Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  Calis snapped out of his reverie and left the compound. He pushed open one of the double doors and got his first look at the interior of the square building. It was empty, save for more chains and some abandoned tools.

  Calis hurried, for he needed to get word to Marcus and across the river to Harry. He knew that if he didn’t get help back to the prisoners soon, they would most likely die.

  Margaret fought against the restraints, tendrils of silk blowing in the breeze, which wrapped around her ankles and wrists, holding her in place. She sought to shout, to scream in anger and fear, yet her mouth filled with the soft stuff and prevented her. In the gloom a figure approached.

  ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, sitting upright. The bed was drenched with perspiration. The room was dark. Her head throbbed with the worst headache she had known in her young life, what she imagined a hangover felt like, from things she’d overheard after the big celebrations at Castle Crydee.

  From her bed, Abigail stirred, making sleepy questioning noises.

  Margaret drew a deep breath and composed herself. Her heart pounded and she felt as if she had been running. She got out of bed and found herself uncoordinated, her mind spinning, only the stab of fear that she had felt a moment before giving her anything close to clarity. She put out one hand and steadied herself against the wall, while her blood rushed in her ears and her pounding heart echoed in her head with a dull throb.

  She reached for the water jar kept on the table between her bed and Abigail’s and found it empty. That struck her as being odd.

  She moved to Abigail’s bed and said, ‘Abby?’ Her voice sounded like a dull croak in her own ears.

  She sat down and shook Abigail, who stirred, mumbling as if trying to speak in her sleep. Margaret tried to raise her voice and said, ‘Abby!’, shaking her friend as hard as she could.

  Abigail sat up and asked, ‘What –?’

  Margaret stared at her friend. Abigail looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week. Her eyes were circled by dark rings, and her face was paler than usual. Her hair was unkempt and dirty, and she kept blinking, as if fighting to awaken.

  Margaret said, ‘You look terrible.’

  Abigail blinked harder, shook her head, and said, ‘You don’t look like much yourself.’ Her voice sounded as harsh and dry as had Margaret’s.

  Margaret forced herself to her feet and went to a mirror. The image that greeted her was older than the last she had seen. Her face was as drawn as Abigail’s, as if she also hadn’t slept for days.

  Her nightshirt was damp and stank. She made a face. ‘I smell as if I haven’t bathed in days.’

  Abigail’s expression was still vague. And she asked, ‘What?’

  ‘I said …’ Margaret glanced around the room. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They?’

  Crossing to her friend, Margaret took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Abby?’

  ‘What?’ said Abigail irritably, pushing her away.

  ‘Those things: where are they?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  Pushing past Margaret, Abby said, ‘Remember what? Where’s breakfast? I’m starving.’

  Margaret moved back from her friend. Her nightshirt was also heavily soiled, stained below the waist, and her bed reeked. ‘You’re a mess.’

  Abigail looked around, still as if unable to get her bearings. ‘Mess?’

  Margaret then noticed it was dark outside. From the way she felt, and the mess in both their beds, she knew that they hadn’t merely wakened early. They had slept the clock round at least one full day, more likely two or three. Never before had they been allowed to do that. Every day a servant had come to wake them an hour after dawn, bringing them their morning meal. Margaret went to the window and looked out into the garden. It was deserted. She waited a moment and there wasn’t a sound. Usually at night she could hear people moving somewhere in the grounds, and occasionally she had heard a distant voice, or what sounded like a scream.

  Hurrying to the door, she tried to handle. It opened. Peering down the corridor in either direction, she saw no other signs of life. She turned to Abigail and said, ‘There’s no one around.’

  Abigail stood quietly, her eyes fixed on a point in the air. Margaret moved to stand before her and said, ‘Abby!’

  The other girl blinked, but she said nothing. While Margaret watched, Abigail seemed to wilt, her body going limp as she sank back toward the bed. Her eyes closed and she was almost sitting when Margaret grabbed her shoulders. Bracing the other girl while she fought her own dizziness, Margaret shook her friend and shouted her name.

  Getting no results, Margaret cursed the empty water jar. She kept her hold on Abigail and half pushed, half carried her to the door that opened onto the garden. She unlatched that door and pulled her friend through, propelling her toward the pool in the middle.

  Margaret then pushed Abigail into the water. She sank a moment, then with a convulsion sat up in the shallow pool, spitting and coughing. ‘What!’ she said, her tone furious. ‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded.

  Margaret stripped off her filthy nightshirt, sat in the pool next to her friend, and began washing days of sweat and waste from her. ‘Because you stink as badly as I do and I couldn’t seem to wake you.’

  Abigail wrinkled her nose. ‘Is that us?’

  ‘It is,’ answered Margaret, slipping under the water and wetting her hair. She came up and blew water from nose and mouth. ‘I don’t know how clean we can get, but if we’re going to get out of here, I didn’t want anyone finding us by our stink.’

  ‘Get out?’ said Abigail, now fully awake.

  Margaret made a valiant attempt to scrub her hair with fresh water. ‘The door is unguarded, and I don’t hear anyone around, and those two creatures are gone.’

  Abigail moved to the small sculpture of a water bearer, ducking her head under the water flowing from its jug to rinse away the dirt in her hair. ‘How long?’

  ‘Were we asleep?’

  Abigail nodded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Margaret. ‘From the mess in our beds, a few days, maybe a week. I feel terrible, but I’m starving and thirsty.’

  Abigail drank from the fountain and said, ‘I feel rotten, too.’ She stuck her head under the fountain for a moment, then said, ‘I’m as clean as I’m going to be without soap.’ She tried to stand up, but her wobbly knees betrayed her and she fell back into the water.

  ‘Careful,’ said Margaret, moving to drink from the fountain. ‘You’re a lot more shaky than I am.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ said Abigail, brushing her wet hair back with both hands as she carefully stood up in the knee-high water.

  Margaret finished cleaning herself and walked out of the pool. She gave her friend a hand as they returned to their room. ‘I don’t know. I probably fought harder against whatever they were –’ She stopped, and her mouth opened. ‘They made copies of us!’

  Abigail blinked. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The two creatures that were in here with us.’

  ‘The lizard things?’ asked Abigail, disgust on her face.

  ‘They changed, they grew hair, and their bodies changed – and at the end they looked and sounded like us!’

  Abigail looked frightened. ‘Margaret, how could anyone do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we’ve got to get out of here. Anthony and the others are out there somewhere, looking for us, and we’ve got to warn them that there are those things out there that look like us.’

  They opened the wicker hamper used to keep their clean clothes and Margaret drew out an underskirt. She tossed it to Abigail and said, ‘Dry off.’ She grabbed another to use as a towel, throwing it on the bed when she was done. She selected the two least confining gowns and passed one to Abigail. ‘Leave off the underskirts; we need to move as easily as possible. We may be climbing walls.’

  She put on soft slippers, and when she was dressed, she lo
oked to see how Abigail was doing. The other girl was moving sluggishly, but she was almost dressed. Margaret helped her on with her slippers.

  Margaret stood up and went to the door, peeking out to make sure no one had appeared while they bathed. Seeing no one, she guided Abigail out into the hall. At the end of the hall, she opened the door to the outside and looked around. There was no one in sight. Signaling for silence, she led Abigail into the night.

  ‘Do I really need this?’ asked Anthony, indicating the pouch he carried.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nakor. ‘You never know what might come in handy. This woman who calls herself Clovis is dangerous, and she uses tricks. Maybe not as powerful as Pug, but enough to kill us both with a look. We need to be ready for anything. What we have in the pouch will be totally unexpected.’

  ‘But …’ began Anthony, then stopped. He knew better than to argue with the occasionally cryptic little man. The content of the bag confounded him; he couldn’t see what it might be good for.

  They were moving through the tunnel from the palace to Dahakon’s estate. Nakor had walked into the palace while the bulk of the garrison was marching to the docks. He had entered the outer courtyard carrying an empty box, while Anthony carried a sack of apples. Before the guard could challenge them, Nakor asked for directions to the kitchen, saying they were bringing part of a shipment of food that was delayed.

  The guard had looked slightly confused, but nothing about the two of them looked remotely threatening, so he gave them instructions. They hurried off. Nakor went right past the kitchen entrance and around the side of the palace until he found an unguarded door. They had deposited the empty box in a side corridor, and Nakor carefully put the bag of apples into his trick rucksack before leading Anthony down into the lower levels and to the tunnel that led under the river.

  Reaching the stairs up to Dahakon’s estate, Nakor said, ‘Do you understand what you’re to do?’

  ‘Yes, I mean no. I know what you’ve told me to do, but I don’t have any idea what good it will do.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Nakor said with a grin. ‘Just do it.’

  They reached the heart of the estate without seeing another living person. It was several hours after nightfall, and Anthony knew that if all went according to plan, Calis and the rescuers would be inside the estate within the next two hours. Their job was to ensure that the magician and his soul-drinking lady didn’t interfere.

  They made their way through a series of dark halls, dimly illuminated by a single lamp at each intersection, and at last Nakor led Anthony into the chambers used by Dahakon. The young magician shuddered at the decaying bodies on the wall, then stood in open-mouthed amazement at the sight of the motionless magician sitting on a chair, eyes staring sightlessly into space.

  Nakor went over to Dahakon and said, ‘He’s still busy.’

  ‘Pug?’ asked Anthony.

  Nakor nodded. He fished out the lens he had taken and said, ‘Look through this.’ Anthony did, and Nakor said, ‘They battle. I think Pug could win easily, but it might mean trouble for us. Better to keep this one out of the way.’

  ‘So that’s what’s going on,’ said a voice from behind them.

  Anthony and Nakor both spun around to find the Lady Clovis standing at the door, her eyes narrowed as she regarded the two intruders.

  Then recognition transformed her face. ‘You!’ she shouted.

  Nakor’s eyes widened, and he said, ‘Jorna?’ He gaped as she nodded, and he said, ‘I thought it was you. You’ve got a new body!’

  The woman moved forward and Anthony swallowed hard. Everything about her screamed at him on a level so basic he had to force himself to remember she was the evil power behind every horrible event that had occurred to those he loved. Every death, every minute of suffering, every loss of friends and loved ones was authored by her. Still, the sway of her hips, the inviting parted lips, the heave of her bosom, the deep black eyes – all called to him, and he felt his body respond.

  Then Nakor said, ‘Stop that silliness!’ Reaching over to Anthony, he pinched him hard on the arm.

  Anthony cried out and his eyes teared from pain. Instantly his desire for the woman vanished. Nakor said, ‘Those smells you use to trap men stopped working on me a hundred years ago, Jorna.’ Nakor then pulled an onion out of his bag and jammed his thumb into it. He stuck it under Anthony’s nose and laughed. ‘My friend can’t get excited with his eyes watering and his nose running.’

  ‘I’m the Lady Clovis now,’ she said, looking down at Nakor. ‘You haven’t changed much.’

  Nakor shrugged. ‘You used to be a troublemaker, but nothing like this. When did you join with the snakes?’

  She shrugged. ‘When they gave me a way to keep my youth.’ She walked away and displayed her body to good advantage, like a practiced courtesan showing herself to her master. ‘I was getting old … What name are you using now?’

  ‘I am Nakor.’

  ‘Nakor?’

  ‘Nakor the Blue Rider!’ he said with pride.

  ‘Whatever.’ She shrugged, and Anthony was forced to breathe deeply the fragrance of the onion to keep his wits about him as he watched the rise of her breasts, barely hidden by the skimpy vest she wore. ‘It doesn’t matter. The business that brought me here is at an end; I may stay for a while and keep Valgasha on the throne, before I leave him to the none-too-tender mercies of the clans. But when my friends finish their business, I shall leave.’

  ‘What are they offering to one of your powers?’ asked Nakor, moving slowly toward Anthony. ‘You have riches, or you did when I last saw you. You have talents. You know a lot of tricks. You look young.’

  ‘I look young, but I’m not,’ she said, and almost spat the words at Nakor. ‘I must kill two or three lovers a year just to age normally, five or six more to remove a year from my looks. Do you know how difficult that is when you’re supposed to remain faithful to the most powerful magician in the area? Dahakon was too useful to get him angry, and he may have been stupid in some significant respects –’

  ‘His taste in women?’ volunteered Nakor.

  She smiled. ‘That’s one example, but he was cunning; he kept me under watch most of the time. This has been a very difficult decade for me, Nakor. Fidelity was never high on my list of virtues.’

  She patted the motionless magician upon the head, almost affectionately. ‘Have you noticed that those who spend too much time playing with dead things seem to lose their perspective? Dahakon can do amazing things with dead people, but they tend to be such boring company, no imagination whatsoever, you know.’

  ‘What did they offer you?’

  She laughed. It was a rich sound, almost musical in tone. ‘Immortality! More: eternal youth!’ Her eyes were wide and Anthony thought perhaps she was also mad.

  Nakor shook his head. ‘You believe them?’ He shook his head. ‘I thought you smarter than that. They want more than you can ever give them.’

  The woman said, ‘Do you claim to know what their ultimate goal is, or is this some feeble attempt to get information from me?’

  ‘I know what they’re doing. You don’t, or you would never have joined with the Pantathians. Pug knows what they’re doing, too.’

  ‘Pug,’ she said with violence. ‘The inheritor to the man tie of Macros. The greatest magician of our time.’

  Nakor shrugged. ‘Some say. I know he could have ended this farce in a minute.’ He pointed to Dahakon.

  ‘Then why didn’t he?’

  ‘Because we need to find out what the Pantathians are doing, again. So we can stop them. If he kills Dahakon, you run and take the prisoners somewhere else. Or maybe he comes here himself, so you and Dahakon kill the prisoners to keep him away. We still don’t know the plan.’ Nakor winked. ‘Instead he keeps Dahakon busy, while we come and get the prisoners, figure out the plan then defeat you.’ His tone was almost apologetic. ‘Nothing personal.’

  She shook her head. ‘I would let you live, for old times’ sake,
if I could, but I can’t.’

  ‘Don’t make us hurt you,’ warned Nakor.

  She laughed. ‘How?’

  Nakor pointed to Anthony, who barely kept himself from trembling and stood with his eyes watering and nose running, looking at Nakor.

  ‘He is the true inheritor of the mantle of Macros!’ said Nakor dramatically. ‘He is Macros’s son!’

  The woman looked at Anthony. ‘Him?’

  Nakor said dramatically, ‘Anthony, we must neutralize her. Unleash the fury of your powers!’

  Anthony nodded. That was the phrase Nakor had told him would mean he was to use the small pouch. Clovis began incanting a spell, and Anthony felt the hair on his arms and neck stand up at the conjuring of fey powers. He recognized the phrases, and knew she was erecting a protective barrier against a mystic attack. He also knew that he possessed nothing close to the skills or strength to breach such a protective spell.

  Suddenly she stood encased in a nimbus of silver light. Anthony reached inside the bag and thumbed the small paper device Nakor had given him, then threw it hard against the floor. A column of black smoke erupted, filling the room quickly.

  ‘What is this?’ cried Clovis. She began chanting again, and Anthony knew she called on dark forces to come and destroy Nakor and himself. Praying fervently that Nakor knew what he was doing, he opened the pouch and threw it hard at Clovis.

  She put up her hands as it passed through the silver barrier around her, interrupting her chanting. It struck her in the face, and she was enveloped in black powder. All three froze a moment, then she sneezed. She opened her mouth to speak, and sneezed again, her eyes tearing as she sneezed a third time. She coughed, as if choking, and sneezed violently. Anthony sneezed, too.

  The woman tried to speak, to begin her spell again, but she couldn’t stop sneezing. Nakor reached into his rucksack and pulled out a large cloth bag. He reached back and swung as hard as he could, striking the woman on the back of the head with it.