle, a trader from Krondor. Roo had learned there was a way from Ravensburg to Krondor that was passable without having to pay toll on the King’s Highway. Erik had papers from the Prince, which had saved them any charges on the way to Ravensburg, but Erik and his company of levies from Darkmoor had left that morning for Krondor, and they would be in the Prince’s city a week before the slow-moving wagons would arrive.

Roo knew that the wagons were loaded to capacity, and that any trouble would leave half his cargo stuck in the backwoods between Darkmoor and the coast. But if his plan worked, he’d have enough capital for something more audacious, and he was sure he could make enough on this one journey to get his career fairly launched.

‘Well,’ said Roo, ‘no reason to linger. The sooner started, the sooner finished.’ He said nothing of Manfred’s warning about his mother’s vengeance. He didn’t trust Duncan enough to count on his staying close by should he learn that a noble might be sending agents after Roo. His father, he knew, could be trusted to drive his wagon: say what you might about Tom Avery, he was steadfast in his work when sober. But in a fight he would be useless, no matter what bluster and boasting he indulged himself in when drunk. ‘Ride with me,’ Roo said to Duncan. ‘I’ll reacquaint you with driving a team.’

Duncan rolled his eyes heavenward but climbed aboard. He had sold his horse for a small price, which earned him a share in Roo’s venture, and now was a minority owner of one wagon, four horses, and a great deal of wine. Roo’s father had insisted only on his usual fees, not a coin more or less, which silently pleased Roo. He enjoyed his father’s treating him as he would any other trader.

Gaston waved farewell as they rolled through the gate out of his yard and turned down the cobbles of Ravensburg. The wagons creaked and groaned under the weight and the horses snorted at being asked to work, but they were under way, and Roo felt a keen sense of anticipation.

‘Try not to get yourself killed,’ called out Gaston as the gate shut.

Roo ducked behind the wagon as another arrow sped through the space he had just occupied; the first had struck inches from his head. He yelled a warning to his father and Duncan as he scrambled under the wagon, drawing his sword and trying to ascertain from where the arrow had come. A third shaft emerged from the evening gloom and he marked where he judged it had originated. He signaled to Duncan that he was going to back between the wagons and move in a circle around the ambushers. Duncan signaled he understood and motioned around the campsite, indicating he should be wary of other attackers.

They had been on the road for almost a week, having left the King’s Highway just west of Ravensburg and making their way across open country to the small westward trail road Roo and Erik had used when fleeing the area two years earlier.

The travel had been uneventful and the wagons were proving sturdy and the horses sound, which had contributed to Roo’s increasing optimism as the days passed. If his father had judged him daft for picking a large, unwieldy cargo, he kept his opinion to himself. He was an old teamster and had driven stranger cargo than dozens of small wine casks before.

They camped each night at sundown, letting the horses graze along a picket, supplementing the grass with a small amount of grain, mixed with honey and nuts, which kept them fit and energetic. Each day Roo used what knowledge of horses he possessed to check their soundness, and more than once he had silently wished for Erik’s presence, as he would find anything that Roo might miss. But Roo had been astonished to discover that his father knew as much as Erik, at least on the subject of draft animals, and each day the old man inspected right alongside his son, and each day he judged the animals fit to continue the journey.

Now Roo crab-crawled on elbows and knees, turning as he moved between the wagons, and when he had the wagons between himself and the source of the arrow fire, he stood and ran into the woods. Only two years of combat and intense training saved his life, for another bandit had moved opposite the first and tried to impale Roo on his sword point. The only thing he accomplished was to die silently; Roo hardly broke stride as he ran him through, dodging sideways into the dark woods in case there was another bandit close by.