Roo tried to look uninterested and said, ‘You know another way into Krondor?’
At this the barkeep’s expression changed to one of surprise. ‘No, just that they close the gate in an hour and you won’t be able to get in tonight.’
‘They close the gate?’
‘With the King in the city, of course,’ answered the barman, now interested. ‘You have a problem?’
Erik was about to say nothing at all was the matter, but Roo quickly said, ‘We have to find a ship and be on it at first light tomorrow.’
‘Plan on taking another, then,’ said the barkeep. ‘For many of those waiting to get into the city will simply sleep before the gate, so even were you to leave now and take a place outside, you’ll be hours getting through tomorrow. It will be like that every day until the King and his family leave next week.’
Narrowing his gaze, Roo said, ‘I don’t suppose you know of another way into the inner city? Say, perhaps, one used by locals and not widely talked about?’
The barman glanced around the room as if fearing being overheard – highly unlikely, given that the other four men in the room were lost in their own conversation – and said, ‘I might. But it would cost you.’
‘How much?’
‘How much do you have?’
Before Erik could plead poverty, Roo said, ‘My friend and I can pay ten gold pieces.’
The barman looked surprised at the amount, but only said, ‘Let’s see your gold.’
As Roo made to undo his backpack, Erik placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Ten gold pieces is all we have in the world. It’s taken us months to scrounge it together. We were going to purchase passage with it.’
‘You’re young and strong. You can work your passage. There are ships leaving for Queg, the Free Cities, Kesh, every port you might wish to reach. They are always looking for deckhands.’
The barman nodded, and the sound of chairs being pushed away from the table caused Erik to turn. The two men who had just entered were already closing, billy clubs held high. Roo tried to duck under a blow and for his trouble caught the strike on his shoulder instead of his head. His knees went loose from the pain and he fell.
Erik tried to draw his sword, but the nearest man was upon him. Letting go of the hilt, Erik unloaded a backhand blow that sent the man flying into the one coming behind him.
The man who was clubbing Roo turned and shouted, ‘Get him!’
Erik was starting to draw his sword when a blow to the back of the head stunned him. He felt his legs go out from under him and his vision swam.
Two men grabbed him and hoisted him up, and before he could resist he was tied like a fatted calf. The barman came around, holding the lead-filled club he had struck Erik with from behind, and said, ‘The little one is probably worthless, but the big fellow will bring a good price as a galley slave, or maybe even as a fighter in the arena. Get them to the Quegan buyer before midnight. The envoy’s escort galleys leave tomorrow on the evening tide, after the festivities at the palace.’
Erik tried to say something, and for his troubles caught another blow to the head. He slumped down, unconscious.
Erik’s eyes opened. He sat up. His head throbbed and his vision went in and out of focus, as his stomach knotted. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, discovered that made his nausea worse, and opened them again. He found his hands were restrained by heavy iron bracelets and his legs by even heavier shackles. He looked around, expecting to be in the bottom of a ship bound for Queg. Instead he found himself in a cell.
A groan from close by caused him to turn around. Erik found Roo likewise shackled and trying to sit up. Erik gave him a hand and the smaller youngster tried to clear his head.
‘Sort of a bad day for you two, wasn’t it?’ said a voice from behind them.
Erik turned to find a man leaning back against a window ledge, bars behind him, his body silhouetted against daylight, the small aperture being the sole source of light. He moved away from the window, coming to squat down before Erik. Erik could make out his features in the dimly lit room. He was a broad-shouldered, bull-necked man of middle years, with dark receding hair, cut close, and deep blue eyes. There was something odd about his manner and expression, but Erik couldn’t put his finger upon it. He needed a shave and was dressed in plain tunic and trousers. High boots, well cared for but old and worn, and a wide belt were his only other garments.
‘Where are we? …’ He closed his eyes as his head swam a minute. ‘We were struck from behind.’
‘Some of the locals trying to sell you to Quegan slavers,’ said the man. His voice was slightly raspy and his manner of speech common. Erik wasn’t sure, but there was something about his accent that reminded him of Nathan’s, so he assumed the man was from the Far Coast.
The man smiled, but there was a hint of meanness behind the smile. ‘You were on your way to a less than pleasant ocean voyage. With the emissary from Queg in the city, along with several of his King’s galleys, the Duke of Krondor thought there might be something like this going on.’
‘You’re not with them?’
Ha! I’d as soon kiss a goblin as leave a Quegan slaver alive.’ He glanced at Roo, who was regaining his wits. The man continued, ‘The Duke’s men intercepted the slavers on their way to the docks. He was both surprised and pleased to discover that you two were among those heading out of the city. There’s been quite a search on for you, my friends.’
‘Then you know who we are?’ said Erik with resignation. ‘Who are you?’
‘You’ve heard of the man they call the Eagle of Krondor?’
Erik nodded. Who that man was and why he was called that wasn’t widely known, but that he existed was common knowledge. ‘Is that you?’
‘Ha!’ The man gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Hardly. But I work for him. You might call me the Dog of Krondor. I bite, so don’t irritate me.’ He made a growling noise and snarled in a fair imitation of a dog. ‘My name is Robert de Loungville. My friends call me Bobby. You call me sir.’
Roo said, ‘What have you to do with us?’
‘I just wanted to see if you had any serious wounds.’
‘Why?’ asked Roo. ‘Can’t hang an injured man?’
Bobby smiled at this. ‘Not my concern. The Prince needs desperate men, and by all reports you two are about as desperate as they get. But from what I see, that’s all you are. Well, pitiful, too. The Prince may have to look elsewhere for his desperate men.’
‘We’re just going to be hung?’ asked Erik.
‘Hardly,’ said the man. He got up from his squatting position, groaning theatrically as he did so. ‘Knees aren’t what they used to be.’ He moved to the cell door and motioned for the jailer to open it. ‘The new Prince of Krondor, like his father, is a very particular man when it comes to observing the law. We will have a trial; then we will hang you.’ He passed through the door and it closed behind him.
A short time later the door opened again and an old man entered. He was dressed in richly fashioned clothing, but of plain cut, as if designed for one who was active despite his rank and years. The man’s hair was silver, he wore a closely trimmed beard, and his eyes were dark and penetrating. He studied the two prisoners carefully.
Kneeling before Erik, he said, ‘Tell me your name.’
‘Erik von Darkmoor … sir.’
Then he turned to Roo. ‘You are Rupert Avery?’
Roo said, ‘Yes. And who are you?’ His manner showed he took exception to being treated so roughly, and