The King’s Buccaneer - Raymond E. Feist

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know. Just say that sometimes I see things.

      ‘You need to come with me. We are going places few men of Kesh have ever gone. Now, get your sword and your pack and come with me. A caravan leaves for Durbin tomorrow. I have gotten you a job as a guard; they remember Ghuda Bulé. From Durbin we can find a ship to Krondor. We need to be there soon.’

      Ghuda said, ‘Why should I listen to you?’

      Nakor grinned and his voice was again the half-mocking, half-mirthful sound that was the Isalani’s hallmark. ‘Because you’re bored, true?’

      Ghuda listened to his youngest stepchild wailing at some outrage done by one of her six siblings and said, ‘Well, it’s not as if things around here were eventful …’ Hearing another shriek, he added, ‘Or really peaceful.’

      ‘Come. Tell the woman good-bye and let us go.’

      Ghuda stood with a mixed feeling of resignation and anticipation. Turning to the smaller man, he said, ‘Best go to the caravanserai and wait for me. I have to explain some things to my woman.’

      Nakor said, ‘You got married?’

      Ghuda said, ‘We never seemed to quite get around to it.’

      Nakor grinned. ‘Then give her some gold – if you have any left – and tell her you’ll be back, then leave. She’ll have another man in that chair and in her bed within the month.’

      Ghuda stood by the door a moment, regarding the light from the vanished sun as it faded from sight and said, ‘I will miss the sunsets, Nakor.’

      The Isalani continued to grin as he jumped down from the hitching rail, picked up his bag, and shouldered it. ‘There are sunsets above other oceans, Ghuda. Mighty sights and great wonders to behold.’ Without another word, he turned toward the road down to the city of Elarial and started walking.

      Ghuda Bulé entered the common room of the inn he had called home for nearly seven years and wondered if he would ever pass this way again.

       • CHAPTER ONE •

       Decision

      THE LOOKOUT POINTED.

      ‘Boat dead ahead!’

      Amos Trask, Admiral of the Prince’s fleet of the Kingdom Navy, shouted, ‘What?’

      The harbor pilot who stood beside the Admiral, guiding the Prince of Krondor’s flagship, the Royal Dragon, toward the palace docks, shouted to his assistant at the bow, ‘Wave them off!’

      The assistant pilot, a sour-looking young man, shouted back, ‘They fly the royal ensign!’

      Amos Trask unceremoniously pushed past the pilot. Still a barrel-chested, bull-necked man at past sixty years of age, he hurried toward the bow with the sure step of a man who’d spent most of his life at sea. After sailing Prince Arutha’s flagship in and out of Krondor for nearly twenty years, he could dock her blindfolded, but custom required the presence of the harbor pilot. Amos disliked turning over command of his ship to anyone, least of all an officious and not very personable member of the Royal Harbormaster’s staff. Amos suspected that the second requirement for a position in that office was an objectionable personality. The first seemed to be marriage to one of the Harbormaster’s numerous sisters or daughters.

      Amos reached the bow and looked ahead. His dark eyes narrowed as he observed the scene unfolding below. As the ship glided toward the quay, a small sailing boat, no more than fifteen feet in length, attempted to dart into the opening ahead of it. Clumsily tied to the top of the mast was a pennant, a small version of the Prince of Krondor’s naval ensign. Two young men frantically worked the sails and tiller, one attempting to hold as strong a line to the dock as possible while the other furled a jib. Both laughed at the impromptu race.

      ‘Nicholas!’ shouted Amos, as the boy lowering the jib waved at him. ‘You idiot! We’re cutting your wind! Turn about!’ The boy at the helm turned to look at Amos and threw him an impudent grin. ‘I should have known,’ said Amos to the assistant pilot. To the grinning boy, Amos shouted, ‘Harry! You lunatic!’ Glancing back, seeing the last of the sails reefed, Amos observed, ‘We’re coasting to the docks, we don’t have room to turn if we wanted to, and we certainly can’t stop.’

      All ships coming into Krondor dropped anchor in the middle of the harbor, waiting for longboats to tow them to the docks. Amos was the only man with rank enough to intimidate the harbor pilot into allowing him to drop sail at the proper moment and coast into the docks. He took pride in always reaching the proper place for the land lines to be thrown out and in having never crashed the docks or required a tow. He had coasted into this slip a hundred times in twenty years, but never before with a pair of insane boys playing games in front of the ship. Looking forward at the small boat, which was now slowing even more rapidly, Amos said, ‘Tell me, Lawrence, how does it feel to be the man on the bow when you drown the Prince of Krondor’s youngest son?’

      Color drained from the assistant pilot’s face as he turned toward the small boat. In a high-pitched voice he began shrieking at the boys to get out of the way.

      Turning his back on the scene below, Amos shook his head as he leaned back against the railing. He ran his hand over his nearly bald pate, the grey hair around it – once dark and curly – now tied back behind his head in a sailor’s knot. After a moment attempting to ignore what they were doing, Amos gave in. He turned around, leaning forward and to the right so he could see past the bowsprit. Below, Nicholas was leaning into the oar, one leg braced firmly against the base of the mast, the oar firmly planted against the bow of the ship. He looked terrified. Amos could hear Nicholas shout, ‘Harry! You’d better turn to port!’

      Amos nodded in silent agreement, for if Harry pulled hard to port, the small sailboat would swing wide of the lumbering ship, getting banged around, perhaps swamped, but at least the boys would be alive. If they drifted suddenly to starboard, the boat would quickly be ground between the ship’s hull and the approaching pilings of the dock.

      Lawrence, the assistant pilot, said, ‘The Prince is fending us off.’

      ‘Ha!’ Amos shook his head. ‘Letting us push them into the dock, you mean.’ Cupping his hands around his mouth, Amos shouted, ‘Harry! Hard aport!’

      The young squire only yelled a maniacal war whoop in answer as he struggled with the tiller, to keep the boat centered upon the ship’s bow.

      ‘Like balancing a ball on a sword point.’ Amos sighed. He could tell by the speed of the ship and its location that it was time to ready the lines. He turned his back on the boys once more.

      From below came the sounds of Harry whooping and yelling in exultation as the fast-moving ship pushed the small boat along. Lawrence said, ‘The Prince is holding the boat in front. He’s struggling, but he’s doing it.’

      Amos called, ‘Ready bowlines! Ready stern lines!’ Sailors near the bow and stern readied lines to throw to dockmen waiting below.

      ‘Admiral!’ said Lawrence in excited tones.

      Amos closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

      ‘Admiral! They’ve lost control! They’re veering to starboard!’

      Amos said, ‘I said I didn’t want to hear it.’ He turned toward the assistant pilot, who stood with a panic-stricken expression on his face as the sounds of the small boat being crushed between the ship and the dock grated on their ears. The cracking of wood and tearing of planks were accompanied by shouts from the men on the dock.

      The assistant pilot said, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

      An unfriendly smile split Amos’s silver and grey beard as he said, ‘I’ll testify to that at your trial. Now order the lines,

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