King of Foxes

by Raymond E. Feist

  He had now been in the Fortress of Despair for more _______________

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  than a year. He had come to accept that for an unknown time he would simply abide there.

  He had developed a routine to keep from losing his sanity, one based upon three tenets: that despair was the first killer; that his mission in life to avenge his people would fail if he died; and that his mind must remain alert so that any opportunity for escape, even the smallest, would not go unnoticed.

  To fill his hours he did mental exercises learned at Sorcerer’s Isle, to remember things—books he had read, chess matches played, conversations with other students and lectures by instructors. He could remember things as if he were reliving them, so for hours at a time he would be submerged in memory, experiencing again things he had already once lived.

  He avoided the trap of becoming lost in those memories, though, choosing not to remember the loving arms of women, the thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of winning at cards. Those memories were a snare, an avoidance of the suffering he endured at the Fortress, no aid in preparing him to end his captivity.

  And to further avoid the lure of pointless memories, he forced himself to endure an hour a day of bleak observation, either of the stonework of his walls and floors, or through the window of his cell.

  He ignored his own filth as best he could. He had convinced Will to bring him a little extra water when he was able, and Tal used that water to try to keep clean. It was a scant comfort, but it was comfort of a kind, and anything he could do to alleviate the unrelenting bleakness of his situation he did. Nakor had once said to him that joy in life often came from the small victories, the tiny triumphs, and while seizing pleasure out of a damp cloth and cold water seemed improbable, he took it.

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  As best he could, he sought to stay fit. The meager food and constant cold made it difficult. He knew he had lost a great deal of weight, but now that the weather was turning warmer, he felt renewed. He exercised within the confines of his cell, walking and running in place, pulling himself up by his one hand on the bars of his cell. He contrived ways to take the exercises he had learned from Nakor at Sorcerer’s Isle and adapt them to his surroundings. He was not whole, and he was hardly strong, but he was as fit as he could manage under the existing conditions.

  He maintained his regime and kept his mind agile. He tried to master patience, and he waited. Eventually, he knew—in a month, a year, or perhaps ten—something would happen. Something would change. And when that change came, he would be ready.

  __

  At the end of his second winter in the fortress, Tal had learned to use his damaged arm to the limit of its ability.

  He could do more than simply use it for balance when he exercised; he had contrived of ways to push, pull, and carry with it. He was sitting on his straw pallet one afternoon, when the door to his cell opened and Will walked in.

  Will was empty-handed, and Tal asked, “It’s not time for supper, and you’re not carrying anything. Is this a social visit?”

  “I came to tell you supper will be late.”

  “Why?”

  “Charles the cook is dead.”

  “What happened?” asked Tal, always anxious for anything that broke the monotony of his days. He scratched _______________

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  at his beard, which was now long enough to reach below his breastbone.

  “Don’t rightly know,” said Will, sitting down on the floor. “I carried out the porridge like usual this morning, then when I got back to the kitchen, I found old Charles lying facedown on the floor. I rolled him over and his eyes were wide-open, like he had been startled by something.

  His face was pale and his lips was blue. Very disturbing, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “So, who’s taking his place?”

  “I don’t know. But I assumed as long as it takes Zirga to figure out who’s cooking, it’ll be that much longer before supper is ready. Not to mention, even longer, if whoever’s going to cook has to help burn Charles.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As Will turned to leave, Tal said, “Will?”

  “Yes,” said Will over his shoulder.

  “If it comes up, remind Zirga that I know how to cook.”

  Will nodded. “If it comes up, yes,” he said, and left the cell.

  Tal sat back. He wondered if this might be the opportunity he had been waiting for. Trying to keep anticipation to a minimum, he returned to his meditations, but just in case, he started recalling his cooking lessons with Leo at Kendrick’s.

  Supper never came.

  __

  There weren’t many prisoners in the fortress, apparently, for the next morning when the early meal didn’t arrive, Tal heard only a small number of voices complaining. He waited.

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  Some time in the mid-morning, Tal heard the latch to his cell move, then the door opened. Will entered, followed by Anatoli, one of the two guards who had met him at the dock, and after them came Zirga.

  Tal stood up.

  “You cook?” asked Zirga.

  “Yes,” answered Tal.

  “Come along, then,” said Zirga.

  And so, Tal left his cell for the first time in more than a year. He walked down the long steps that led to the ground level of the keep, then followed Zirga and the others through the old main hall into the kitchen.

  The place was a disaster. Someone had tried to boil up porridge and burned it. Zirga turned to him and said,

  “We have a problem.”

  “Apparently,” said Tal. “You have no cook.”

  “Yes, and I have fourteen prisoners, three guards, and myself to feed.”

  “Cooking for eighteen people is no problem,” said Tal.

  “For you, perhaps, if what you say is true. But for Anatoli here, it is a problem.”

  The large guard looked up, embarrassed, but said nothing.

  “He claimed he remembered how his mother made porridge, and we can see the result. So, needless to say, I have no wish to see him make stew for the prisoners or cook supper for the guards. Can you do this?”

  “I can, but I’ll need help,” said Tal.

  “Why?”

  Tal held out his stump. “There are things in the kitchen I could manage with one hand if I were cooking for myself alone. Cooking for eighteen? I will need help.”

  Zirga thought about it a moment, then said, “I am _______________

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  breaking rules by allowing you out of your cell. Specials are never let out of their cells.”

  “But you need to eat,” said Tal. “And who else is to know?”

  “Yes, that is true. Very well. You may have these two to help.” He waved at Will and Anatoli. “What can you do?”

  Tal said, “Give me a moment,” and hurried over to the pantry. He took a quick inventory, and said, “I can make a stew. Is there any meat?”

  Zirga said, “In the summer house. Will will show you.”

  As the Governor turned to leave, Tal said, “But I’ll need to take a bath first.”

  Zirga turned. “A bath? Why?”

  Tal held up his left hand, shoving fingernails black with filth right under Zirga’s nose. “Do you want this in your stew?”

  Zirga paused and looked at Tal, really studying him for the first time. Then he looked at Will and Anatoli.

  “All of you, take a bath.”

  “We’ll need clean clothing,” said Tal.

  “There’s clothing in the armory. Anatoli will take you there.”

  Less than two hours later, a fully revived Tal stood over two large pots of bubbling broth. He and the others had had to endure a cold bath, as there was no time to heat the
water, but Tal didn’t mind. As a child he had bathed in the streams of the Orosini Mountains in the early spring, when the water consisted of ice melt. Will had seemed less thrilled about being clean than Tal, but after a bath and fresh clothing, he looked like a different man. Will did have a face under the grime and hair. It was narrow and constantly set in a grin, with eyes that seemed always to squint.

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  Anatoli looked like a large round egg with a head, arms, and legs. His muscle had all gone to fat, and Tal knew that he could easily best him in a sword fight, even using only his left hand. Tal suspected Kyle and Benson, the other two guards, were also limited in their fighting gifts. Big and powerful, perhaps, but not quick. And after five minutes of conversation with Anatoli, Tal was silently adding to himself, not very bright, either.

  Tal had done a quick inventory of the springhouse, a cellar dug under the ground behind the keep, where meat and cheese were kept cool. It was still almost freezing down there, as the soil below the surface held the winter’s cold well into the summer. Later in the summer, when stores were used up, they would slaughter an animal as needed; cattle were pastured in a small meadow on the east side of the island, along with sheep, and there were pigs penned up downwind from the keep.

  With Anatoli and Will to help him, Tal felt almost as if he had two hands again. He found the thief to be dex-terous, and they quickly adapted to each being one half of a pair of hands. Anatoli proved useful for simple tasks, such as washing vegetables and cleaning pots.

  Tal found a box of jars of spices in the pantry, old but still useful. He knew that none had been used to flavor his meals since he had come to the Fortress, so even faded spices would be a welcome change.

  He set water to boiling, then tossed in beef bones for stock, and added vegetables and chunks of diced beef. He also started boiling some turnips he had found that weren’t too far gone, and set out some cheese and fruit.

  He showed Will and Anatoli how he wanted things placed on Zirga’s table, where he ate with the three guards, and started organizing meals for the fourteen prisoners.

  The meal was hastily prepared, but still it was the best _______________

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  meal seen in the keep in years, Tal wagered. While Zirga and the three guards ate, Tal got Will started on taking stew to the prisoners. He made sure each plate had a good-sized hunk of meat in it, and a healthy helping of potatoes, onions, carrots, and turnips. It took the better part of an hour to distribute the plates to the other twelve prisoners. When they were finished, Tal had seen every occupied cell in the fortress.

  He now had a sense of the place’s true size, how to navigate it, and where he could find the items necessary for his escape.

  Zirga came into the kitchen while Tal and Will ate their supper at a small table. “That was good,” he said to Tal. “I think you should cook until they send me someone to replace Charles. Now, stop eating and return to your cell.”

  Anatoli approached Tal as if to escort him back, but Tal said, “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” said Zirga, looking at Tal suspiciously.

  “You can come back down here in the morning.”

  “But tonight I must bake bread. That takes most of the night.” He pointed to a place on the floor by the ovens. “I can sleep there while the bread is rising, then put it in the ovens so that it’s ready in the morning.”

  Zirga thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, it’s not as if there’s anywhere for you to go, is it?”

  Tal nodded, keeping a straight face.

  As Zirga started to leave, Tal said, “I’ll need Will to help me.”

  Zirga looked over his shoulder. “Fine. Keep him.”

  “And Anatoli first thing in the morning.”

  “All right, you can have him.”

  If the guard had any reaction to this, he kept it to himself. Zirga and Anatoli left, and Will said, “How did you do that?”

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  Tal shrugged, pointing to the pots they would have to clean before making the bread. “Zirga forgot what good food tastes like.”

  “I did, too,” said Will. “That stew was the best I’ve ever had.”

  Tal smiled. “I think you just don’t remember. If I can get Zirga to order in some fresh spices and other things, I can keep us in this kitchen for as long as we need.”

  “Need?” Will dropped his voice. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Many things, my friend. Many things.”

  They started washing, with Will scrubbing out pots that Tal held still for him. Then he set about showing Will how to help him make dough. The kneading was the most difficult part, but after a few false starts, they got a rhythm going and got it done.

  Tal started fires under the ovens, then let them burn down and banked the fires. He put away the iron poker and rolled out a ragged bedroll, big enough for the two men to share.

  “Now we sleep,” said Tal, “and let the bread rise. At dawn, we put it in the ovens and start the porridge.” After they were both lying down, Tal said, “Tell me about the other prisoners.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Who they are. What crimes have they committed.

  What skills they might have.”

  Will whispered. “You’re planning an escape!”

  Tal said, “More.”

  “What?”

  “I’m building an army.”

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  Weeks went by, and when another prisoner was delivered, Zirga sent the boat back to the ship with a list of provisions Tal had drawn up, along with a request for a new cook. Tal was convinced he might get the provisions, but hoped the request for a cook would be ignored. After all, Zirga had requested that a new guard be assigned when the one Will had told him of, Jasper, had died, and yet after four years, no replacement had arrived.

  Tal found the kitchen a haven. He quickly organized Will and Anatoli so that the preparation of meals became easy. He then started adding variety to the diet, startling Zirga one morning with a heap of pan bread and honey, with slabs of ham, rather than porridge. He interspersed cuts of beef, pork, or roasted chickens with the stews, which he also varied, including a fish stew after he had convinced Zirga and the guards to spend a day fishing off the docks.

  Subtly, he usurped command of the fortress, letting his natural leadership quietly assert itself, while Zirga unwittingly fell back into the role of sergeant, a man comfortable giving directions once tasks had been identified. Often the idea came in the form of a question, one couched in terms that made the answer obvious, and never let the former soldier suspect for a minute that he was following instructions. Zirga gladly took credit for every improvement in their daily lives, as if the ideas were his own, and Tal was happy to let him take the credit.

  Quietly, Tal got the two prisoners in the dungeon moved to better cells. One of them was a murderer, a powerful man who could pick up Anatoli and throw him across the courtyard if he took a mind. His name was Masterson. Tal had sneaked down to visit him and found him slightly deranged, a bully who was prone to violence.

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  But when Tal promised him a better cell and food, Masterson agreed to do as Tal told him.

  The other man was a political prisoner, the former Baron Visniya, who quickly agreed to whatever Tal’s terms might be, against the chance of freedom and revenge on Duke Kaspar.

  Tal held little hope that these men would prove reliable in the end, but for the moment, he wanted everyone who wasn’t working for Kaspar on his side when the time came to move. He had a plan, but he was keeping it to himself, not even sharing the details with Will.

  The former thief had become as faithful as a puppy.

 
Besides his undying thanks for the improvement in his lot, he was now convinced that Tal was capable of anything he truly wished. But all Tal ever did was smile and merely say,

  “Just keep your mind on today’s business, Will.”

  Weeks passed, and then another ship arrived, this time with provisions and a new cook. Zirga came to the docks, and when he saw that Tal was no longer needed in the kitchen, the Governor visibly wilted.

  Tal was in the kitchen when the new cook was shown in. The cook looked around and said, “This will do.”

  Tal glanced at Will, then started to leave. Zirga said,

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my cell, Governor.”

  “Wait a minute.” He turned to the cook. “What is your name?”

  “Royce.” He was a stocky man of middle years, and it looked as he had been drinking. His face was puffy, his jowls hung loosely, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes.

  “Why are you here?”

  The cook blinked like an owl caught in lanternlight.

  “What?”

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  “Why are you here? What did you do to get yourself discharged from your last position?”

  Royce hesitated, and said, “Well, I . . .”

  “Don’t lie to me!” shouted Zirga. “You got drunk on the job, didn’t you?”

  The man lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yes, sir. I worked at an inn called the Tumbled Maiden and fell asleep while cooking a lamb on a spit. The fat caught fire and . . . the inn burned to the ground.”

  “Ha!” said Zirga. “I thought so.” He pointed at Royce. “I asked for a guard four years ago! So, you are now a guard.” Then he pointed at Tal. “You are still the cook until they send me one who won’t burn the keep down.”

  Royce seemed about to protest, then thought better of it. He shrugged and looked at Zirga. “What do I do?”

  “For the time being, you help out here in the kitchen.

  Anatoli, you come with me.”

  Tal smiled and said to Royce, “You get to sleep over there.” He pointed to the room that had been used by Charles, the previous cook. “Put your belongings there.