"Raymond E. Feist - Conclave of Shadows 3 - Exile's Return" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

of time kicking him after he had been knocked unconscious, displaying their
displeasure at the manner in which he had received their request for him to surrender.
He judged it a good thing he hadn't killed any of them, for that would have
probably earned him a cut throat. He realized his chance of escaping that encounter
had been slim. He struggled upright, no mean feat with his hands bound behind him
with leather cords. But he also knew that a trained fighting man might stand a better
chance of survival amongst people like these compared to a common field-hand or
house-servant.
Looking around, he discovered he was secured behind a tent. His bindings were
tight around his wrists, and those in turn were tied by a tough rope to a tent stake. He
could move around a few feet, but there wasn't enough slack in the rope to enable him
to stand. A quick inspection of the stake revealed he could probably pull it out, but if
he did, he would bring down the tent, clearly informing his hosts of his attempted
departure.
He was dressed as he had been when taken. He did a quick physical inventory
and judged that nothing was broken or sprained too badly.
He sat quietly and considered things. His instincts about these people seemed
correct so far. From what little he could see beyond the tent, this was a small camp,
perhaps just the six riders and their families, maybe a few more. But he could see a
picket line for horses, and by rough estimation there were at least two or three mounts
for every person here.
On the other side of the tent he heard voices, speaking softly. He strained to
listen to the alien language. He sat back. A word here or there was tantalizing to him.
Kaspar had a quick grasp of languages. As heir to his father's throne, it had been
judged necessary for him to learn the educated speech of the surrounding nations, so
he spoke fluent, unaccented King's TongueтАФthe language of the Kingdom of the
IslesтАФas well as those languages related to his native Olaskon, all descended from
Roldemish. He also spoke flawless court Keshian and had taken the time to learn a
little Quegan, a variant on Keshian that had evolved on its own after the Quegan
Kingdom had successfully revolted from the Empire of Great Kesh nearly two
centuries earlier.
In his travels he had picked up patois and cants from half a dozen regions of
those foreign nations, and something about what he was now hearing sounded very
familiar. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander as he eavesdropped on the
conversation.
Then he heard a word: ak-kdwa. Acqua! The accent was thick, the emphasis
different, but it was Quegan for 'water'! They were talking about stopping somewhere
for water. He listened and let the words flow over him without trying to understand,
just allowing his ear to become used to the rhythms and tones, the patterns and
sounds.
For an hour he sat there, listening. At first he could recognize one word in a
hundred. Then perhaps one word in fifty. He was recognizing one word in a dozen
when he heard footsteps approaching. He slumped down and feigned uncon-
sciousness.
Kaspar heard two sets of footfalls draw near. In a low voice one man spoke.
Kaspar heard the words 'good' and 'strong' from one man. There followed a quick
conversation. From what Kaspar could judge, one man was arguing to kill him where
he lay because he might be more trouble than he was worth, but the other argued he
had value because he was strong and good at something, probably with a sword, since
it was the only skill Kaspar had demonstrated before being overwhelmed.