Prince of the Blood

by Raymond Feist

  “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 heatstroke. 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 farmland between the Vale of Dreams and the foothills of the Trollhome Mountains, as well as the one safe harbor 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 proven 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 lie 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 marveled 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 ransom 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 harbor 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 traveler 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.

  He had a plan. The only difficulty lay in getting cooperation from the other prisoners. If a long enough diversion could be arranged for, then he could be over the fence and out into the city. Borric shook his head. He realized as plans go, it wasn’t much.

  “Pssst!”

  Borric turned to see from where the odd sound came. Seeing nothing, he turned back into himself as he considered improvements on his plan.

  “Pssst! This way, young noble.” Borric looked again through the bars of the pen, but this time down, and in the scant shadows he saw a slight figure.

  A boy, no more than eleven or twelve years old, grinned up at him from the meager shelter of a large roof support. If he moved more than inches in any direction, he would certainly be spotted by the guard.

  Borric glanced around, seeing the two guards at the corner speaking to one another. “What?” he whispered.

  “Should you but divert the guards’ attention for an instant, noble sir, I will be indebted to you for ages,” came the answering whisper.

  Borric said, “Why?”

  “I need but a moment’s distraction, sir.”

  Counting no harm from it, save perhaps a blow for insolence, Borric nodded. Moving to where the guards stood, he said, “Hey! When do we eat?”

  Both guards blinked in confusion, then one snarled. He jammed the butt of his spear through the staves of the fence, and Borric had to dodge not to be struck. “Sorry I asked,” he said.

  Chuckling to himself, he moved his shoulders under the rough shirt they had given him, fighting the impulse to scratch. The sunburn was healing after being dressed for the last three days, but the peeling skin and the itching were making him doubly cross. The next slave auction was over a week away, and he knew he would be on the block. He was regaining his strength quickly.

  A tug at his sleeve caused him to turn and there beside him was the boy. “What are you doing here?”

  The boy gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I thought you were trying to escape the pens,” said Borric in a harsh whisper.

  The boy laughed. “No, noble youth. I needed the distraction you so magnanimously provided so I might enter the pen.”

  Borric looked heavenward. “Two hundred prisoners all dreaming continuously of a way out of here, and I have to meet the one madman in the world who wishes to break in! Why me?”

  The boy looked up to where Borric’s gaze went, and said, “To which deity does my lord speak?”

  “All of them. Look, what is this all about?”

  The boy took Borric’s elbow and steered him to the center of the pen, where they would be the least conspicuous to the guards. “It is a matter of some complexity, my lord.”

  “And why do you address me as ‘my lord’?”

  The boy’s face split with a grin, and Borric took a good
look at him. Round cheeks burned red by the sun dominated a brown face. What he could see of the boy’s eyes, made narrow slits by merry amusement, suggested they were dark to the point of being black. Under a hood several sizes too large, ill-cropped coarse black hair shot out at differing lengths.

  The boy made a slight bow. “All men are superior to one as low as I, my lord, and deserve respect. Even those pigs of guards.”

  Borric couldn’t help but smile at this imp. “Well, then, tell me why you, alone among sane men everywhere, would wish to break into this miserable company?”

  The boy sat upon the ground and motioned Borric to do likewise. “I am called Suli Abul, young sir. I am a beggar by trade. I am also, I am ashamed to admit, under threat of punishment from the Three. You know of the Three?” Borric nodded. “Then you know their wrath is great and their reach long. I saw an old merchant who had paused to sleep in the midday sun. From his torn purse, some coins had fallen. Had I waited until he had awoke, and chanced he would not miss his coins, then I would have but found them upon the ground, and none would think the worse of me. But not trusting the gods to keep the man from noticing his loss, I sought to pick them up while he dozed. As the Lady of Luck decreed, he did awake at the worst moment, and cried ‘thief!’ to all who were nearby. One who recognized me added my name to the shout, and I was pursued. Now I am being sought after by the Three for punishment. Where better to hide than among those already condemned to slavery?”

  Borric was silent for a moment, at a loss to answer that. Shaking his head in wonder, he asked, “Tell me, in nine days when we are to be sold, then what shall you do?”

  With a laugh, the boy said, “By then, gentle lord, I shall be gone.”

  “And where shall you go?” asked the Prince, his eyes narrowing.

  “Back to the city, young sir. For my transgressions are slight and the Three have much to concern their attentions. Some great issue is being decided now, at the Governor’s palace, or so the rumors in the streets tell. Many officials of the Three as well as Imperial envoys come and go. In any event, after a few days, those who are searching for me will be about other business and I may safely return to my craft.”

  Borric shook his head. “Can you get out as easily as you got in?”

  The boy shrugged. “Probably. Nothing in life is certain. I expect I shall be able to. If not, it’s the gods’ will.”

  Borric gripped the young beggar’s shirt, pulling him close. In whispers, he said, “Then, my philosophical friend, we shall cut a bargain. I helped you in, and you shall help me out.”

  The boy’s dark face paled. “Master,” he said, almost hissing between his teeth, “for one as adroit as I, we might contrive a means to release you from your captivity, but you are the size of a mighty warrior, and those manacles upon your wrists confine your movement.”

  “Have you the means for my release of these?”

  “How could I?” asked the frightened boy.

  “You don’t know? What kind of a thief are you?”

  The boy shook his head in denial. “A poor one, master, if the truth be known. It is the height of stupidity to steal in Durbin; therefore, I am also a stupid one. My thievery is of the lowest order, the most inconsequential of thefts. Upon the soul of my mother, I so swear, master! Today was my first attempt.”

  Shaking his head, Borric said, “Just what I need—an incompetent thief. I could get free myself if I had a pick.” He took a breath, calming himself so as not to frighten the boy more. “I need a hard piece of wire, so long. A thin nail might work.” He showed the boy by holding up thumb and forefinger, two inches of length. The manacle chain made the gesture difficult.

  “I can get that, master.”

  “Good,” said Borric, releasing the boy. The instant he was released, he turned as if to flee, but anticipating just such a reaction, Borric’s foot went out and tripped the beggar. Before the boy could scramble to his feet, the Prince had him by the shoulder of his garment. “You make a scene,” said the Prince, indicating the guards a short distance away with a nod of his head. “I know what you are going to do, boy. Don’t seek to flee my grasp. If I’m to be sold at auction in a week’s time, I might as well not go alone. Give me one more excuse to turn you over to the guards and I will. Understand?”

  “Yes, master!” whispered the boy, now completely terrified. Borric said, “I know you, boy. I’ve been taught by one who was to you as you are to the fleas who live in your shirt. Do you believe me?” Suli nodded, unwilling to trust his voice. “If you seek to betray me or leave me, I will ensure I don’t go to the block alone. We are in this as one, do you understand?” The boy nodded, and this time Borric saw his agreement wasn’t just to gain his freedom, but to show he believed Borric would indeed turn him over to the guards if he attempted to abandon the Prince. Borric released him, and the boy fell hard upon the ground. This time he didn’t attempt to run, but simply sat upon the hard-packed dirt, a look of fear and hopelessness upon his face. “Oh, Father of Mercies, I pray you, forgive my foolishness. Why, oh, why did you cast me in with this mad lord?”

  Borric settled to one knee. “Can you get me the wire, or were you just lying?”

  The boy shook his head. “I can get it.” He rose to his feet and motioned Borric to follow.

  Borric followed him to the fence. The boy turned his back so the guards would not see his face should they look in his direction. Pointing to the boards, the boy said, “Some of these are warped. Look for what you need.”

  Borric turned his back as well, but studied the fencing from the corner of his eye. About three boards down, a warp had bowed the fence outward slightly, pushing a nail out. The Prince leaned against that board and could feel the nailhead poking him in the shoulder.

  Borric turned suddenly and pushed the boy against the board. The boy leaned into it and, in one motion, Borric hooked the edge of his metal cuff over the nail. “Now pray I don’t bend it,” he whispered. Then with a quick yank, the nail was free.

  Stooping to pick it up, he moved to hide his prize from any watching eyes. Glancing around, he saw with relief that no one had bothered to take note of his odd behavior.

  With little movements, he had one, then the other manacle off. He quickly rubbed his chafed wrists, then put the manacles back on.

  “What are you doing?” whispered the young beggar.

  “If the guards see me without the bracelets, they’ll come investigate. I just wanted to see how difficult it was going to be to get them off. Obviously, not very.”

  “Where has a noble son such as yourself learned such a thing?” asked Suli.

  Borric smiled. “One of my instructors had a … colorful childhood. Not all his lessons were standard teaching for—” He had almost said “Princes,” but at the last instant, he said, “noble sons.”

  “Ah!” said the boy. “Then you are one of noble birth. I thought as much from your speech.”

  “My speech?” asked Borric.

  “You speak like one of the commons, most noble lord. Yet your accent is that of one from the highest-born families, even royalty itself.”

  Borric considered. “We’re going to have to change that. If we are forced to hide in the city for any length of time, I must pass as a commoner.”

  The boy sat. “I can teach you.” Looking down at the manacles, he said, “Why the special confinement, son of a most noble father?”

  “They think I’m a magician.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Then why have they not put you to death? Magicians are most troublesome to confine. Even the poor ones can visit boils and hairy warts upon those who displease them.”

  Borric smiled. “I’ve almost convinced them I am a poor tutor.”

  “Then why have they not removed the chains?”

  “I’ve almost convinced them.”

  The boy smiled. “Where shall we go, master?”

  “To the harbor, where I plan to steal a small boat and make for the Kingdom.”

  Th
e boy nodded his approval. “That is a fine plan. I shall be your servant, young lord, and your father will reward me richly for helping his son escape this evil den of black-souled murderers.”

  Borric had to laugh. “You’re given to a noble turn of phrase yourself, now, aren’t you?”

  The boy brightened. “One must be gifted in the use of words to earn one’s living as a beggar, my most glorious lord. To simply ask for alms will bring nothing but kicks and cuffing from all but the kindest of men. But to threaten them with curses of the most elaborate sort will bring gifts.

  “If I say, ‘May your wife’s beauty turn to ugliness,’ what merchant would bother to hesitate in his passing. But should I say, ‘May your mistress grow to resemble your wife! And may your daughters do likewise!’ then he’ll pay many coppers for me to remove the curse, lest his daughters grow to look like his wife and he can find no husbands for them, and his mistress grow to look like his wife and he lose his pleasure.”

  Borric grinned, genuinely amused. “Have you such powers of cursing that men fear you so?”

  The boy laughed. “Who’s to say? But what man would hoard a few coppers against the chance the curse might work?”

  Borric sat down. “I shall share my meals with you, as they account the bread and stew. But I must be free of this place before they finally tally for auction.”

  “Then they will raise alarm and search for you.”

  Borric smiled. “That is what I wish them to do.”

  Borric ate his half of his dinner and gave the plate to the boy. Suli wolfed the food down and licked the tin plate to get the last bits.

  For seven days they had shared Borric’s rations, and while they both felt hunger, it was sufficient for them; the slavers gave generous portions for those heading toward the auction. No dark circles under eyes, nor hollow cheeks, nor shrunken frames would lower price if a few meals would prevent it.

  If any others had noticed the unorthodox manner in which the boy had joined the company in the pen, no one commented upon it. The slaves were quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts, and little attempt was made to converse. Why bother to make friends with those you would most likely never see again?