Prince of the Blood (29 page)

Borric glanced upward, where Suli ran along a spar, negotiating the sheets and hawsers like a monkey. Suli had taken to the sea like one born to it. In the month they had been at sea, his child’s body had put on a little bulk and
muscle, made strong by constant exercise and the plain but filling food, hinting at the man he would be someday.

The Prince had kept his identity to himself, which probably wouldn’t have mattered. After his lunatic behavior with the knife, he was called by crew and Captain alike “the Madman.” Claiming to be a Prince of the Isles was unlikely to change their minds, he was sure. Suli was just “the Boy.” Nobody had pressed them for why they had been drifting at sea in a boat near to sinking, as if to know such things was to invite trouble.

From behind, the Captain said, “A Farafran pilot will take us into harbor. Bloody nuisance, but that’s the way the Port Governor likes it, so we must heave to and wait.” The Captain called out to reef sails and made ready to drop anchor. A pair of green-and-white pennants were run up, a request for a pilot. “Here’s where you leave us, Madman. The pilot will be here within the hour, but I’m putting you over the side and will have you rowed to a beach outside the city.”

Borric said nothing. The Captain studied the Prince’s face and said, “You’re a fit lad, but you were no kind of real sailor when you came aboard.” His eyes narrowed as he added, “You know a ship like a sailing master knows one, not like crew; you knew nothing of the most common sailor’s duty.” As he spoke, the Captain kept glancing about, ensuring everyone was performing his tasks as he should. “It’s like you’ve spent your days upon the quarterdeck and never a minute below or aloft, a boy captain.” Then his voice lowered, “Or the son of a rich man who owns ships.” Borric moved the wheel slightly as the ship’s speed dropped off, and the Captain continued, “Your hands showed calluses, but those of a horseman, a soldier, not a sailor.” He glanced about to see if anyone was shirking his duty. “Well, I’m not asking to know your story, Madman. But I do know that the pinnace you had was from Durbin. You’d not be the first pair to want out of
Durbin in a hurry. No, the more I think on it, the less I wish to know. I can’t say you’ve been a good sailor, Madman, but you’ve given your best, and been a fair deckhand with no complaining, and no man can ask for more.” He glanced aloft, saw the sails were all in, and called out for the anchor to be dropped. Lashing the wheel while Borric held it steady, the Captain said, “Normally, I’d have you bursting your liver hauling cargo until sundown with the rest of the men, not counting your work for passage finished until then, but there’s something about you that tells me trouble’s following in your wake, so I’ll have you off and unnoticed.” He looked Borric up and down. “Well, get below and get your things. I know you robbed my men blind with your card tricks. It’s a good thing I haven’t paid them yet, or you’d have all their earnings, as well as the rest.”

Borric saluted and said, “Thank you, Captain.”

He turned toward the companionway and slid down the ladder to the main deck, yelling up to Suli, “Boy! Come below and get your things!”

The Durbin beggar boy swung down the ratlines and met Borric at the entrance to the forecastle. They went inside and gathered together their few belongings. Besides the sheath knife and belt, Borric had won a small stake of coins, a pair of sailor’s tunics, a second pair of trousers, and a couple of like pieces of clothing for Suli.

By the time they emerged from below, the crew was loitering idly, waiting upon the arrival of the Farafran pilot. Several bid the two good-bye as they crossed to the rope ladder that hung off the lee side of the ship. Below, a small captain’s boat waited, with two sailors to row them to shore.

“Madman. Boy!” said the Captain as they turned to descend the ladder. Both hesitated. He held out a tiny pouch. “It’s a quarter wages. I’ll not turn a man penniless
into a Keshian city. It would be kinder to have left you to drown.”

Suli took the pouch and said, “The Captain is kind and generous.”

As the boat was rowed toward the breakers, Borric took the pouch of coins and hefted it. He put it inside his tunic, next to the pouch he had taken off of Salaya. Letting out his breath, he considered his next action. To get to the city of Kesh, obviously, but how? Deciding not to dwell on that until land was underfoot, he asked Suli, “What did the Captain mean he’d not turn a man penniless into a Keshian city?”

It was one of the two rowing sailors who answered, before the boy could speak. “To be penniless in Kesh is to be a corpse, Madman.” He shook his head slightly at Borric’s ignorance. “Life is cheap in Kesh. You could be the bloody King of Queg and if you didn’t have a coin upon you, they’d let you die in the street, step over you as they go about their business, and curse your soul to the Seven Lower Hells for your corpse being in the way.”

Suli said, “It’s true. Those of Kesh are animals.”

Borric laughed. “You’re of Kesh.”

The boy spit over the side. “We of Durbin are not truly of Kesh, no more than the desert men. We have been conquered by them; we pay their taxes, but we are not Keshians.” He pointed toward the city. “Those are not Keshians. We are never allowed to forget this. In the city of Kesh the true Keshians are found. You shall see!”

“Boy’s right, Madman,” said the talkative sailor. “True Keshians are a strange lot. Don’t see many along the Dragon Sea or anywhere else ’cept near the Overn Deep. Shave their heads and walk around naked they do, and don’t care if you make free with their women. It’s a fact!” The other sailor grunted, as if this was but another story yet to be proven to his satisfaction. The first said, “They ride in their chariots, and they think they’re better ’en us.
They’d kill you as soon as look at you.” Both sailors pulled hard as they neared the breaker line, and Borric felt the boat rising on the back of a comber. The first sailor returned to his narrative. “And if one of ’em does kill ya, why the courts’ll just turn ’im loose. Even if’n he’s just as common as you are, Madman. It’s being trueblood.”

The second sailor said, “That’s fact enough. Watch yourself with the truebloods. They think different than the rest of us. Honor’s different. If you challenge one, he might fight you, might not, won’t care a fig about honor. But if he figures he’s a grievance agin’ you, why he tracks you, like you’d hunt an animal.”

The first sailor added, “And he’ll follow you to the edge of the world if he has to; that’s a fact, too. Hunting’s the thing, with ’em.”

The breaker caught the boat and propelled it into the beach. Borric and Suli jumped out into waist-high water and helped the two rowers turn the boat around, then when the tide began to surge back out toward sea, they gave the boat a shove, so that the rowers would have some momentum to carry them over the breakers. Wading out of the water, the Prince turned to the beggar boy and said, “Not the sort of welcome to Kesh I had anticipated, but at least we’re alive”—he jiggled the pouch under his tunic—“have some means to eat, and are free of pursuit.” He glanced back to where the ship waited for the Keshian pilot. He knew that sooner or later one of the seamen would mention the man and boy picked up outside of Durbin, and those who might be in this part of the Empire seeking news of him would connect that fact with his escape. Then the hunt would be on again. Taking a deep breath, Borric said, “At least no pursuit for the moment.” Slapping the boy playfully upon the back, he said, “Come along and let’s see what this Keshian city has to offer by way of a good, hot meal!” To that prospect, Suli agreed vigorously.

Where Durbin had been crowded, dirty, and miserable, Farafra was exotic. And crowded, dirty, and miserable. By the time they were halfway to the center of the city, Borric understood exactly what the Captain had meant by his remark. For within twenty yards of the sea gate, next to the docks where they entered the city, a dead body lay rotting in the sun. Flies crawled over it and from the mangled appearance of the torso dogs had feasted sometime before dawn. People passing the corpse ignored it, the only noticeable reaction being an occasional averting of the eyes.

Borric looked around and said, “Doesn’t the city watch or someone do something?”

Suli was peering in every direction, constantly on the lookout for any opportunity to make a coin or two. Absently he said, “If some merchant nearby decides the stink is bad for business, he’ll pay some boys to drag it to the harbor and toss it in. Otherwise, it will lie there until it’s no longer there.” Suli seemed to take for granted that eventually some magic agency would dispose of the corpse.

A few feet away, a man in a robe squatted over the gutter, ignoring those who passed by. As Borric watched, the man stood, and moved into the flow of traffic, leaving behind fresh proof he hadn’t been squatting to say devotions to some god, but rather to answer the call of nature. “Gods above,” said Borric. “Aren’t there public jakes in this city?”

Suli looked at him with a curious expression. “Public? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Who would build them and clean them? Why would anyone bother?”

Borric said, “Never mind. Some things are just hard to get used to.”

As they entered the flow of traffic from the docks into the city, Borric was astounded by the impossible variety of people. All manner of speech could be heard, and all
fashions of dress could be observed. It was unlike anything he had seen before or expected to behold. Women passed by dressed in desert garb, covered from head to foot in plain blue or brown robes, nothing shown but their eyes, while a few feet away, hunters from the grassy plains stood inspecting goods, their dark, oiled bodies naked save for a simple thong breechclout, but their vanity showed in the copper bracelets, necklaces, and earrings they wore and in their choice of weapons. Clan tattoos marked faces here, and odd temple robes marked beliefs there. Women with skin as dark as morning’s coffee passed wearing brightly colored cloth wrapped round from underarm to knee, with high conical hats of the same cloth. Babies with serious eyes seemed to guard the rear from slings hung over their mothers’ backs. Children of every possible description raced through the street, chasing a dog who dodged through the forest of human legs before him. Borric laughed. “That dog runs as if his life depended upon it.”

Suli shrugged. “It does. Those street boys are hungry.”

Borric could hardly take it all in. There was just too much that was too new to comprehend. Everywhere he looked, hundreds of people moved by, going one way or another, some strolling, others hurrying, but all oblivious to the throng surrounding them. And more than the press of bodies and the constant babble of voices, there was the smell. Unwashed bodies, expensive perfumes, human excrement, cooking, exotic spices, animal odors, all filled his nose with the reek of this alien land. The street was packed, with little room to move without coming in contact with strangers. Borric was aware of the weight of his two purses in his tunic, as safe a place for them as he could manage. Any pickpocket was going to have to stick his arm down the front of Borric’s shirt, which seemed unlikely. Borric felt his senses assaulted, and he needed a respite.

They came to an open-front alehouse and the Prince motioned the boy to turn in. In the relative dark, they saw a pair of men speaking softly at a corner table, but otherwise the room was empty. Borric ordered a bitter ale for himself and a light ale for the boy, paying from the meager purse the Captain had given him, preferring to keep his more ample purse hidden in his shirtfront. The brew was average in quality, but welcome for the long interval since Borric had tasted such.

“Clear the way!” A woman’s shriek was followed by the clatter of hooves and more shouts, punctuated by the crack of a whip. Borric and Suli both turned to see what the fuss was. Before the open front of the alehouse, a strange scene was unfolding. A pair of splendid bay horses pulling an ornate chariot were rearing and whinnying as they were halted by their driver.

The cause of the sudden stop was a large man, who stood foursquare in the center of the street. Behind the driver, the charioteer shouted, “Fool! Idiot! Get out of the way!”

The man in the street walked toward the two horses and grabbed the bridle of each. He clucked with the side of his tongue and pushed, and the horses moved back-ward. The driver cracked his whip behind the ear of one of the horses, shouting loudly. But the horses obeyed the constant pressure from the front, rather than the noise from the back. The chariot was being backed up despite the driver’s curses and protestation, while the charioteer behind him looked on in stunned disbelief. The driver drew back to crack a whip again and the man pushing the horses said, “Crack that thing once more, and it will be the last stupid act of your life!”

“Fascinating,” Borric remarked. “I wonder why our large friend is doing that?”

The “large friend” was a mercenary soldier by his look, wearing leather armor over his green tunic and trousers.
Upon his head rested an old metal helm, much dented and in desperate need of a wire brush and polish, and across his back was a leather sheath, containing what appeared to be a hand-and-a-half, or bastard-sword. Upon his sides, two long dirk handles showed weapons at his belt.

The man behind the chariot driver looked upon the man blocking his way in outrage. He was undressed, save for a white kilt and an odd weapons harness, crossed leather straps over his shoulders, forming an X across his chest. Spears were within easy reach, tied to the side of the chariot, looking like a boat’s mast as they pointed straight up. A bow was also slung to the side of the vehicle. With his face turning crimson, the charioteer shouted, “Make way, you idiot!”

Suli whispered to Borric, “The man in the chariot is of true Keshian blood. He is also a member of the Order of Imperial Charioteers. He is therefore upon the business of the Empire. The man who has halted them is a very brave man or a fool.”

The man who held the horses merely shook his head and spit. He forced the horses to retreat until the chariot began to turn to the right, backing into a pot dealer’s small shop. The pot merchant shouted in alarm and jumped to get out of harm’s way, but the man with the large sword ceased pushing the horses just short of wreaking havoc on the man’s livelihood. The mercenary released the bridle and bent down to pick something up, then sauntered aside. “You can go now,” he said.