Prince of the Blood (41 page)

Nakor had secured passage for them on a barge heading downriver to the city of Kesh. They would be four among about a hundred passengers.

As Borric expected, there were guards everywhere. They attempted to look unobtrusive, but there were too many, spending too much time peering into every passing face, for them not to be there for a purpose.

Turning a corner, Borric and Suli walked a few yards ahead of Nakor and Ghuda, toward a tavern only a few yards from the dockside. The boat would be leaving in two hours’ time. They would act the part of travelers forced to idle their time away in the company of strangers.

They passed an open door and Suli faltered a step. Hissing to Borric, he said, “Master, I recognize that voice.”

Borric shoved the boy into the next doorway and motioned to Ghuda and Nakor to continue past as they approached. “What do you mean?” Borric asked.

Suli pointed back to the next door. “I heard only a few words, but I know the voice.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Let me return and perhaps I can remember.” The boy turned back and walked past the door, halting a moment on the other side, then turned the corner and looked down it as if expecting to see something. He then made a display of waiting a moment, turned, and
shrugged to Borric, then walked back. As soon as he was past the door, he hurried to Borric and whispered, “That was one I heard in the Governor of Durbin’s house that night I overheard the plot to kill you!”

Borric hesitated. If they passed by again and glanced in the doorway, they would call unwanted attention to themselves, but he wanted to know who this bloodhound on his trail was. “Wait here,” Borric said, “and see who comes out. Then make for the inn and tell us.”

Borric left the boy and hurried to where his companions waited, already drinking ale. He paused at their table for a moment, saying, “Someone who may know me is in town,” then turned and sat at the table next to them.

A short time later, Suli came and sat next to Borric. “It was the man in the black cloak. He wears it still, master. It was his voice,” whispered the boy.

“Did you get a look at him?”

The boy said, “Enough that I might know him again.”

“Good,” whispered Borric, knowing Ghuda and Nakor were listening. “If you see him again, let us know.”

“Master, there is something else.”

“What?”

“I saw enough of him to know he is of the trueblood.”

Borric nodded. “That is not surprising.”

“But that is not all. He gathered the front of his cloak before him, and as it shifted, I saw around his neck the glint of gold.”

Borric said, “What does that mean?”

It was Ghuda who answered, hissing angrily over his shoulder. “It means, you mush-brained maniac, that that trueblood is not just a trueblood, but he’s also a member of the Royal House of Kesh! They’re the only ones allowed to wear the golden torque. He’s maybe only a very distant cousin to the Empress, but she still sends him a gift on his birthday! Just what the hell kind of mess have you gotten us into?”

Borric fell silent as a large, sullen servingwoman approached. In a raspy voice he ordered two mugs of ale and, when she left, he half turned to Ghuda. “It’s a very deep and twisted mess, my friend. As I said, it is politics.”

When the servingwoman brought ale to them and left, Ghuda said, “My dear dead mother wanted me to go into an honorable trade, like grave robbing. Would I listen? No. Be an assassin, like your uncle Gustav, she said. Would I pay heed? No. Apprentice to the Necromancer—”

Borric tried to appreciate the gallows humor, but found himself chewing over the implication. Who was trying to kill him and Erland? And why? It was obvious that this plot came down from the very highest levels in the Empire, but from the royal family? He sighed and drank his bitter ale, and tried to relax his mind as he waited for the signal that the boat was ready to leave.

The call to board rang across the dockside, and Borric and his companions, as well as a half dozen others in the inn, rose, gathering together bundles and packages, and crowded through the door. Outside, Borric saw a company of Imperial Guards waiting at the boarding ramp, watching everyone who climbed onto the boat. These were the Guards of the Inner Legion, the command given dominion over the heart of Kesh. Each man wore a metal helm and breastplate enameled in black. Short black kilts and black greaves and bracers gave them an intimidating appearance. The officer in charge of the company wore a helm topped with a red horsehair crest, with another long red tail falling down his back. Borric said, “Quietly now, and act like you have nothing to hide.” He gave Suli a slight push, indicating the boy should move on alone, then waved Ghuda and Nakor ahead. Borric hung back, watching.

The guards consulted a parchment from time to time, probably a detailed description of the three of them. They let Suli aboard without a second look. Ghuda was halted
and asked a question. Whatever answer he gave seemed to satisfy them, for they waved him aboard.

Then Borric’s heart seemed to go cold as he saw Nakor turn and speak to a guard, pointing at him across the crowd. The guard said something and nodded, then spoke to a second guard. Borric felt his mouth go dry as three guards left the ramp and started walking purposefully toward him. Deciding he might need room to break free, Borric moved toward the ramp as if nothing unusual was occurring.

As he attempted to move out of the guards’ way, one put a restraining hand upon his arm. “Hold a moment, Bendrifi.” It was not a request.

Borric did his best to look irritated and disdainful. He then glanced to where the officer stood on the ramp, observing the exchange. “What?” he said, sounding as surly as he could manage.

“We heard about the fight you almost started on the road from Khattars. Maybe the caravan guards couldn’t keep you in line, but you’ll have six legionaries on the boat with you. Any more trouble of that sort and we’ll pitch you into the river.”

Borric stared the man in the eye, made a slight snarling sound as he curved his lip, then said one of the phrases Suli had taught him. He yanked his arm out of the legionary’s grip, but when three hands went to the hilts of their swords, he held up his own, palm outward, showing he intended no trouble.

Turning his back on them, he attempted to maintain the pose of being a touchy, rude hillman, and hoped his knees weren’t looking as wobbly as they felt. He boarded the boat among the last to climb the ramp, and found himself a seat on the opposite side of the wide craft from where his three companions sat. The six guardsmen were the last to board and they stationed themselves at the stern, in a group, talking among themselves. Silently,
Borric vowed that when they reached the city of Kesh he would happily throttle the little Isalani.

A day and a half later, stopping three times along the way, they saw the skyline of the city of Kesh in view. Borric had recovered from the shock the Isalani had handed him and had fallen into sullen brooding, a pose which took almost no effort on his part. The situation looked hopeless and yet he must somehow force himself to continue. His father had taught him and Erland when they were still young that the only thing they could guarantee in life was failure; to achieve success you had to take risks. He had not truly understood what his father had been talking about—Erland and he were both Princes of the Blood Royal, and there was really nothing they couldn’t do, but that was because of what they were.

Now Borric understood much of what his father had tried to explain before, and now the stakes were his own life, his brother’s, and perhaps the life of the Kingdom, as well. He had seen so many things since his capture that he could never have imagined before. Even when serving at Highcastle, fighting goblins and weapons runners in the north, the hardship was temporary. Yes, he and Erland had been at risk but barely, for never had they been without at least a full company of Baron Highcastle’s soldiers at their backs. Dirt was something you washed off when you got back to barracks, and most of the blood was from wounds easily staunched. The few deaths were the unfortunate result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, mourned by companions, but still, what one expected from being a soldier.

Now he had seen filth, starvation—he had been truly hungry, not knowing where his next meal would come from—misery, and murderous indifference to the plight
of one’s fellow human. When his uncle Jimmy had told Erland and him about life in the Poor Quarter when he had been a boy thief, Borric somehow imagined it as a romantic adventure; the stories of daring and danger were devoid of the grime and wretchedness that were the daily existence of those who lived in that part of Krondor.

Now he knew the truth: People’s lives were filled every day with danger and unhappiness, and he above most any other but a few knew safety and joy. His family was burdened with great responsibility, but in exchange for that they received seemingly endless bounty.

Sitting in disguise, with an entire empire seeking to slay him on sight, traveling with men he would never have met in a dozen lifetimes as Prince of the Blood, he could barely remember what it felt like to be a child of privilege. That life was someone else’s, and Borric knew that should he survive this nightmare of intrigue and danger, he would never be the man he once was.

He glanced back at Suli, who stood quietly holding the rail of the barge, and thought of this beggar boy and how he had faced more terrors in the last month than he could have imagined. Yet despite being frightened to near immobility he had acted bravely and risked everything. And for what? For the “honor” of being a great man’s servant? How modest an ambition, thought Borric. He vowed should he survive, the boy would return to Krondor with him, and he would see he was educated and raised up, so that when he was a man, he could be the personal valet to the King of Isles, if that was what he desired.

Then his gaze drifted to Ghuda, and he smiled. Forcing himself to scowl, as if an unpleasant thought had intruded, Borric considered this mercenary. He appeared a simple man at first blush, but Borric thought he knew him well enough to understand he was more than that. He had a personal code of honor that was as fierce as any
Tsurani living up in LaMut. He could have tried to bargain for his own life with Borric’s many times, or he simply could have walked away, seeking to put as many miles and days between himself and the fugitive as he could. And for what? The promise of great reward? More than that, Borric knew. For whatever else Ghuda might claim, he knew that Borric was no murderer, and that was as much a reason for staying the course as any amount of gold.

Then Borric caught sight of Nakor and the wizened little man’s eyes seemed to glimmer a moment as they locked gazes. Then Nakor looked away and Borric was left with a question: Who was this odd little man? There was far more to Nakor than what he claimed. He was not just a gambler and confidence trickster. Borric had known enough magicians as a boy to sense power in the man, but even so, Nakor had come to the habit of claiming that he really wasn’t a magician—he just used that claim that all of his homeland were wizards to divert attention from his more egregious confidences—but that all magic was simply “tricks.” Borric had no reason to believe as he did: that Nakor was now with him for a reason, and that the reason might prove critical in the end. But either way, he found the odd man’s company reassuring in a fashion; maybe for no more reason than it seemed impossible for Nakor to take anything seriously.

As they approached the upper docks of Kesh, Borric saw companies of soldiers upon the boat landing. They might be taking passage across the Overn Deep or up-river, or they might be the normal guard, but they also might be screening passengers into the city—one more barrier between himself and his brother.

As the boat began nosing into the dockside, Borric made his way back toward the legionaries. The guardsmen were making ready to exit, and as the boat was tied off to the dockside, Borric moved to stand beside the man
he had spoken with before boarding. The guardsman gave him a quick glance, then turned away.

While the first passengers disembarked, Borric did nothing, but when he saw they were being halted and inspected as they left, he knew he couldn’t chance being singled out again. So as it came time to leave, he turned to the guardsman and said, again in his gruff voice, “I said a rude thing to you at Páhes, guardsman.”

The legionary’s eyes narrowed as he said, “I assumed that, though I don’t speak your babble.”

Borric mounted the gangplank in step with him and said, “I come to celebrate the Jubilee, and to make devotions at the temple of Tith-Onaka.” Borric had noticed the man wore the good-luck charm common to those soldiers who worship the War God with Two Faces. “At such a holy time, I wish no bad blood with any soldier. The Isalani cheated me at cards. That is why I was vexed. Will you take my hand and give pardon for the offense I gave?”

The guardsman said, “No man should enter the Planner of Battle’s Temple with an affront to a warrior on them.” At the foot of the ramp, before the guards who were questioning the other passengers, the legionary and Borric gripped each other’s right forearm, and shook. “May your enemy never see your back.”