Prince of the Blood (43 page)

As the second bell of night sounded, they entered the alley. “This way, master,” said Suli, keeping his voice low.

Despite the early hour of the night, the alley was deserted. The narrow corridor was cluttered with trash and garbage, and the stench was overwhelming. Trying to keep the greasy meat and flatbread he had eaten down, Borric said, “A friend once told me that thieves will often put garbage and”—stepping on what appeared to be a dead dog, Borric continued—“other things along their private escape routes to discourage casual inspection.”

At the end of the alley was a door, wooden with a metal lockplate. Borric tried it and found it locked. Then from behind, a voice said, “Good evening.”

Borric and Ghuda turned, and pushed Suli and Nakor behind them. A half-dozen armed men were approaching them down the alley. Ghuda hissed. “I have a very bad feeling, Madman.”

Borric said, “Good evening. Are you the one I arranged to meet?”

“That depends,” answered the leader, a thin man with a grin too big for his face. His cheeks were heavily pockmarked, to the point of the disfigurement being apparent in the dim light in the alley. The others behind him were shadowy silhouettes. “What is your proposal?”

“I need entrance into the palace.”

Several men laughed. “That is easy,” said the leader. “Get arrested and they will take you before the High Tribune, assuming you break an Imperial law. Murder a guard—that always works.”

“I need to get in unseen.”

“Impossible. Besides, why should we help? You may be Imperial agents for all we know. You do not speak like a Bendrifi, despite your dress. The city has been crawling with agents looking for someone—who we don’t know, so you may be him. In any event,” he said, drawing a longsword, “you have about ten seconds to explain why we shouldn’t just kill you and take your gold now.”

Borric said, “For one thing, I can promise you a thousand golden ecu if you tell us of an entrance, twice that if you take us there.”

The leader motioned with his blade, and his companions spread out, forming a wall of swords across the alley. “And?”

“And I bring greetings from the Upright Man of Krondor.”

The leader paused a moment, then said, “Impressive.”

Borric let out a breath of tension, then the leader of the thieves said, “Very impressive. For the Upright Man has been seven years dead in Krondor and the Mockers are now ruled by the Virtuous Man. Your introduction is less than timely, spy.” To his men, he said, “Kill them.”

The alley was too narrow to allow Ghuda to draw his bastard sword, so he pulled both dirks as Borric unsheathed his rapier and Suli his shortsword. Forming a three-man front, Borric took a second to say to Nakor, “Can you open that lock?”

The Isalani said, “It will take but a moment,” and the attackers were full upon them.

Borric’s sword took the first man in the throat, as
Ghuda was forced to use his two dirks to parry his attacker’s longer sword. Suli had never used a sword before, but he flailed about with enough conviction that the man opposite him was reluctant to try to get past the blurring weapon.

The attackers fell back a step at the death of one of their number. They were reluctant to rush Borric’s sword point again. The cluttered alley gave no one an advantage, save time. The attackers could hang back and let Borric’s party tire, then take them, for they had no place else to go, so the thieves were content to feint and withdraw, feint and withdraw.

Nakor rummaged through his rucksack and found what he was looking for. Borric glanced over his shoulder for an instant, to see the Isalani pry the lid off a flat jar. “What …?” he began, then he was forced to pay the price of his inattention as a broadsword almost took his left arm off. He dodged and thrust, and a second attacker was out of the fight, this one with a ragged cut to his own right arm.

Nakor poured a small pile of white powder in his left hand, then put the lid back on the jar. Kneeling before the lock plate, the diminutive man blew on the powder. Rather than scattering randomly, the powder left his hand in a thin line, straight to the keyhole on the lock plate. As the powder passed through the lock, a series of audible clicks could be heard. Nakor stood up with a satisfied smile, put away his jar, and opened the door. “We can go now,” he announced calmly.

Instantly, Ghuda shoved him unceremoniously through the door and followed after, as Borric launched a flurry of blows that drove back the thieves, allowing Suli to bolt through the door after the mercenary. Then Borric was through and Ghuda slammed the door behind him. Nakor held out a large, ornate chair, which Borric jammed against the door handle, barring the door for a moment.

Borric turned and was suddenly aware of two facts: the first was a nearly nude girl regarded him with eyes years older than the rest of her, from where she sat outside a door, waiting the bidding of whoever was inside that door. The second was the sweet smoke that hung in the air, unmistakable once smelled. It was opium, cut with other smells, jule weed, hashish, and sweet-smelling oils. They had broken into the back of a joy house.

As Borric expected, the moment after they had broken in, three large men—the establishment’s resident bruisers—each armed with clubs in hand, knives, and swords at their belts, materialized in the hall. “What passes here, scum?” shouted the first, his eyes wide in anticipation of a little free bloodletting. Borric was instantly convinced that whatever he said, the man’s intent was bloody.

Borric pushed himself past Ghuda, shoving the mercenary’s dirk point down in a clear message not to start trouble. Glancing over his shoulder, Borric said, “City watch! Trying to break in that door.”

He slid past the first man, just as the thieves outside obliged by hitting the door, causing the chair to move a foot.

“Those thieving bastards!” said the first bruiser. “We’re paid up this month.”

Borric gave the man a friendly shove toward the door, saying, “The greedy scum are trying to shake you down for more.” As the second bruiser sought to hold on to Borric, the Prince grabbed that man’s elbow and turned him after the first. “There’s ten of them out there, armed! They claim there’s a Jubilee surcharge you haven’t paid.”

By now several clients of the establishment were opening doors and peeking into the halls to see what was happening. At sight of armed men, several doors were slammed, then one girl screamed, and the panic was on.

The third bruiser said, “Wait a minute, you,” to Borric and took a swipe with his club.

Borric barely got his left arm up in time, and took the blow on his left bracer, but the shock still numbed his arm to the elbow. Thinking of nothing else to do, the Prince shouted, “Raid!” at the top of his lungs, and every door in the hall flew open. The third bruiser tried to take another swipe at Borric, but Ghuda struck him behind the ear with the hilt of his dirk, stunning the man.

Borric shoved the third bruiser hard into a fat merchant attempting to leave with his clothing in his hands, shouting at the merchant, “It’s the girl’s father! He’s come to kill you, man!”

The merchant’s eyes widened in horror, and he dashed through the outside door, still nude and holding his robes in a bundle. A sleepy-looking woman easily in her forties stood in the door, saying, “My father?”

At that moment, Suli shouted, “City watch!” as loud as he could.

Then the rear door flew open and the thieves barged in, collided with naked girls and boys, drugged men, and two very angry bruisers. The commotion in the hall was redoubled with another pair of large men appeared at the top of the hall, demanding to know what was going on. Borric shouted, “Religious fanatics! Trying to free your slave girls and boys. Your men are being attacked, back there. Help them!”

Somehow, Ghuda, Suli, and Nakor extricated themselves from the confusion in the hall and bolted for the entry of the building. The nude merchant running down the street had piqued the curiosity of the city watch, and two armed guardians of the peace were standing before the door as Borric pulled it open. Without hesitation he said, “Oh, sirs! It’s horrible! The house slaves have revolted and are killing the customers. They’re crazed on drugs and their strength is superhuman. Please, you must send for help!”

One guardsman pulled his sword and dashed inside, while another took a whistle from his belt and blew it. Within seconds of the shrill whistle’s sounding, ten more city guardsmen were hurrying to the riot and dashing through the door.

Two blocks away, in a dark inn, Borric and his companions sat at a table. Ghuda took off his helm and almost bounced it off the table, so hard did he put it down. Pointing his finger at Borric, he said, “The only reason I don’t knock your head off now is that we’d certainly get arrested.”

“Why do you keep wanting to hit me?” said Borric.

“Because you keep doing stupid things which threaten to get me killed, Madman!”

Nakor said, “That was fun.”

Ghuda and Borric both stared at him in astonishment. “Fun?” said Ghuda.

“Most excitement I’ve had in years,” said the grinning man.

Suli looked as if he was close to exhaustion. “Master, what do we do now?”

Borric thought a moment, shook his head, and said, “I don’t know.”

E
RLAND APPROACHED THE DOOR
.

A dozen guards stood without, but none sought to question him about his approach to the Princess Sharana’s private quarters. At the entrance to the reception area, Erland discovered Lord Nirome, the noble who had acted as Master of Ceremonies when Prince Awari had greeted him at the entrance to the upper city.

The stout man smiled affably as he bowed, and said, “Good evening. Your Highness. Is all here to your liking?”

Erland smiled and returned the bow with a deference beyond what Nirome’s rank entitled him to, saying, “Your Keshian generosity is at times overwhelming, my lord.”

Glancing backward over his shoulder, the pudgy trueblood took Erland by the arm and said, “If I might have but a brief moment with you, sire.”

Erland allowed himself to be steered to an alcove out of view of the guards and servants, saying, “Only a moment. I would not like to keep the Princess waiting.”

“Understood, Highness, understood.” He smiled and something told Erland to beware of this friendly bungler, that no one could be this highly placed and not have some guile. “What I wished to say, Highness, is that it would be
a kind and generous act, a kingly act, if you would communicate to Her Imperial Majesty your desire to see young Rasajani, Lord Kilawa’s son, pardoned for his offense against you.” Erland said nothing, and when it was obvious he wasn’t going to speak, Nirome continued. “The boy is stupid; on that point we agree. However, the fault lies not with him but with certain provocateurs in Prince Awari’s camp.” Glancing around as if wary of being overheard, Nirome said, “If I may elaborate a brief instant.” Erland nodded. Nirome whispered, “Awari is second born to Sojiana, so by rights the Princess should inherit. But it is known that many fear three generations of sitting Empresses—a patriarchal bias exists in many of the nations that make up the Empire. To that end, some misguided souls have sought to exacerbate the differences between Awari and his sister. Young Rasajani thought—or rather without thought—that by insulting you, he could show his Empress that Awari is not some weakling, fearful of the Isles simply because he is foremost in insisting peace be kept between our two nations. It was a rash and foolish act, one that really was unforgivable, but I am certain others put him up to it, thinking Awari would approve. If you could somehow find it in your heart to forgive …”

Erland said nothing for a few moments, then at last spoke. “I shall consider the matter. I will discuss it with my advisors, and if we are certain no loss of prestige for my nation is involved, I will speak to your Empress.”

Nirome grabbed Erland’s hand, and kissed his royal signet. “Your Highness is most gracious. Perhaps someday I may be privileged to visit Rillanon. When I do, I shall gladly tell all there that a gracious and wise ruler is destined to govern them.”

Erland had had about all the fawning he could stand, so he nodded and left the portly court noble, moving purposefully toward the entrance to the Princess Sharana’s
suites. Presenting himself to the servant who waited, he was ushered into the receiving area—a private chamber equal in size to his father’s own audience hall in Krondor.

A young woman with a strong reddish cast to her hair—unusual for a trueblood—bowed low to Erland and said, “Her Highness requests that you join her in her private garden, m’lord.”

Erland indicated she should lead him and as she did, he found himself admiring the graceful sway of hips barely covered by the short kilt. Feeling himself becoming aroused at thoughts of this evening’s encounter, Erland focused on James’s parting words to him, just after dinner. The Earl of his father’s court had said, “Remember, like yourself, she’s destined to rule her nation, so don’t take anything for granted. She may look like a twenty-two-year-old girl, and even act like one, but she may be Empress of Kesh in your lifetime and I suspect her education is as extensive, or more so, than yours.” James had revealed an unusual level of concern, even for one as cautious by nature as he was. And he had taken the moment to tell Erland, “Be wary. Don’t be led astray by pretty promises in soft arms, my friend. There’s murder in these people as much as in the soul of any street thug in the Poor Quarter of Krondor.”

Reaching Sharana’s pavilion, Erland admitted he would have to work hard to keep that idea foremost in his thoughts. The Princess lay upon a pile of cushions under a silken canopy, with four servingwomen nearby to answer any call she made. Rather than the short kilt and vest he had seen her wear on public occasions, Sharana wore only a simple robe, clasped just above her breasts by a golden falcon in the same design he had seen upon the Royal Keshian standard. The robe was almost transparent and fell open in front as she rose to greet him, giving Erland a tantalizing view of the young woman’s body. The
effect was considerably more powerful than the commonplace nudity in the palace. Erland bowed slightly, the deference given a host by a guest, rather than the bow of a subject to a ruler. Sharana extended her hand and he took it as she simply said, “Come, walk with me.”