Prince of the Blood, the King's Buccaneer

by Raymond E. Feist

  Two horses were brought forward and a soldier deferentially held out the reins to each brother. Seeing the blood along Erland’s side, a Lieutenant of the Guard moved his horse nearby and said in mock sympathy, ‘Does His Highness require help?’

  Erland negotiated the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle without aid. In irritated tones, he answered, ‘Only when I see Father, Cousin Willy, and I don’t think you can do much for me then.’

  Lieutenant William nodded and in unsympathetic tones, he whispered, ‘He did say come home at once, Erland.’

  Erland nodded in resignation. ‘We just wanted to relax for a day or two before—’

  William couldn’t resist laughing at his cousins’ predicament. He had often seen them bring disaster down upon themselves and he never could understand their appetite for such punishment. He said, ‘Maybe you could run for the border. I could get very stupid following you.’

  Erland shook his head. ‘I think I’ll wish I had taken your offer, after tomorrow morning’s court.’

  William laughed again. ‘Come along, this dressing down won’t be much worse than a dozen you’ve already had.’

  Baron James, Chancellor of Krondor and first assistant to the Duke of Krondor, quickly mounted his own horse. ‘To the palace,’ he ordered, and the company turned to escort the twin princes, Borric and Erland, to the palace.

  Arutha, Prince of Krondor, Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm, and Royal Heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat quietly attentive to the business of the court being conducted before him. A slender man in his youth, he had not gained the bulk commonly associated with middle age, but rather had become harder, more angular in features, losing what little softening effects youth had given his lanky appearance. His hair was still dark, though enough grey had come with the twenty years of ruling Krondor and the West to speckle it. His reflexes had slowed only slightly over the years, and he was still counted one of the finest swordsmen in the Kingdom, though he rarely had reason to exercise his skill with the rapier. His dark brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, a gaze that seemed to miss nothing, in the opinion of many who served the Prince. Thoughtful, even brooding at times, Arutha was a brilliant military leader. He had rightfully won his reputation during the nine years of the Riftwar which had ended the year before the twins’ birth after taking command of the garrison at Crydee, his family’s castle, when only a few months older than his sons were now.

  He was counted a hard but fair ruler, quick to dispense justice when the crime warranted, though often given to acts of leniency at the request of his wife, the Princess Anita. And that relationship more than anything typified the administration of the Western Realm: hard, logical, even-handed justice, tempered with mercy. While few openly sang Arutha’s praises, he was well respected and honoured, and his wife was beloved by her subjects.

  Anita sat quietly upon her throne, her green eyes looking off into space. Her royal manner masked her concern for her sons from all but those who knew her most intimately. That her husband had ordered the boys brought to the great hall for morning court, rather than to their parents’ private quarters last night, showed more than anything else his displeasure. Anita forced herself to be attentive to the speech being given by a member of the Guild of Weavers; it was her duty also to show those coming before her husband’s court the consideration of listening to every petition or request. The other members of the royal family were not normally required at morning court, but since the twins had returned from their service upon the border at Highcastle, it had become a family gathering.

  Princess Elena stood at her mother’s side. She looked a fair compromise between her parents, having red-brown hair and fair skin from her mother but her father’s dark and intelligent eyes. Those who knew the royal family well often observed that if Borric and Erland resembled their uncle, the King, then Elena resembled her aunt, the Baroness Carline of Salador. And Arutha had observed on more than one occasion she had Carline’s renowned temper.

  Prince Nicholas, Arutha and Anita’s youngest child, had avoided the need to stand next to his sister, by hiding from his father’s sight. He stood behind his mother’s throne, beyond his father’s gaze, on the first step off the dais. The door to the royal apartments was hidden from the eyes of those in the hall, down three steps, where, in years past, all four children had played the game of huddling on the first step, listening to their father conduct court, enjoying the delicious feeling of eavesdropping. Nicky waited for the arrival of his two brothers.

  Anita glanced about with that sudden sense mothers have that one of their children is somewhere he shouldn’t be. She spied Nicholas waiting down by the door, and motioned him to stand close. Nicky had idolized Borric and Erland, despite them having little time for the boy and constantly teasing him. They just couldn’t find much in common with their youngest sibling, since he was twelve years younger.

  Prince Nicholas hobbled up the three broad steps and moved to his mother’s side and, as it had every day since his birth, Anita’s heart broke. The boy had a deformed foot, and neither surgeon’s ministrations nor priest’s spell had any effect, save to enable him to walk. Unwilling to hold up the deformed baby to public scrutiny, Arutha had ignored custom and refused to show the boy at the Presentation, the holiday in honour of a royal child’s first public appearance, a tradition that may have died with Nicholas’s birth.

  Nicky turned when he heard the door open, and Erland peered through. The youngest Prince grinned at his brothers as they gingerly slipped through the door. Nicky scrambled down the three steps with his canted gait to intercept them, and gave each a hug. Erland visibly winced and Borric bestowed an absent pat on the shoulder.

  Nicky followed the twins as they slowly mounted the stairs behind the thrones, coming to stand behind their sister. She glanced over her shoulder long enough to stick out her tongue and cross her eyes, causing all three brothers to force themselves not to laugh. They knew no one else in court could see her fleeting pantomime. The twins had a long history of tormenting their little sister, who gave back as good as she got. She would think nothing of embarrassing them in the King’s own court.

  Arutha, sensing some exchange between his children, glanced over and gifted his four offspring with a quick frown, enough to silence any potential mirth. His gaze lingered on his elder sons and showed his anger in full measure, though only those close to him would recognize it as such. Then his attention was back upon the matter before the court. A minor noble was being advanced into a new office, and while the four royal children might not find it worthy of much dignity, the man would count this among one of the high points of his life. Arutha had tried to impress such awareness upon them over the years but continuously failed.

  Overseeing the Prince’s court was Lord Gardan, Duke of Krondor. The old soldier had served with Arutha, and his father before him, thirty years and more. His dark skin stood in stark contrast to his beard, almost white in colour, but he still had the alert eyes of one whose mind had lost none of its edge and a ready smile for the royal children. A commoner by birth, Gardan had risen on his ability, and despite an often expressed desire to retire and return to his home in Far Crydee, he had remained in Arutha’s service, first as Sergeant in the garrison at Crydee, then Captain of the Prince’s Royal Household, then Knight-Marshal of Krondor. When the previous Duke of Krondor, Lord Volney, had died unexpectedly after seven years’ loyal service in his office, Arutha had awarded the office to Gardan. Despite the old soldier’s protestations of not being suited to the nobility, he had proven an able administrator as well as a gifted soldier.

  Gardan finished intoning the man’s new rank and privileges and Arutha preferred a terribly oversized parchment with ribbons and seals embossed upon it.

  The man took his award of office and retired to the crowd, to the hushed congratulations of others in court.

  Gardan nodded to the Master of Ceremonies, Jerome by name, and the thin man brought himself to his full hei
ght. Once a boyhood rival of Baron James, the office suited Jerome’s self-important nature. He was, by all accounts, a thorough bore and his preoccupation with trivia made him a natural for the post. His love of detail manifested itself in the exquisite stitching of his cloak of office and the pointed chin beard he spent hours in trimming. In pompous tones, he spoke: ‘If it pleases Your Highness, His Excellency, Lord Torum Sie, Ambassador from the Royal court of Great Kesh.’

  The Ambassador, who had been standing off to one side, conferring with his advisors, approached the dais and bowed. By his attire, it was clear he was of the true Keshian people, for his head was shaved. His scarlet coat was cut away, revealing a pair of yellow pantaloons and white slippers. His chest was bare in the Keshian fashion, a large golden torque of office decorating his neck. Each item of clothing was delicately finished in almost imperceptible needlework, with tiny jewels and pearls decorating each seam. The effect was as if he was bathed in shimmering sparkles as he moved. He was easily the most splendid figure in court.

  ‘Highness,’ he said, his speech tinged by a slight singsong accent. ‘Our Mistress, Lakeisha, She Who Is Kesh, inquires as to the health of Their Highnesses.’

  ‘Convey our warmest regards to the Empress,’ responded Arutha, ‘and tell her we are well.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ the Ambassador answered. ‘Now, I must beg of His Highness an answer to the invitation sent by my mistress. The seventy-fifth anniversary of Her Magnificence’s birth is an event of unsurpassed joy to the Empire. We will host a Jubilee that will be celebrated for two months. Will Your Highnesses be joining us?’

  Already the King had sent his apologies, as had the ruler of every neighbouring sovereignty from Queg to the Easter Kingdoms. While there had been peace between the Empire and her neighbours for an unusually long time – eleven years since the last major border clash – no ruler was foolish enough to come within the borders of the most feared nation upon Midkemia. Those rejections were considered proper. The invitation to the Prince and Princess of Krondor was another matter.

  The Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles was almost a nation unto itself, with the responsibility for rulership given to the Prince of Krondor. Only the broadest policy came from the King’s court in Rillanon. And it was Arutha, as often as not, who had been the one to deal with Kesh’s Ambassadors, for the majority of potential conflict between Kesh and the Kingdom was along the Western Realm’s southern border.

  Arutha looked at his wife, and then the Ambassador. ‘We regret that the press of official duty prevents us from undertaking so long a journey, Your Excellency.’

  The Ambassador’s expression didn’t change, but a slight hardening around the eyes indicated the Keshian considered the rejection close to an insult. ‘That is regrettable, Highness. My mistress did so consider your presence vital – a gesture of friendship and goodwill.’

  The odd comment was not lost upon Arutha. He nodded. ‘Still, we would consider ourselves remiss in our friendship and goodwill to our neighbours in the south if we did not send one who could represent the Royal House of the Isles.’ The Ambassador’s eyes at once fixed upon the twins. ‘Prince Borric, Heir Presumptive to the Throne of the Isles, shall be our representative at the Empress’s Jubilee, my lord.’ Borric, suddenly the focus of scrutiny, found himself standing more erect, and felt an unexpected need to tug at his tunic. ‘And his brother, Prince Erland, will accompany him.’

  Borric and Erland exchanged startled glances. ‘Kesh!’ Erland whispered, astonishment barely contained.

  The Keshian Ambassador inclined his head toward the Princes a moment in appreciation. ‘A fitting gesture of respect and friendship, Highness. My mistress will be pleased.’

  Arutha’s gaze swept the room, and for an instant fixed upon a man at the rear of the room, then continued on. As the Keshian Ambassador withdrew, Arutha rose from his throne and said, ‘We have much business before us this day; court will resume tomorrow at the tenth hour of the watch.’ He offered his hand to his wife, who took it as she stood. Escorting the Princess from the dais, he whispered to Borric, ‘You and your brother: in my chambers in five minutes.’ All four royal children bowed formally as their father and mother passed, then fell into procession behind them.

  Borric glanced at Erland and found his own curiosity mirrored in the face of his twin. The twins waited until they were out of the hall and Erland turned and grabbed Elena, spinning her roughly around in a bear hug. Borric gave her a solid whack on the backside, despite the softening effect of the folds of fabric of her gown. ‘Beasts!’ she exclaimed. Then she hugged each in turn. ‘I hate to say this, but I am glad to see you back. Things have been dreadfully dull since you left.’

  Borric grinned. ‘Not as I hear it, little sister.’

  Erland put his arm around his brother’s neck and whispered in mock conspiracy, ‘It has come to my attention that two of the Prince’s squires were caught brawling a month ago, and the reason seems to be which would escort our sister to the Festival of Banapis.’

  Elena fixed both brothers with a narrow gaze. ‘I had nothing to do with those idiots brawling.’ Then she brightened. ‘Besides, I spent the day with Baron Lowery’s son, Thorn.’

  Both brothers laughed. ‘Which is also what we heard,’ said Borric. ‘Your reputation is reaching even to the Border Barons, little sister! And you not yet sixteen!’

  Elena hiked up her skirts and swept past her brothers. ‘Well, I’m almost the age Mother was when she first met Father, and speaking of Father, if you don’t get to his study, he’ll roast your livers for breakfast.’ She reached a point a dozen paces away, swirled in a flurry of silks, and again stuck her tongue out at her brothers.

  Both laughed, then Erland noticed Nicky standing close by. ‘Well, then, what have we here?’

  Borric made a show of glancing around, above Nicky’s head. ‘What do you mean? I see nothing.’

  Nicky’s expression turned to one of distress. ‘Borric!’ he said, almost whining.

  Borric glanced down. ‘Why, it’s …’ He turned to his brother. ‘What is it?’

  Erland slowly walked around Nicky. ‘I’m not sure. It’s too small to be a goblin, yet too big to be a monkey – save perhaps a very tall monkey.’

  ‘Not broad enough in the shoulders to be a dwarf, and too finely tailored to be a beggar boy—’

  Nicky’s face clouded over. Tears began to form in his eyes. ‘You promised!’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. He looked up at his brothers as they stood grinning down at him, then with tears upon his cheeks he kicked Borric in the shins, turned, and fled, his half-limping, rolling gait not slowing him as he scampered down the hall, the sound of his sobs following after.

  Borric rubbed at the barked shin. ‘Ow. The boy can kick.’ He looked at Erland. ‘Promised?’

  Erland rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Not to tease him anymore.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘He’s sure to run to Mother and she’ll speak to Father and—’

  Borric winced. ‘And we’ll get another round of lectures.’

  Then as one they said, ‘Father!’ and hurried toward Arutha’s private quarters. The guard stationed at the door, seeing the approaching brothers, opened the doors for them.

  Once inside, the twins found their father seated in his favourite chair, an old thing of wood and leather, but which he preferred to any of the dozen others in the large conference hall. Standing slightly to his left were Barons James and Locklear. Arutha said, ‘Come in, you two.’

  The twins came to stand before their father, Erland moving with a slight awkwardness, as his injured side had stiffened overnight. ‘Something wrong?’ asked Arutha.

  Both sons smiled weakly. Their father missed little. Borric said, ‘He tried a beat and counter-lunge when he should have parried in six. The fellow got inside his guard.’

  Arutha’s voice was cold. ‘Brawling again. I should have expected it, as Baron James obviously did.’ To James he said, ‘Anyone killed?’

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p; James said, ‘No, but it was a bit close with the son of one of the city’s more influential shippers.’

  Arutha’s anger surfaced as he slowly rose from his chair. A man able to hold emotions in check, the sight of such a display was rare, and for those who knew him well, unwelcome. He came to stand before the twins and for a moment appeared on the verge of striking them. He stared into the eyes of each. He bit off each word as he sought to regain control. ‘What can you two possibly have been thinking of?’

  Erland said, ‘It was self-defence, Father. The man was trying to skewer me.’

  Borric chimed in, ‘The man was cheating. He had an extra Blue Lady up his sleeve.’

  Arutha almost spat as he said, ‘I don’t care if he had an extra deck up his sleeve. You aren’t common soldiers, damn it! You are my sons!’

  Arutha walked around them, as if inspecting horses or reviewing his guard. Both boys endured the close perusal, knowing their father’s mood brooked no insolence.

  At last he threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation and said, ‘These aren’t my sons.’ He walked past the twins to stand next to the two Barons. ‘They’ve got to be Lyam’s,’ he said, invoking the King’s name. Arutha’s brother had been known for his temper and brawling as a youth. ‘Somehow Anita married me, but bore the King’s ruffian brats.’ James could only nod in agreement. ‘It must be some divine plan I don’t understand.’

  Returning his attention to his boys, he said, ‘If your grandfather still lived, he’d have you over a barrel, a leather strap in his hand, no matter your size or age. You’ve acted like children, once again, and should be treated like children.’

  His voice rose as he walked back before them, ‘I sent orders for you two to come home at once! But do you obey? No! Instead of coming straight away to the palace, you vanish into the Poor Quarter. Two days later, Baron James finds you brawling in a tavern.’ He paused, then in a near shout, he exclaimed, ‘You could have been killed!’