Raymond E. Feist - The King’s Buccaneer

Book Two of Krondor’s Sons

Harper Voyager An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1992

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 1992

Cover Illustration © Nik Keevil

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780586203224

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007385393

Version: 2017-07-28

For Ethan and Barbara

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

Prologue: Meeting

Chapter One: Decision

Chapter Two: Voyage

Chapter Three: Crydee

Chapter Four: Squire

Chapter Five: Instruction

Chapter Six: Raid

Chapter Seven: Choices

Chapter Eight: Accident

Chapter Nine: Freeport

Chapter Ten: Discoveries

Chapter Eleven: Pursuit

Chapter Twelve: Disaster

Chapter Thirteen: Ascent

Chapter Fourteen: Bandits

Chapter Fifteen: Discovery

Chapter Sixteen: River

Chapter Seventeen: City

Chapter Eighteen: Secrets

Chapter Nineteen: Explorations

Chapter Twenty: Plans

Chapter Twenty-One: Escape

Chapter Twenty-Two: Ambush

Chapter Twenty-Three: Sea Chase

Chapter Twenty-Four: Battle

Chapter Twenty-Five: Wedding

Keep Reading

Continue the Adventure …

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

G HUDA 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.