Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  Borric sat down between two other men, who attempted to ignore his intrusion. Each lived moment to moment in his own world of misery.

  A scream cut through the night as one of the five women captives was again assaulted by the guards. Earlier a sixth woman had struggled too much, biting out the neck artery of the guard who was raping her, earning both of them death, his the swifter and less painful.

  From the sound of the pitiful wail that trailed on after the scream, Borric considered her the lucky one. He doubted any of the women would be alive by the time they reached Durbin. By turning them over to the guards, the slaver avoided problems for many days to come. Should any survive the trip, she would be sold cheaply as a kitchen drudge. None was young enough nor attractive enough that it was worth the slave master’s trouble to keep them out of the guards’ reach.

  As if summoned by Borric’s thoughts of him, the slaver appeared at the edge of the campfire. He stood there in the golden red glow of the firelight and made his tally. Pleased by what he saw, he turned toward his own tent. Kasim. That’s what Borric had heard him called. He had marked him well, for someday the Prince was certain he would kill Kasim.

  As he moved away from the closely guarded slaves, another man called his name and approached. The man’s name was Salaya, and he wore the purple robe Borric had won two nights before in Stardock. When Borric had first come to camp in the dawn hours that morning, the man had demanded the robe at once and had beaten the Prince when he appeared slow to remove it. The fact Borric was wearing manacles at the time seemed to make no difference. After the Prince had been struck repeatedly, Kasim had intervened, pointing out the obvious. Salaya was hardly mollified as Borric had one wrist, then the other, freed while he removed the robe. He seemed to blame Borric for that embarrassment before the others his own impatience had caused, as if it had been the Prince’s fault somehow that Salaya was a stupid pig. Borric had marked him for death as well. Kasim gave some instructions to Salaya, who seemed to listen with a surly half-attention. Then the slaver was gone, heading off toward the string of horses. Most likely, thought Borric, he’s off to supervise another band of slaves being brought to the impromptu caravansary.

  Several times during the day, he had considered revealing his identity, but caution always overruled him. There was a good chance he would not be believed. He never wore his signet, always finding it inconvenient when riding, fighting, or doing any of the camp chores common to his life on the frontier while serving at Highcastle. He had got out of the habit of wearing it, so it was locked away in his baggage, among those packs the bandits did not conspire to capture. While red hair might make them pause to consider the probability of his claim, it was in no way unique among those who lived in Krondor. Blond hair might be the norm for fair-skinned people living in Yabon and along the Far Coast, but Krondorians numbered as many redheads as blonds among their citizenry. And proving he was not a magician would take some doing, for what difference was there between someone who doesn’t know any magic and someone who knows magic but pretends he doesn’t.

  Borric was decided. He would wait until he reached Durbin then seek to find someone a little more likely to understand his circumstance. He really doubted Kasim or any of his men – especially if they all were as bright as Salaya – would either understand or believe him. But someone with the intelligence to be the master of such as these might. And if so, Borric could most likely ransom himself to freedom.

  Taking what comfort he could from thoughts like these, Borric pushed a half-dozing captive, moving him a few inches, so Borric might lie down again. The blows to the head had made him very groggy and sleep beckoned often. He closed his eyes, and for a moment the sensation of the ground spinning beneath made him nauseous. Then it passed. Soon a fitful sleep descended.

  The sun burned like the angry presence of Prandur, the Fire God, himself. As if hanging only a few yards above him, the sun beat down on Borric’s fair skin, searing it. While Borric’s hands and face had been lightly tanned when serving at the northern borders, the scorching desert sun burned him to weakness. Blisters had erupted along Borric’s back the second day, and his head swam from the pain of his burn. The first two days had been bad enough, as the caravan had moved from the rocky plateau country down into the sandy wastes the local desert men called the ergs of the Jal-Pur. The five wagons moved slowly over what was less dirt than hard-packed sand baked to brick finish by the same sun that was slowly killing the slaves.

  Three had died yesterday. Salaya had little use for weaklings; only healthy, strong workers were wanted on the slave blocks at Durbin. Kasim had still not returned from whatever business he was upon, and the deputized caravan leader was revealed for the sadistic pig Borric had marked him in their first minute of meeting. Water was handed out three times a day, before first light, at the noon break when the drivers and guards halted to rest, and then with the evening meal, the only meal, Borric corrected himself. It was a dried mush bread, with little flavour and little that gave strength. He hoped the soft things in the bread were indeed raisins; he had not bothered to look. Food kept him alive, no matter how distasteful it might be.

  The slaves were a sullen group, each man lost in his own suffering. Weakened by the heat, few had anything to say to each other; talk was a needless waste of energy. But Borric had managed to glean a few facts from one or two of them. The guards were less vigilant now that the caravan was into the wastes; even should a slave escape, where would he go? The desert was the surest guard of all. Once in Durbin, they would rest for a few days, perhaps as long as a week, so bloody feet and burned skins could heal, and weight could be regained before they were offered upon the block. Travel-weary slaves brought little gold.

  Borric attempted to consider his choices, but the heat and sunburn had weakened him, made him ill, and the lack of food and water was keeping him dull and stupid. He shook his head and tried to focus his attention on ways to escape, but all he could manage was to move his feet, one then the other, pick them up and let them fall before him, over and over, until allowed to halt.

  Then the sun vanished and it was night. The slaves were ordered to sit near the campfire as they had been for the last three nights and listened to the guards having sport with the five remaining women captives. They no longer struggled or screamed. Borric ate his flat piece of bread and sipped his water. The first night after entering the desert, one man had gulped his water, then vomited it a few minutes later. The guards would give him no more. He had died the next day. Borric had learned his lesson. No matter how much he wished to tilt back his head and drain the copper cup, he lingered over the stale, warm water, sipping it slowly. Sleep came quickly, the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion, with no real rest obtained. Each time he moved, angry sunburns brought him awake. If he faced away from the fire, his back smarted at any touch of heat, yet if he moved from the fire, the cold brought him chills. But no matter how close or far the source of his discomfort, he soon was overcome by his fatigue, until he moved, when the cycle began again. And then suddenly, spear butts and boot kicks roused Borric to his feet with the others.

  In the cool of the morning, the almost damp night air seemed nothing so much as a lens for the sun, bringing the searing touch of Prandur to torment the slaves. Before an hour was passed, two more men were fallen, left where they hit the sand.

  Borric’s mind retreated into itself. An animal consciousness was all that remained, a cunning, vicious animal that refused to die. Every iota of energy he possessed was given over to but one task, to move forward and not to fall. To fall was to die.

  Then after a time of mindless moving forward, hands seized him. ‘Stop,’ commanded a voice.

  Borric blinked and through flashing yellow lights, he saw a face. It was a face composed of knots and lumps, angles and planes, skin dark like ebony over a curly beard. It was the ugliest face Borric had ever beheld. It was magnificent in its repulsiveness.

  Borric began to giggle, but all that came from his parc
hed throat was a dry wheeze. ‘Sit,’ said the guard, helping Borric to the ground with a surprising gentleness. ‘It’s time for the midday halt.’ Glancing around to see if he was being observed, he opened his own water skin and poured some out upon his hand. ‘You northerners die from the sun so quickly.’ He washed the back of Borric’s neck and dried his hand by running it through Borric’s hair, cooling his baking head slightly. ‘Too many have fallen along the way; Kasim will not be pleased.’ Quickly he poured a mouthful for the young Prince, then moved on, as if nothing had passed between them.

  Then another guard brought around the water skin and cups and the clamour for water began. Each slave who could still speak announced his thirst, as if to remain silent was to chance being ignored.

  Borric could barely move, and each motion brought waves of bright yellow and white light and red flashes behind his eyes. Yet, almost blindly, he pushed out his hand to take the metal cup. The water was warm and bitter, yet sweeter than the finest Natalese wine to Borric’s parched lips. He sipped the wine, forcing himself to hold it in his mouth as his father had taught him, letting the dark purple fluid course around his tongue, registering the subtle and complex components of the wine’s flavour. A hint of bitterness, perhaps from the stems and a few leaves left in the vat of must, while the winemaker attempted to bring his wine to just the proper peak of fermentation before barrelling the wine. Or perhaps it was a flaw. Borric didn’t recognize the wine; it lacked noticeable body and structure, and was deficient in acid to balance the fruit. It was not a very good wine. He would have to see if Papa was testing him and Erland by putting a poor local wine on the table, to see if they were paying attention.

  Borric blinked and through eyes gummy from heat and dryness, he couldn’t see where the tip was. How was he to spit the wine if there was no tip bucket to spit into? He mustn’t drink it, or he would be very drunk, as he was only a small boy. Perhaps if he turned his head and spit behind the table, no one would notice.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted a voice. ‘That slave is spitting out his water!’

  Hands ripped the cup from Borric’s hands and he fell over backwards. He lay on the floor of his father’s dining hall and wondered why the stones were so warm. They should be cool. They always were. How did they get so warm?

  Then a pair of hands lifted him ungently from his sitting position, and another helped to hold him up. ‘What’s this? Trying to kill yourself by not drinking?’ Borric opened his eyes slightly and saw the vague outline of a face before his.

  Weakly, he said, ‘I can’t name the wine, Father.’

  ‘He’s delirious,’ said the voice. Hands lifted him and carried him and then he was in a darker place. Water was daubed over his face and poured over his neck, wrists, and arms. A distant voice said, ‘I swear by the gods and demons, Salaya, you haven’t the brains of a three days’ dead cat. If I hadn’t ridden out to meet you, you’d have let this one die, too, wouldn’t you?’

  Borric felt water course into his mouth and he drank. Instead of the bitter half-cup, this was a veritable stream of almost fresh water. He drank.

  Salaya’s voice answered: ‘The weak ones fetch us nothing. It saves us money to let them die on the road and not feed them.’

  ‘You idiot!’ shouted the other. ‘This is a prime slave! Look at him. He’s young, not more than twenty years, if I know my business, and not bad looking under the sunburn, healthy, or at least he was a few days ago.’ There was a sound of disgust. ‘These fair-skinned northerners can’t take the heat like those of us born to the Jal-Pur. A little more water, and some covering, and he’d have been fit for next week’s block. Now, I’ll have to keep him an extra two weeks for the burns to heal and his strength to return.’

  ‘Master—’

  ‘Enough, keep him here under the wagon while I inspect the others. There may be more who will survive if I find them in time. I do not know what fate befell Kasim, but it was a sorry day for the Guild when you were left in charge.’

  Borric found this exchange very odd. And what had happened to the wine? He let his mind wander as he lay in the relative cool, under the wagon, while a few feet away, a Master of the Guild of Durbin Slavers inspected the others who in a day’s time would be delivered to the slave pens.

  ‘Durbin!’ said Salman. His face of dark knots split in a wide grin. He drove the last wagon in the train, the one in which Borric rode. The two days since Borric was carried into the shade of the wagon had returned him from the edge of death. He now rode in the last wagon with three other slaves who were recovering from heat-stroke. Water was there for the taking, and their burned skins were dressed with a soft oil and herb poultice, which reduced the fiery pain to a dull itch.

  Borric rose to his knees then stood upon shaky legs as the wagon lurched across the stones in the road. He saw little remarkable about the city, save the surrounding lands were now green rather than sandy. They had been passing small farms for about a half-day. He remembered what he had been taught about the infamous pirate stronghold as a boy.

  Durbin commanded the only arable farm land between the Vale of Dreams and the foothills of the Trollhome Mountains, as well as the one safe harbour to be found from Land’s End to Ranom. Along the south coast of the Bitter Sea the treacherous reefs waited for ships and boats unfortunate enough to be caught in the unexpected northern winds that sprang up routinely. For centuries, Durbin had been home to pirates, wreckers and scavengers, and slavers.

  Borric nodded to Salman. The happy little bandit had proved to be both friendly and garrulous. ‘I’ve lived there all my life,’ said the bandit, widening his grin. ‘My father was born there, too.’

  When the desert men of the Jal-Pur had conquered Durbin hundreds of years before, they had found their gateway to the trade of the Bitter Sea, and when the Empire had conquered the desert men, Durbin was the capital city of the desert men. Now it was the home of an Imperial Governor, but nothing had changed. It was still Durbin.

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Borric, ‘do the Three Guilds still control the city?’

  Salman laughed. ‘You’re a very educated fellow! Few outside Durbin know of this thing. The Guild of Slavers, the Wreckers Guild, and the Captains of the Coast. Yes, the Three still rule in Durbin. It is they, not the Imperial Governor, who decide who is to live and die, who is to work, who is to eat.’ He shrugged. ‘It is as it has always been. Before the Empire. Before the desert men. Always.’

  Thinking of the power of the Mockers, the Guild of Thieves, in Krondor, he asked, ‘What of the beggars and thieves? Are they not a power?’

  ‘Ha!’ answered Salman. ‘Durbin is the most honest city in the world, my educated friend. We who live there lay at night with doors unlocked and may walk the streets in safety. For he who steals in Durbin is a fool, and either dead or a slave within days. So the Three have decreed, and who is foolish enough to question their wisdom? Certainly not I. And so it must be, for Durbin has no friends beyond the reefs and sands.’

  Borric lightly patted Salman on the shoulder and sat down in the back of the wagon. Of the four sick slaves, he was the quickest to recover, as he was the youngest and fittest. The other three were older farmers, and none had shown any inclination to quick recovery. Despair robs you of strength faster than sickness, Borric thought.

  He drank a little water and marvelled at the first hint of ocean breeze that came into the wagon as they headed down the road toward the city gate. One of his father’s advisors, and the man who had taught Borric and Erland how to sail, Amos Trask, had been a pirate in his youth, raiding the Free Cities, Queg, and the Kingdom under the name Captain Trenchard, the Dagger of the Sea. He had been a renowned member of the Captains of the Coast. But while he had told many tales of the high seas, he had said almost nothing of the politics of the Captains. Still, someone might remember Captain Trenchard and that might stand Borric in good stead.

  Borric had decided to keep his identity hidden a while longer. While he had no doubt the slavers would send ranso
m demands to his father, he thought he might avoid the sort of international difficulties that would arise should it come to pass. Instead, he might bide his time in the slave pens a few days, regain his strength, then flee. While the desert was a formidable barrier, any small boat in the harbour would be his passage to freedom. It was nearly five hundred miles of sailing against prevailing winds to reach Land’s End, Baron Locklear’s father’s city, but it could be done. Borric considered all this with a confidence of one who, at the age of nineteen, did not know the meaning of defeat. His captivity was merely a setback, nothing more.

  The slave pens were sheltered by shingle roofs rested upon tall beams, protecting the slaves from the noon heat or unexpected storms off the Bitter Sea. But the sides were open slats and crossbeams, so the guards could watch the captives. A healthy man could easily climb over the ten-foot fence, but by the time he reached the top and crawled through the space between the fence and the crossbeams supporting the roof three feet above, guards would be waiting for him.

  Borric considered his plight. Once he was sold, his new master might be lax in his security, or he might be even more stringent. Logic dictated he attempt to escape while confined close to the sea. His new owner could be a Quegan merchant, a traveller from the Free Cities, or even a Kingdom noble. What would be worse, he could be carried deep into the Empire. He was not sanguine about letting fate make the choice.