Prince of the Blood

by Raymond Feist

  Borric nodded and the strange-looking man took one out of the rucksack he had been so fiercely hanging on to during the encounter with the three riders. Borric peeled back the orange and pulled out a wedge and sucked the sweet juice from it, while the odd man handed another one up to Ghuda. The old caravan guard asked, “What was all that about back there?”

  The man shrugged, his grin staying in place. “They think I cheated them at cards. They were very angry.”

  “Did you?” asked Borric.

  “Perhaps, but it was of little matter. They were cheating me.”

  Borric nodded as if this all somehow made sense. “I’m called Madman.”

  The grin broadened. “So am I at times. At other times I am called Nakor the Blue Rider.”

  Ghuda said, “The Blue Rider?”

  An emphatic nod yes was followed by, “At times I have been known to ride about on a fine black steed of most impressive conformation, dressed in robes of the finest weave dyed vivid blue. I am very famous in some places.”

  “But this is not one of those places,” said Ghuda.

  “Alas, no. Here I am relatively unknown. However, at those times when I have my blue finery and my fine steed, then I quickly gain fame wherever I pass, for there are few who rival my beauty.”

  Borric regarded the faded orange robe and said, “I take it this is not one of those times.”

  “Again I must say alas, for this also is so. My horse died, which made riding him most difficult, and the robe was lost to a man who cheated at cards better than I.”

  Borric laughed at the last. “Well, at least you’re more forthright a cheat than those I usually encounter.”

  Nakor shared the laugh. “I only cheat those who attempt to cheat me. I deal honestly with those who are honest with me. The difficulty, usually, is in finding honest men.”

  Borric nodded, amused by this strange little man. “And how many honest men have you dealt with lately?”

  Nakor shrugged, an exaggerated moving of the shoulders with a slight bobbing of his head. “None, so far. But I still have high hopes one day of meeting such a one.”

  Borric shook his head and laughed, as much at himself for going to the trouble of saving this lunatic as he was at the lunatic.

  When night approached, the wagons were circled around the campfire, a tradition as old as caravans. Janos Sabér had let Borric know in no uncertain terms what he thought of any guard that would go looking for troubles that didn’t concern him, and questioned Ghuda as to his lack of brains in going after him. The boy he forgave, insofar as he was still a boy and boys were expected to do witless things.

  For some reason, he didn’t seem to be in the least bit troubled by the Isalani’s having joined his caravan unasked. Borric was reasonably certain the strange little man had somehow bemused the usually stern caravan master, but that suggested the little man had some magic power or another—unless he was a confidence trickster of sufficient guile to run his confidence game while on the back of a moving wagon five vehicles behind the one upon which his victim rode. Borric thought that even his uncle Jimmy wouldn’t claim being that good.

  At thought of James, he was once again visited with the frustration of his situation. How to safely reach the palace of the Empress and get word to James he was still alive? The facts learned at the Governor of Durbin’s house showed that important men, placed very highly in the Imperial house, were involved with the plot on his life. And the closer he got to the palace, he was certain, the more difficult it would be to reach. As he thought back, he realized he had been more lucky than bright in keeping his identity secret, for now he knew that to reveal himself as the Prince of the Isles would earn him a quick death. He remembered James saying on more than one occasion, “I’d rather be lucky than good.” He smiled slightly as he also remembered saying many times, “But the smart man makes his own luck.” So, how to make his own luck and get into the most closely guarded place in the entire Empire of Great Kesh?

  Settling back near the fire, Borric considered that he would dwell on it as they traveled. There was still a great deal of road between where he was now and the gates of the palace. In the warmth of the evening, after a hot meal, he dozed until Ghuda came and kicked him to alertness. “Your duty, Madman.”

  Borric rose and assumed his post with another two guards, each spaced a third of the way around the perimeter, with the muttering and oaths appropriate to such men in similar situations throughout history.

  “Jeeloge!” called Ghuda.

  Borric levered himself up on his arm, peering between Ghuda and the teamster who drove the wagon, and looked to where the older guard pointed. As the extra guard at this end of the caravan, he could get away with laying atop bales of silk imported from the Free Cities, dozing in the afternoon sun. A town appeared upon the horizon as they crested a hill. It looked to be of good size. In the Kingdom, it might even count as a small city, but Borric had long since discovered that in relation to Kesh, the Kingdom was sparsely populated. The Prince returned to his doze. They would lay over for the night in Jeeloge before continuing on to Kesh, and most of the caravan’s drivers and guards planned on a night of celebration and gambling.

  A day earlier they had rounded the northern edge of the Guardians: the mountains bordering the Overn Deep on the west. They now followed the River Sarné toward the city of Kesh. Little towns and farming communities dotted the landscape. Borric could understand now why caravan duty in the interior of Kesh was considered a low-risk profession. Things tended toward the quiet this close to the capital of the Empire.

  “I wonder what that’s all about?” mused Ghuda.

  Borric looked up and saw a company of mounted men had set up an inspection point near the edge of the town. Moving to the far right so he could speak in Ghuda’s ear without the driver overhearing, Borric whispered, “They may be looking for me.”

  Turning toward the younger guard, Ghuda’s eyes almost blazed in anger as he said, “Isn’t that interesting? Do you have any other wonderful news I should know about before I’m hauled into an Imperial court?” His angry tone cut through his whisper. “What did you do?”

  “They say I killed the wife of the Governor of Durbin,” whispered Borric.

  Ghuda’s only reaction was to close his eyes a minute and press forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Why me? What have I done to displease the gods so?” Looking Borric directly in the eyes, he said, “Did you do it, Madman?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Ghuda’s narrow eyes searched Borric’s for a long moment, then he said, “Of course you didn’t.” With a big sigh, he said, “We could take a band of ragged bandits, if bump comes to push, but if push comes to shove, those Imperials would have us trussed up like a game bird for the table in less time than it takes to tell about it. Tell you what. If you’re asked, you’re my cousin from Odoskoni.”

  “Where is Odoskoni?” asked Borric as the wagons drew near the horsemen.

  “A little town in the Peaks of Tranquillity, nearest city is Kampari. You have to go through a hundred miles of the Green Reaches to get there, so few do. Very little chance of any of these boys having been within a year’s march of the place.”

  The first wagon slowed, then stopped, and by the time the others followed suit, Borric, along with Ghuda and the other guards, were off their respective wagons and coming to stand behind their master, which was expected in case these guardsmen were false. But from the manner their officer approached Janos Sabér, it was obvious it was really an Imperial troop; this officer expected to be obeyed, instantly. Each man in the company wore a splendid tunic of red silk, a metal helm with a fur band around the base—this company’s being leopard skin. Each held a lance and had a sword at his side and a bow slung behind the saddle. Borric agreed with Ghuda’s assessment. The men of the company had the look of seasoned veterans. Whispering in Ghuda’s ear, Borric said, “Doesn’t Kesh have any green troops?”

  Ghuda whispered back. “
Many, Madman. The cemeteries are full of them.” For a moment, Borric didn’t recognize the word, then he remembered the Keshians didn’t cremate their dead, but interred them in the ground.

  The officer spoke to Sabér. “We’re looking for a pair of runaway slaves, from Durbin. A young man, perhaps twenty years of age and a boy of eleven or twelve.”

  Janos said, “Sir, my men are all caravan guards and drivers, either known to me or vouched for by those known to me, and the one boy we have is our cook’s monkey.”

  The officer nodded, as if anything the caravan master had to say was of little consequence. Ghuda stroked his chin, as if thinking, but hiding his face as he whispered to Borric. “Interesting. They’re searching wagons here. Why would a slave escaping from Durbin run into the heart of the Empire, instead of out of it?”

  If Janos connected Borric and Suli to the pair the guards looked for, he said nothing. A guard came to where Ghuda and Borric stood. The guard looked Ghuda over quickly, but lingered to inspect Borric. “Where are you from?” he asked Borric. He asked as if one who felt the need to go through the motions, for not knowing the truth he would assume he was looking for a runaway slave. For a slave to be standing before him calmly, armed and armored, was very improbable to the guard, but duty required he ask.

  Borric said, “Here and there. I was born in Odoskoni.”

  Something in Borric’s speech or the way he carried himself sparked an interest in the guard. “You speak with an odd inflection.”

  Borric didn’t miss a beat when he answered, “You sound foreign to me, soldier. My people all talk like I do.”

  “You have green eyes.”

  Suddenly the guard snatched the headgear from Borric’s head, revealing his black-dyed hair. “Hey!” complained Borric at the treatment. Borric and Suli had used the last of the dye a few days before, and he hoped his red roots weren’t long enough to give him away.

  “Captain!” shouted the soldier. “This one matches the description.”

  Then Borric thought that while those who were trying to kill him knew he had red hair, the description of the runaway slave would be altered to fit the description given by the sailors who had pursued him from the harbor. What a fool I’ve been, he thought. I should have found another dye.

  The Captain slowly came to inspect Borric and said, “Your name?”

  Borric said, “Everyone calls me the Madman.”

  One eyebrow lifted as the Captain said, “Odd. Why?”

  “Not many leave my village and before I left I was known for doing—”

  “Stupid things,” finished Ghuda. “He’s my cousin.”

  “You have green eyes,” said the Captain.

  “So does his mother,” answered Ghuda.

  The Captain turned to face Ghuda. “Do you always answer for him?”

  “As often as I can, sir. Like I said, he does stupid things. The people of Odoskoni don’t call him Madman out of affection.” He pantomimed a man with little wits, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

  Another guard approached, pulling Suli along by the arm. “What have we here?” said the Captain.

  “That’s the cook’s monkey,” answered Janos.

  “What’s your name, boy?” asked the Captain.

  Ghuda said, “Suli of Odoskoni.”

  The Captain turned. “Quiet!”

  Borric said, “He’s my brother.”

  The Captain struck out, the back of his gloved hand smashing into Borric’s face. Tears came to Borric’s eyes, but he held himself in check, despite a sudden urge to skewer the Captain of the Imperial Keshian Guards.

  The Captain grabbed Suli by the chin and inspected him. “You have dark eyes.”

  Suli stammered, “My … mother had dark eyes.” The Captain looked hard at Ghuda. “I thought you said his mother had green eyes.”

  Without missing a beat, Ghuda retorted, “No, his mother had green eyes,” he said, pointing at Borric.

  Pointing at Suli he said, “His mother had dark eyes. Different mothers; same father.”

  Another guard approached and said, “No one else matches the description, sir.”

  The soldier holding Suli demanded, “Who is your father?” Suli glanced at Borric but the soldier said, “Answer me!”

  “Suli of Odoskoni,” the boy squeaked. “I was named for him.”

  The Captain struck the soldier. “Idiot.” He pointed at Borric. “The other one could hear the name.”

  Borric said, “Captain, take the boy away and ask him the name of our other brother.”

  The Captain motioned for it to be done, while Borric whispered to Ghuda, “He’s going to hold us.”

  “Then why this nonsense?” asked Ghuda in hushed tones.

  “Because the minute he’s certain he has the right pair, we’re dead before another minute follows.”

  “Kill on sight?” hissed Ghuda.

  Borric nodded yes, while the Captain came to stand before them. “Now, who is this mythical brother of your two liars?”

  “We have a brother Rasta, who is a drunkard,” answered Borric, silently praying the boy remembered the impromptu dialogue he had engaged in just before they encountered Salaya in Durbin.

  A moment later the soldier returned and said, “The boy says they have an older brother named Rasta who is a drunkard.”

  Borric could have kissed the boy but held his smile in check. The Captain said, “There is something about you two I don’t like.” He glanced over to where Janos Sabér waited. “You and the rest of your men can go, but I’m taking these two into custody.” He then looked at Ghuda and said, “Bring this one along, too.”

  Ghuda said, “Wonderful,” as guards disarmed him and bound his wrists. Borric and Suli were likewise bound, after all weapons were taken from them, and soon the three captives were being led along on lead ropes, trotting after the horses as best they could.

  The town of Jeeloge had a constable’s office, which in turn had a poor excuse for a cell, used mostly to hold troublesome farmers and herdsmen when arrested for brawling. Now it was the Imperial Captain and his company who used it, to the acute discomfort of the local constable. A retired soldier, with grey in his beard and a belly that hung over his belt, he was just the sort to keep rowdy farm boys in line, but unlikely to be up to any serious fighting. He had quickly agreed to the Captain’s demand that he absent himself from the premises.

  Borric had overheard him instructing his sergeant to send a post dispatch rider as quickly as possible to the city of Kesh, a request asking what to do with the three prisoners. Borric only made out part of the conversation, but it was obvious the orders came from one high up in the army, and certain precautions were being taken to prevent any undue attention being turned to this massive search. One thing about Kesh, Borric thought, it was a nation of so many people doing so many things, that this sort of operation could continue for a long while with perhaps only one citizen in a hundred even hearing about it. The day had gone and now the night was dragging out. An hour earlier, Suli had fallen asleep, any hope for an evening meal vanished with the constable. The Imperial Guard seemed to have little concern over something as trivial as the prisoners’ hunger.

  “Hello!” came the cheery voice from the window. Suli awoke with a jump.

  They all looked up and saw a grinning face at the small window above in the cell they were occupying. “Nakor!” Borric whispered.

  Motioning Ghuda to give him a leg up, Borric pulled himself up by the bars of the window, standing upon Ghuda’s shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might want another orange,” said the grinning little man. “Jail food is never very good.”

  Borric could only nod dumbly as the little man handed an orange through the bars. Borric tossed it to Suli who hungrily took a bite and spit the peel out.

  “We’ll have to take your word for that,” said the Prince. “They haven’t bothered to feed us.”

  Then
suddenly Borric said, “How did you get up here?” The window was a good eight feet up in the wall, and the little man didn’t seem to be hanging by the bars.

  “Never mind that. Do you want to get out?”

  Ghuda, who was beginning to wobble a bit under Borric’s weight, said, “There’s one of the all-time stupid questions asked by mortal man in the last thousand years. Of course we want out!”

  Grinning widely, the Isalani said, “Then stand over in that corner and cover your eyes.”

  Borric jumped down from Ghuda’s shoulders. Moving to the corner, they covered their eyes. There was a silent moment when nothing happened, then suddenly a shock hit Borric, as if a large hand slammed him against the wall and a loud boom deafened him. He winced at it, then opened his eyes. The wall was now breached. The constable’s jail was full of fine dust and the reek of sulfur. Several guards stood holding on to whatever gave them support, while others lay upon the floor, obviously blinded by whatever had opened the wall.

  Nakor stood next to four horses, all with saddles bearing the Imperial Army’s crest. “They won’t need these, I’m certain,” he said, handing over the reins to Borric.

  Suli stood fearfully, saying, “Master, I don’t know how to ride.”

  Ghuda picked up the boy and lifted him into the saddle of the nearest animal. “Then you’d better learn quickly. If you start to fall, just grab the horse’s mane and don’t!”

  Borric was in the saddle and said, “They’ll be after us in a moment. Let’s—”

  “No,” said Nakor. “I cut all their saddle girths and bridles.” Seemingly from nowhere he produced a wicked-looking knife, as if to illustrate the point. “But it still might be wise to move along, lest those alerted by the sound come investigate.”