Shadow of a Dark Queen. Raymond E. Feist

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 if he was going to be hung he might as well vent his temper on whoever was nearby, irrespective of rank.

      The man smiled, amused by Roo’s sharp manner. ‘You may call me Lord James.’