Rise of a Merchant Prince. Raymond E. Feist

to be apart, yet close enough to answer questions when asked.

      Robert de Loungville said, ‘He’s been my friend for twenty years. He found me serving with Daniel Troville, Lord Highcastle, and dragged me away from the border wars to go to the strangest places a man can imagine. I’ve been with him longer than any man in his company, eaten cold rations with him, slept beside him, watched men die in his arms, even had him carry me for two days after the fall of Hamsa, but I can’t say I know the man.’

      Erik asked, ‘Is it true he’s part elf?’

      De Loungville rubbed his chin. ‘I can’t say I know the truth of that. He told me his father came from Crydee originally; a kitchen boy, he claims. He doesn’t talk about his past much. Mostly he plans for the future, and takes barracks rats like you two and turns them into soldiers. But it’s worthwhile. I wasn’t much more than a barracks rat myself when he found me. Worked up from that to my grand station today.’ He said the last with an even broader grin, as if he were nothing more than a common sergeant and that remark a joke, but both Erik and Roo had been told he carried high court rank in addition to his military rank. ‘So I never asked too many personal questions. He’s very much what you might call a “right now” sort of fellow.’ De Loungville’s voice lowered, as if Calis might somehow overhear from down on the dock, and his expression turned serious. ‘He does have those pointy ears. Still, I never heard of any such being – half-man, half-elf – yet he can do things no other man I know can do.’ He grinned again as he said, ‘But he’s saved all our hides more times than I can count, so who’s to care what his line is? Your station at birth means nothing. A man can’t change that. What’s important is how you live.’ He slapped both young men on the shoulder. ‘You were worthless dogmeat when I found you, fit only for starving crows, but look at you now!’

      Erik and Roo exchanged looks, then laughed. Both were wearing the same clothing they had worn when escaping the destruction of the city of Maharta, oft patched, stained beyond cleaning, reducing both men to the appearance of common street thugs.

      Roo said, ‘We’re two men in need of some fresh clothing. Save Erik’s boots, we look the part of ragpickers.’

      Erik glanced down and said, ‘And these need mending.’ The boots were all he had left from the Baron of Darkmoor’s legacy, a grudging admission to Erik of his paternity, along with not denying Erik the right to call himself ‘von Dark-moor.’ The boots were riding boots, but Erik had walked enough to wear the heels down to nearly nothing, and the leather was weather-beaten and cracked.

      Sho Pi, an Isalani from the Empire of Great Kesh, came up on deck from below, carrying his own travel bag. Behind him came Nakor, also an Isalani, and the man Sho Pi had decided was destined to be his ‘master.’ He appeared old, but moved with a spry step and quickness that both Erik and Roo knew well. He had instructed them in hand-to-hand combat, and Roo and Erik knew that the odd little man, as well as Sho Pi, was as dangerous unarmed as most men were with weapons. Roo was convinced he had never seen Nakor move as fast as possible, and wasn’t sure he would welcome such a demonstration. Roo was a gifted student of the open-handed school of fighting practiced in the Isalani provinces of Kesh, only surpassed by Sho Pi and Nakor in Calis’s company, but he knew either man could easily defeat him with a quick killing blow.

      ‘I am not going to have you trailing around behind me, boy!’ insisted the bandy-legged Nakor, yelling over his shoulder. ‘I haven’t been to a city in nearly twenty years that wasn’t being burned to the ground or overrun by soldiers or otherwise unpleasant in some fashion, and I intend to enjoy myself awhile. Then I’m going back to Sorcerer’s Isle.’

      Sho Pi, a head taller than Nakor, and in possession of a full head of dark hair, otherwise looked like a much younger version of the wiry little man. He said, ‘Whatever you say, Master.’

      ‘Don’t call me master,’ insisted Nakor, putting his own travel bag over his shoulder. Moving to the rail he said, ‘Erik, Roo! Where are you going?’

      ‘To get a drink, a whore, and new clothing, in that order,’ said Roo.

      ‘Then I’m going home to see my mother and friends,’ said Erik.

      ‘What about you?’ asked Roo.

      ‘I’m going with you,’ Nakor said, hoisting his bag, ‘until the “going home” part. Then I shall hire a boat to take me to Sorcerer’s Isle.’ He looked straight down the gangway, ignoring the younger countryman, a step behind.

      Erik glanced at Sho Pi and said, ‘We’ve got to go below and get our kits. Then we’ll join you on the dock.’

      Roo was a step ahead of his friend as they hurried below, bade farewell to the sailors who had become friends, and found Jadow Shati, another of their company of ‘desperate men,’ just finishing gathering up his few possessions.

      ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Roo as he quickly grabbed his small kit.

      ‘A drink, I’m thinking.’

      ‘Join us,’ said Erik.

      ‘I think I will, as soon as I tell Mr Robert de Loungville, the little swine, that I’m taking up his offer of becoming his corporal.’

      Erik blinked. ‘Corporal? He offered me the position.’

      Before the two men could begin arguing, Roo said, ‘From what he said, he’s going to need more than one.’

      The two large men exchanged glances, then both laughed. Jadow’s face settled into a grin, teeth dramatically white against his ebony skin, an expression so happy that it always made Roo smile in response. Like the other desperate men, Jadow had been a killer and lifelong criminal, but in the brotherhood of Calis’s company he had found men for whom he was willing to die and who would die for him.

      Roo hated to admit it, as one who flattered himself for being completely selfish, but he loved the survivors of that company almost as much as he loved Erik. Rough men all, dangerous by any standards, they had passed through a bloody trial together, and each knew he could depend on the others.

      Roo thought about those lost on the journey: Biggo, the large, laughing thug with a strange streak of piety running through him; Jerome Handy, a giant of a man with a violent temper who could tell a tale like an actor and make shadow play on the wall that came alive; Billy Goodwin, an otherwise gentle youth with a violent temper, who had been cut down in a pointless accident before ever understanding anything of life; and Luis de Savona, the Rodezian cutthroat whose wit was as sharp as his dagger, who knew both court intrigue and dark-alley brawls; a man of temper and strange loyalties. Roo tied his bundle and turned to see both Erik and Jadow watching him.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘You were lost there a moment,’ said Erik.

      ‘I was thinking about Biggo and the others …’

      Erik nodded. ‘I understand.’

      ‘Maybe some of them will show up when Trenchard’s Revenge gets here,’ ventured Jadow.

      Roo said, ‘That would be fine.’ Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he added, ‘But Billy and Biggo won’t.’

      Erik nodded. He and Roo had watched Biggo die in Maharta, and Erik had seen Billy fall from his horse, cracking his head on a rock.

      The three men were silent as they climbed back on deck and hurried down the gangway to find Robert de Loungville chatting with Nakor and Sho Pi.

      ‘Hey now, you vile runt of a man!’ said Jadow without ceremony to the man who for nearly three years had controlled his life.

      De Loungville turned. ‘Who are you talking to like that, you Valeman scum!’

      ‘You, Bobby de Loungville, Sergeant sir!’ snapped back Jadow, but Erik could easily see the mocking humor in both men’s expressions. Battle had made him very aware of his companions’ every mood, and he knew they were having fun with each other. ‘And who are you calling “scum"? We men of the Vale are the best fighting