Prince of the Blood (22 page)

He almost cried out as he turned to see a face inches from his own. Then his night vision adjusted and he saw he was nose to nose with a statue, the sort imported from Queg, life-size and carved from marble or some other stone.

The boy put his hand upon the stone head and lowered
himself into the room. He glanced around and was satisfied the room was being used for storage. In a corner, under some bolts of cloth, he found a dull kitchen knife. A poor weapon was better than none, he thought, and he stuck the knife in his robe.

Moving as quietly as possible, the boy inspected the only door in the room. He tested it and found it unlocked. Opening it slowly, he peered through a tiny crack, into an empty, dark hall.

He moved cautiously into the hall and slowly walked to where the hall met with another, also dark. After listening, Suli was certain no one was using this wing of the Governor’s large home. He scurried along, checking in rooms randomly, and found that all were deserted. Many were empty, and a few had furnishings covered with canvas tarps.

Scratching his arm, the boy glanced around. Nothing suggested itself to him as likely plunder, so he determined to return to the attic, to see if he could get some rest.

Then, at the far end of the hall he was leaving, he noticed a faint line of light. At the same instant, the silence was broken by the distant sound of an angry voice.

Caution and curiosity fought. Curiosity won. The boy stole down the hall, to find a door through which muffled voices could be heard. Putting his ear to the wood, the boy heard a man shouting. “… Fools! If we had known ahead of time, we could have been prepared.”

A second, calmer voice answered. “It was chance. No one knew what that idiot Reese meant when he brought word from Lafe that a princely caravan with few guards was ripe for the taking.”

“Not ‘princely,’ ” said the first voice, anger barely contained. “ ‘Princes’ caravan.’ That’s what he meant.”

“And the prisoner who escaped tonight was the Prince?”

“Borric. Or the Goddess of Luck is having more sport
with us than I care to imagine. He was the only redheaded slave we took.”

The calmer voice said, “Lord Fire will be displeased that he lives. With Borric thought dead, our master’s mission is completed, but should a living Prince of the Isles make his way home …”

The angry voice said, “Then you must ensure that he does not, and for good measure, that his brother dies, as well.”

Suli attempted to peek through the crack of the door and saw nothing, then he looked through the keyhole. He could only see a man’s back and part of a man’s hand resting upon a desk. Then the man at the desk leaned forward, and Suli recognized the face of the Governor of Durbin. His was the angry voice. “No one outside this room can know the escaped slave is Prince Borric. He must not be allowed to identify himself to anyone. Circulate the rumor he killed a guard while escaping, and order that the slave be killed the instant he is caught.”

The man with the calm voice moved, blocking Suli’s view. The beggar stood back, fearing the door was about to be opened, but the voice said, “The slavers will not like a kill-on-sight order. They will want a public execution, preferably death by exposure in the cage, to warn others against attempting to escape.”

The Governor said, “I will placate the guild. But the fugitive must not be allowed to speak. Should any discover we had a hand in this—” He left the thought unfinished. “I want Lafe and Reese silenced, as well.”

Suli moved away from the door. Borric, he thought to himself. Then his new master was …Prince Borric, of the House of conDoin, son of the Prince of Krondor!

Never before had the boy known fear as he knew this minute. This was a game of dragons and tigers and he had stumbled into the middle of it. Tears ran down his face as he hurried to the attic, barely keeping his wits about him
enough to close the door silently when he passed through into the storage room.

Using the Quegan statue, he boosted himself back into the attic and carefully put the trap back. He then scampered to where the dozing Prince lay. Softly, he whispered in his ear, “Borric?”

The young man was instantly awake, and said, “What?”

With tears running down his face, Suli whispered, “Oh, my magnificent lord. Have mercy. They know who you are and they are searching for you in force. They seek to kill you before others discover your identity.”

Borric blinked and gripped the boy by the shoulders. “Who knows about me?”

“The Governor and another. I could not see who. This wing connects to where the Governor holds counsel with others. They speak of the slave with red hair who escaped this night, and they speak of the Prince of the Isles. You are both.”

Borric swore softly. “This changes nothing.”

“It changes everything, gentle master,” cried the boy. “They will not stop searching for you after a day, but will hunt you down for as long as they must. And they will kill me for what I know, too.”

Borric let go of the frightened boy and swallowed his own fear. “Then we’ll just have to be more clever than they are, won’t we?”

The question sounded hollow in his own ears, for if the truth were to be known, he had no idea what he would do next.

T
HE BOY SHOOK HIS HEAD
.

“Yes,” repeated Borric.

Suli again shook his head. He had been almost speechless since returning to the attic. In a hoarse whisper, he said, “If I go back they shall kill me, my Prince.”

Borric leaned forward and firmly took the boy’s shoulders. He attempted to fill his voice with as much menace as possible while whispering. “And if you don’t, I will kill you!” From the terror that shone from the boy’s eyes, he must have succeeded.

The debate was over the boy’s refusal to return to his listening post near the Governor’s chambers to discover more of what was said there. Borric had told him that the more information they possessed, the better their chances of survival. The theory seemed lost upon the terrified boy.

Discovering that the prisoner who escaped was a royal Prince from a neighboring kingdom was a shock, enough of a shock to push the boy to the brink of hysteria. Then by the time the boy had returned to the attic, it had sunk in that every power in the city of Durbin was being turned toward finding that Prince, with one thought in mind, to kill him! That had him teetering over the edge of hysteria. Then it hit him that whoever was found in the
company of said Prince would be disposed of at the same time, to ensure his silence, and the boy found himself hanging out over the brink of hysteria, his feet churning in air as he clung with all his might to what remained of his wits. He sat silently crying, only his fear of discovery keeping him from wailing like a scalded cat.

Borric at last saw the child was beyond reason. Shaking his head in disgust, he said, “Very well. You remain here and I’ll go. Which way was it?”

The prospect of this large warrior knocking over statues and banging into furniture in the dark and making enough noise to wake the city hit the boy like cold water. It was an even more fearful choice than risking capture one more time. Shivering, the boy swallowed his fear and said, “No, my good master, I’ll go.” He took a moment to collect himself, then said, “Stay quiet, and I will go listen to what is said.”

Once he had made the choice, the boy acted without hesitation, and moved back to the trapdoor. He levered it up and slipped through silently. Borric thought that despite everything, the boy showed a particular type of courage, doing what had to be done regardless of how frightened he was.

Time passed slowly for Borric and after what seemed an hour, he began to worry. What if the boy had been caught? What if instead of a round-faced little beggar coming through that trap, an armed warrior or assassin climbed into the attic?

Borric picked up the dull kitchen knife and held it tightly. It was scant comfort.

More minutes passed, and Borric was left alone with the sound of his own heartbeat. Someone wanted him dead. He had known that since the football match in Krondor. Someone named “Lord Fire.” A silly name, but one designed to hide the identity of the author of that order to kill the son of the Prince of Krondor. The
Governor of Durbin was part of the plot, as was a man in a black cloak. Probably a messenger from this Lord Fire. Borric’s head ached from stress, fatigue, hunger, and the aftereffects of his journey across the desert. But he forced himself to concentrate. For the Governor of even a pesthole city like Durbin to be involved in such a plot meant two things: the author of the plan to plunge the Empire into war with the Kingdom was placed highly enough to influence many people of rank, and the plot was far-flung, as there were few places within the Empire farther away from the capital city as Durbin.

The trap opened and Borric tensed, bringing his knife to the ready. “Master!” a familiar voice whispered. Suli had returned. Even in the dark, Borric could sense his excitement.

“What?”

The boy hunkered down close to Borric, so he could whisper the news. “Much consternation in the city from your escape. The auction is closed tomorrow! This is an unprecedented thing. All wagons and pack trains from the city are to be searched. Any man with red hair is to be arrested at once, gagged so he may not speak, and brought to the palace for identification.”

“They really want to ensure no one knows I’m here.”

Borric could almost sense the boy’s grin as he said, “Difficult, master. With so much alarm in the city, sooner or later someone will discover the cause. The Captains of the Coast have agreed to sweep the sea-lanes between the reefs and Queg, from here to Krondor, to find the runaway slave. And every building in the city is to be investigated, the search is under way even as we speak! I do not understand this thing.”

Borric shrugged. “I don’t know either. How they could get so many people to agree to this sort of business without telling them what they were after …” Borric moved
toward a tiny gap in the support beam of the roof, where he could peek into the courtyard. “It’s another five, six hours to dawn. We might as well get some rest.”

“Master!” hissed the boy. “How can you rest? We must flee!”

Borric said softly, “Fleeing is what they expect. They are looking for a man who is fleeing. Alone. A red-haired man.”

“Yes,” agreed the boy.

“So we wait here, steal a little food from the kitchen, and wait for the search to wind down. In a household as big as this, we should be able to pass unnoticed for a few days.”

Sitting back on his haunches, the boy let out a long sigh. It was clear Suli wasn’t pleased to hear this, but having nothing more intelligent to offer, he remained silent.

Borric awoke with a gulp of breath, his heart pounding in his chest. It was still dark. No, he corrected himself as he spied a bit of light entering through the crack at the roofline, it’s still dark in this attic.

He had been dreaming, of a time when he and his brother had been playing in the palace as children, using the so-called secret passages that were used by servants to move unseen between the different suites. The boys had split up and Borric had become lost. He had waited a long, lonely time before his Uncle Jimmy had come looking for him. Borric smiled as he remembered. Erland had been the more upset of the two.

Moving to peer through the tiny crack at the sliver of courtyard he could see, Borric had little doubt it was much the same now. “Erland must think me dead,” he muttered to himself.

Then he realized he was alone. The boy, Suli, was gone!

Borric patted around in the dark for the knife and found it where he left it. Feeling only slightly better for the presence of the indifferent weapon, he wondered what the boy could be up to. Perhaps he figured to bargain his own life in exchange for knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain red-haired slave?

Borric felt close to panic. If the boy had indeed tried to bargain for his own safety, both were as good as dead. Forcing himself to calmness, he again peered through the little crack. It was nearly sunrise, and already the Governor’s household was busy, with servants hurrying between the outbuildings, the kitchen, and the main house. Still, there was nothing to suggest other than the normal morning’s activities. No armed men were in sight, no shouting voices could be heard.

Borric sat back and thought. The boy might not be terribly educated, but he was not stupid. No doubt he knew his own life was forfeit if anyone learned of his involvement with the escaped slave. He most likely was hiding in another part of town, or perhaps even on a ship heading out of the city, working as a common seaman.

Always a hearty eater, Borric felt his stomach knot. He had never truly been hungry before in his life, and he didn’t care for the feeling. He had been too miserable while traveling to Durbin to dwell much on his hunger; it was merely one among many afflictions. But now with his sunburn turned to a deep reddish tan and his strength almost returned in full, he was very aware of his empty stomach. He wondered if he could slip out into the early-morning bustle, and decided against trying. Redheaded slaves over six feet tall were certainly not common in this city and he would probably be caught before he got within a hundred paces of the kitchen. As if fate conspired to torment him, a familiar odor came wafting in on the morning breeze. The kitchen cooked bacon and ham for the Governor’s household. Borric’s mouth began to
water, and he sat for a miserable minute, thinking of breakfast cakes and honey, boiled eggs, fruit with cream, hot slabs of ham, steaming fresh bread, pots of coffee.