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King of Foxes
Raymond E. Feist
The whole of the magnificent Riftwar Cycle by bestselling author Raymond E. Feist, master of magic and adventure, now available in ebookTalon, last of the Orosini tribe, has been transformed by the Conclave of Shadows from a trusting young boy to a dashing nobleman. He is now Talwin Hawkins, Roldem’s premiere swordsman, and he has one desire – to avenge the massacre of his family.Two of the culprits are already dead by his hand, but Tal will not rest until he uncovers the reason for the murders and punishes their architect. But the Conclave demands its membership price: he must investigate Leso Varen, a magician of terrible power. To do this means service to the sorcerer’s master, Duke Kaspar of Olasko.He must swear loyalty to the very man he suspects of slaughtering his family, even if it means tracking down the Duke’s enemies – the members of the Conclave and Talon’s own friends.King of Foxes is the second book of Raymond E. Feist’s trilogy Conclave of Shadows. The third and final book in the trilogy is Exile’s Return.
RAYMOND E. FEIST
King of Foxes
Conclave of Shadows Book Two
For Jessica
With all the love it’s possible for a father to give.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ued573ce5-040f-5004-ae82-e9937a118d98)
Title Page (#u552a3e22-7429-5ef3-92e7-ec848adea4bc)
Maps of Midkemia (#u7f8ba6bd-7f7e-58ee-817d-92c8243e3999)
Part One: Agent (#uae4fd258-db1b-5c50-b272-2fd966036550)
Chapter One: Return (#u31382e32-beb4-5cca-b554-7f366387ba03)
Chapter Two: Reception (#ub2f5c0ed-87d6-5d9d-9373-c63c93f5e92f)
Chapter Three: Hunt (#u29c214d0-865e-5551-ad14-38d8233366e0)
Chapter Four: Choice (#uf02d4b19-5b37-585b-8746-0c4830e9aab8)
Chapter Five: Service (#u96b94e54-638b-544d-8730-f41c17430e02)
Chapter Six: Rillanon (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven: Oath (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight: Task (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine: Emissary (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten: Discovery (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven: Salador (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve: Betrayal (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two: Soldier (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen: Prison (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen: Cook (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Survival (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Mercenaries (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Deception (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen: Assault (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty: Resolution (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: Retribution (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By The Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Maps of Midkemia (#ulink_05486704-4a13-5c1b-8f0c-7c07b78126d1)
Part One Agent (#ulink_46089386-60f6-58aa-a0df-a146abc67c7a)
‘In the service of Caesar, everything is legitimate’
Pierre Corneille, La Mart de Pompée
• Chapter One • Return (#ulink_f28d3825-2fbb-5dcb-9ff5-707fa268e651)
A BIRD SOARED OVER THE city.
Its eyes sought out a figure in the throng on the docks, one man amidst the teeming surge of humanity occupying the harbour-side during the busiest part of the day. The Port of Roldem, harbour to the capital city of the island kingdom of the same name, was one of the most crowded in the Sea of Kingdoms. Trade goods and passengers from the Empire of Great Kesh, the Kingdom of the Isles, and half a dozen lesser nations nearby came and went daily.
The man under scrutiny wore the travel clothes of a noble, all sturdy weave and easily cleaned, with fastenings which allowed him to remain comfortable in all weathers. He sported a jacket designed to be worn off the left shoulder, leaving his sword arm unencumbered. Upon his head was a black beret adorned with a silver pin and a single grey feather, and upon his feet he wore sturdy boots. His luggage was being offloaded and would be conveyed to the address he had specified. He travelled without servant, which while unusual for a noble was not unheard of – for not all nobles were wealthy.
He paused for a brief second to drink in the sights. Around him people scurried: porters, sailors, stevedores, and teamsters. Wagons loaded so high their wheels appeared on the verge of buckling rolled slowly by him, cargo heading into the city or out to the ferry barges which would load them onto outbound ships. Roldem was a busy port by any standard; not only were goods delivered here, but also transhipped, for Roldem was the trading capital of the Sea of Kingdoms.
Everywhere the young man looked he saw commerce. Men bargaining over the cost of goods to be sold in distant markets, others negotiating the price of offloading a cargo, or insuring one against pirates or loss at sea. Still others were agents of trading concerns eagerly watching for any sign that might prove an advantage to their sponsors, men who sat in coffee houses as far away as Krondor or as close as the Traders Exchange, just one street away from where the young man now stood. They would dispatch young boys with notes who would run to those men who awaited news on arriving cargo, men trying to sense a shift in a distant market before buying or selling.
The young man resumed his walk, and avoided a gang of urchins dashing past with determined boyish purpose. He forced himself not to pat his purse, for he knew it was still where it was supposed to be, but there was always the possibility the boys were sent by a gang of pickpockets on the look-out for a fat purse to rob. The young man kept his eyes moving, seeking out any potential threat. He saw only bakers and street vendors, travellers and a pair of guardsmen. It was exactly who he would have expected to see in the crowd on Roldem’s docks.
Looking down from above, the soaring bird saw in the press of the crowd that another man moved along a parallel course and at the same pace as the young noble.
The bird circled and observed the second man, a tall traveller with dark hair who moved like a predator, easily keeping his eye upon the other man, but using passers-by as cover, dodging effortlessly through the crowd, never falling behind, but never getting close enough to be discovered.
The young noble was fair-skinned, but sun-browned, his blue eyes squinting against the day’s glare. It was late summer in Roldem and the dawn mists and fog had fled, burned off by mid-morning to a brilliant sunny sky, made tolerable by a light wind off the sea. Trudging up the hill from the harbour, the noble whistled a nameless tune as he sought out his old quarters, a three-bedroomed flat above a moneylender’s home. He knew he was being followed, for he was as adept a hunter as any man living.
Talon of the Silver Hawk, last of the Orosini, servant of the Conclave of Shadows, had returned to Roldem. Here he was Talwin Hawkins – distant cousin to Lord Seljan Hawkins, Baron of the Prince’s Court in Krondor. His title was Squire of Morgan River and Bellcastle, Baronet of Silverlake – estates producing almost no income – and he was vassal to the Baron of Ylith; a former Bannerette Knight Lieutenant under the command of the Duke of Yabon, Tal Hawkins was a young man of some rank and little wealth.
For almost two years he had been absent from the scene of his most significant public triumph, winning the tournament at the Masters’ Court, thus earning the title of World’s Greatest Swordsman. Cynical despite his youth, he tried to keep the illusion of superiority in perspective – he had been the best of the several hundred entrants who had come to Roldem for the contest, but that hardly convinced him he was the best in the world. He had no doubt there was some soldier on a distant battlement, or mercenary riding guard-duty somewhere who could cut him up for fish-bait given the chance; but fortunately they hadn’t entered the contest.
For a brief instant, Tal wondered if fate would allow him to return to Roldem in three years’ time to defend that championship. He was but twenty-three years of age, so it would only be circumstance that would prevent him from returning to Roldem. Should he do so, he hoped the contest would be less eventful than the last. Two men had died by his sword during the matches – a very rare and usually regrettable outcome. Nevertheless Tal had felt no regret, since one of the men had been among those responsible for the destruction of his nation, and the other had been an assassin sent to kill him. Memories of assassins turned his mind to the man following him. The other man had also boarded at Salador, yet had managed to avoid direct contact with him aboard the small ship for the duration of the voyage, despite their being nearly two weeks at sea.
The bird wheeled overhead, then pulled up, wings flapping as it hovered, legs extended downward and tail fanned, as if watching prey. With its telltale cry, the predator announced its presence.
Hearing the familiar screech, Tal looked up, then hesitated for a moment, for the bird above the throng was a silver hawk. It was his spirit guide and had given him his naming vision. For an instant Tal imagined he could see the creature’s eyes and hear a greeting. Then the bird wheeled and flew away.
‘Did you see that?’ asked a porter nearby. ‘Never seen a bird do that.’
Tal said, ‘Just a hawk.’
‘Never seen a hawk that colour, leastways not around here,’ answered the porter who took one look at where the bird had hovered then returned to lugging his bundle. Tal nodded, then moved back into the throng. The silver hawk was native to his homeland far to the north, across the vast Sea of Kingdoms, and as far as he knew, none inhabited the island kingdom of Roldem. He felt troubled, and now by more than the presence of the man who had followed him from Salador. He had been subsumed so long in the role of Tal Hawkins that he had forgotten his true identity. Perhaps the bird had been a warning.
With a mental shrug he considered that the bird’s appearance might have been nothing more than a coincidence. While still an Orosini at heart, in all ways he had been forced to abandon the practices and beliefs of his people. He still owned a core being – Talon of the Silver Hawk – a boy forged in the crucible of a nation’s history and culture; but he had been shaped and alloyed by fate and the teachings of outlanders so that at times the Orosini boy was no more than a distant memory.
He wended his way through the press of the city. Shops displayed colourful fashions as he entered a more prosperous part of the city. He lived at just the right level to convince everyone he was a noble of modest means. He was charming enough and successful enough as Champion of the Masters’ Court to warrant invitations to the very best Roldemish society had to offer, but had as yet to host his own gala.
Reaching the door to the moneylender’s home, he reflected wryly that he might crowd half a dozen close friends into his modest apartment, but he could hardly entertain those to whom he owed a social debt. He knocked lightly upon the door and then entered.
The office of Kostas Zenvanose consisted of little more than a tiny counter and there was barely enough room to stand before it. A clever hinge allowed the counter to be raised at night and put out of the way. Three feet behind the counter a curtain divided the room. Tal knew that behind the curtain lay the Zenvanose family living-room. Beyond that lay the kitchen, bedrooms, and exit to the back courtyard.
A pretty girl appeared and her face brightened with a smile. ‘Squire! It’s wonderful to see you again.’
Sveta Zenvanose had been a charming girl of seventeen when Tal had last seen her. The passing two years had done nothing but turn a pretty lass into a burgeoning beauty. She had lilywhite skin with a hint of rose on her high cheekbones and eyes the colour of cornflowers, all topped off with hair so black it shone with blue and violet highlights when struck by the sun. Her previously slender figure had also ripened, Tal noted as he quickly returned her smile.
‘My lady,’ he said with a slight bow. She began to flush, as she always had when confronted by the notorious Tal Hawkins. Tal kept the flirtation to a minimum, just enough to amuse the girl, but not enough to pose any serious issues between himself and the girl’s father. While the father posed no threat to him directly, he had money, and money could buy a lot of threats. The father appeared a moment later, and as always Tal wondered how he could have sired a girl as pretty as Sveta. Kostas was gaunt to the point of looking unhealthy, which Tal knew was misleading, for he was lively and moved quickly. He also had a keen eye and a canny knack for business.
He moved swiftly between his daughter and his tenant, and smiled. ‘Greetings, Squire. Your rooms have been readied, as you requested, and I believe everything is in order.’
‘Thank you.’ Tal smiled. ‘Has my man put in an appearance?’
‘I believe he has, otherwise you have an intruder above who has been banging around all day yesterday and this morning. I assume it’s Pasko moving the furniture to dust and clean, and not a thief.’
Tal nodded. ‘Am I current with our accounts?’
As if by magic, the moneylender produced an account ledger and consulted it, with one bony finger running down the page. With a nod and an ‘ah’ he said, ‘You are most certainly current. Your rent is paid for another three months.’
Tal had left the island nation almost two years previously, and had deposited a sum of gold with the moneylender to keep the apartment against his return. He had judged that if he didn’t return within two years, he’d be dead, and Kostas would be free to rent out the rooms to someone else.
‘Good,’ said Tal. ‘Then I will leave you to your business and retire. I expect to be here for a while, so at the end of the three months, remind me and I’ll advance more funds against the rent.’
‘Very well, Squire.’
Sveta batted her lashes. ‘Good to see you home, Squire.’
Tal returned the obvious flirtation with a slight bow and smile, and fought down a sudden urge to laugh. The rooms above were no more his home than was the palace of the King. He had no home, at least he hadn’t since the Duke of Olasko had sent mercenaries to destroy the land of the Orosini. As far as Tal could judge, he was the sole surviving member of his people.
Tal left the office. One quick glance around the street told him that the man who had followed him from the ship was out of sight, so he mounted the stairs next to the door, climbing quickly to the entrance to his rooms. He tested the door and found it unlocked. Stepping in he was confronted by a dour-looking man with a droopy moustache and large brown eyes.
‘Master! There you are!’ Pasko said. ‘Weren’t you in on the morning tide?’
‘Indeed,’ replied Tal, handing his jacket and travel bag to his manservant. ‘But as such things are wont to be, the order of landing was dictated by factors of which I am ignorant.’
‘In other words, the ship’s owner didn’t bribe the harbourmaster enough to get you in early.’
‘Most likely.’ Tal sat down on a divan. ‘So expect the luggage to arrive later today.’
Pasko nodded. ‘The rooms are safe, master.’ Even in private, Pasko observed the formalities of their relationship: he the servant, Tal the master, despite the fact that he had been one of Tal’s instructors over the years.
‘Good.’ Tal knew that meant Pasko had employed various wards against scrying magic, just as he would have inspected the premises against more mundane observation. The chances of their enemies knowing that Tal was an agent of the Conclave of Shadows were small, but not out of the question. And they had sufficient resources to match the Conclave in dealing with opponents.
Since his victory over Raven and his mercenaries, avenging his own people’s slaughter, Tal had lived on Sorcerer’s Isle, recovering from wounds – both mental and physical – learning more of the politics of the Eastern Kingdoms, and simply resting. His teaching had continued in various areas, for Pug and his wife, Miranda, had occasionally instructed him in areas of magic that might concern him. Nakor the Isalani, the self-proclaimed gambler who was far more than that, instructed him in what only could be termed ‘dodgy business’, how to cheat at cards and spot others cheating, how to pick locks and pockets, as well as other nefarious skills. With his old friend Caleb he would go hunting. It had been the best time he had known since the destruction of his people.
During that period he had been allowed to glimpse some of the dealings of the Conclave on a level far above his station; and had thus gained the sense that the Conclave had agents numbering in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, or at least had links to thousands of well-positioned individuals. He knew the organization’s influences reached down into the heart of the Empire of Great Kesh, and across the sea to the lands of Novindus, as well as through the rift to the Tsurani home world, Kelewan. He could tell that enormous wealth was at their disposal, for whatever they needed always appeared somehow. The false patent of nobility that Tal carried in his personal portfolio had cost a small fortune, he was sure, for there were ‘originals’ in the Royal Archives on Rillanon. Even his ‘distant cousin’ Lord Seljan Hawkins had been delighted to discover a long-lost relative who had been victorious in the Masters’ Court, according to Nakor. Tal didn’t feel emboldened enough to ever visit the capital of the Kingdom of the Isles, because while the elderly Baron might believe that some distant cousin had fathered a lad who had some versatility with the sword, the possibility of Tal failing to be convincing when it came to small-talk about this or that family member made such a visit too risky to contemplate.
Still, it was reassuring to know that these resources lay at his disposal should he need them. For he was ready to embark upon the most difficult and dangerous portion of his personal mission to avenge his people: he had to find a way to destroy Duke Kaspar of Olasko, the man ultimately responsible for the obliteration of the Orosini nation. And Duke Kaspar happened to be the most dangerous man in the world, according to many sources.
‘What news?’ asked Pasko.
‘Nothing new, really. Reports from the north say that Olasko is again causing trouble in the Borderlands, and may be once more seeking to isolate the Orodon. They still send patrols through my former homeland to discourage anyone who might think to claim Orosini lands.’ Then he asked, ‘What is the news in Roldem?’
‘The usual court intrigues, master, and quite a few rumours of this lady and that lord and their dalliances. In short, with little of note to comment upon, the nobles, gentry and wealthy commoners turn their attention to gossip.’
‘Let’s confine ourselves to matters of importance. Any sign of Olasko’s agents here in Roldem?’
‘Always. But nothing out of the ordinary, or at least nothing we can see that’s out of the ordinary. He builds alliances, seeks to do favours in exchange for social debts, loans gold, and insinuates himself in the good graces of others.’
Tal was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, ‘To what ends?’
‘Pardon?’
Tal leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees. ‘He’s the most powerful man in the Eastern Kingdoms. He has blood ties to the throne of Roldem – he’s, what? Sixth in line of succession?’
‘Seventh,’ replied Pasko.
‘So why does he need to curry favour with Roldemish nobility?’
‘Indeed.’
‘He doesn’t need to,’ said Tal, ‘which means he wants to. But why?’
