Prince of the Blood

by Raymond Feist

  Borric sat back and thought. The boy might not be terribly educated, but he was not stupid. No doubt he knew his own life was forfeit if anyone learned of his involvement with the escaped slave. He most likely was hiding in another part of town, or perhaps even on a ship heading out of the city, working as a common seaman.

  Always a hearty eater, Borric felt his stomach knot. He had never truly been hungry before in his life, and he didn’t care for the feeling. He had been too miserable while traveling to Durbin to dwell much on his hunger; it was merely one among many afflictions. But now with his sunburn turned to a deep reddish tan and his strength almost returned in full, he was very aware of his empty stomach. He wondered if he could slip out into the early-morning bustle, and decided against trying. Redheaded slaves over six feet tall were certainly not common in this city and he would probably be caught before he got within a hundred paces of the kitchen. As if fate conspired to torment him, a familiar odor came wafting in on the morning breeze. The kitchen cooked bacon and ham for the Governor’s household. Borric’s mouth began to water, and he sat for a miserable minute, thinking of breakfast cakes and honey, boiled eggs, fruit with cream, hot slabs of ham, steaming fresh bread, pots of coffee.

  “No good can come from this,” he scolded himself, forcing himself back from the crack. Hunkering down in the dark, he attempted to discipline his mind away from the torment of hunger. All he need do was wait for night to fall, then he could steal into the kitchen and nick some food. Yes, that’s all he need do. Wait.

  Borric discovered that, like hunger, waiting was not to his liking. He would lie back for a time, then cross over to the crack in the roof, peer through, and wonder how much time had passed. Once he even dozed for a while, and was disappointed to discover that—judging from the nearly unchanged shadow angles—only minutes had passed when he had hoped for hours. He returned to his place of resting, a section of attic where the floor seemed a little less uncomfortable than the rest of the floor, more likely due to his imagination than any real difference. He waited and he was hungry. No, he corrected himself. He was ravenous.

  More time passed and again he dozed. Then to break the routine, he practiced some stretching exercises a Hadati warrior had once taught him and Erland, designed to keep muscles loose and toned at times when there was no room for sword practice or the other rigors common to warcraft. He moved one way then another, balancing tension and relaxation. To his astonishment, he discovered that not only did the exercises take his mind off his stomach, they made him feel better and calmer.

  For the better part of four hours, Borric sat near the crack, observing the comings and goings of those in the Governor’s courtyard. Several times, soldiers running messages hurried through Borric’s field of vision. He considered: if he could stay hidden here long enough—assuming he could steal food and not get caught—in a few more days they would assume he had somehow slipped out of their grasp. At that time he might be able to sneak aboard an outbound ship.

  Then what? He thought upon that prickly issue. It would do little good to return home, even if he should find a way. Father would only send fast riders south to Kesh with warnings to Erland to be cautious. No doubt he could be no more cautious than he already was. With Borric’s disappearance, Uncle Jimmy was sure to assume the worst and count Borric dead. It would take a gifted assassin to win past Earl James’s notice. As a boy, Jimmy had rightly been counted something of a legend in the city. When years younger than Borric’s present age, he was already a master thief and counted an adult by the Mockers. No mean feat that, Borric thought.

  “No,” he whispered to himself. “I must get to Erland as quickly as possible. Too much time will be lost if I return home first.” Then he wondered if perhaps he should attempt to reach Stardock. The magicians could do astonishing things and perhaps could provide him with a faster way yet to reach Kesh. But Jimmy had mentioned that Pug was leaving the day after they departed, so he was already gone. And the two Keshian magicians he left in charge were not men who appeared to Borric as likely candidates for generous help. There was something decidedly off-putting about both of them. And they were Keshian. Who knew how far this Lord Fire’s plotting reached?

  Looking up from his musing, he realized that night was falling. The evening meal was being prepared in the kitchen and the smell of meat roasting over a spit was nearly enough to make him mad. In a few hours, he told himself. Just relax and let the time pass.… It won’t be long. In just a few more hours, the servants will be in their own beds. Then it will be time to steal out and—

  Abruptly the trap moved and Borric’s heart raced as he readied the knife to defend himself. The trap raised up and a slight figure pulled himself into the trap. Suli Abul said, “Master?”

  Borric almost laughed from relief. “Here.”

  The boy scurried over and said, “I feared you might have been found, though I suspected you were wise enough to stay here and await my return.”

  Borric said, “Where did you go?”

  Suli was carrying a sack that Borric could barely make out in the gloom. “I stole out before dawn, master, and as you were sleeping soundly I chose not to disturb you. Since then I have been many places.” He opened the bag and brought forth a loaf of bread. Borric tore off a hunk and ate without having to be asked twice. Then the boy handed over a block of cheese and a small skin of wine.

  Through his full mouth, Borric asked, “Where did you get this?”

  The boy sighed, as if being back in the attic was a relief. “I have had a most perilous day, my kind master. I fled with the idea of perhaps leaving you, then considered what fate has offered. Should I be caught, I will be sold for a slave because of my incompetent theft. If I am linked with your escape, I will be dead. So, what are the risks? By hiding until you are caught and hoping you will not speak the name of Suli Abul before they kill you, I wager a death sentence against the possibility of regaining the life I had before these recent turns of events, which upon consideration is not a very grand thing. Or I can risk that poor life and return to help my young master against the day you return to your father, to reward your faithful servant.”

  Borric laughed. “And what reward shall you have if we get safely back to Krondor?”

  With a solemnity that almost made Borric laugh again, the boy said, “I wish to become your servant, master. I wish to be known as the Prince’s body servant.”

  Borric said, “But what about gold? Or perhaps a trade?”

  The boy shrugged. “What do I know of trade, master? I would be a poor merchant, and perhaps be ruined within a year. And gold? I would only spend it. But to be the servant of a great man is to be close to greatness in a way. Do you not see?”

  Borric’s laughter died in his throat before it was voiced. He realized that to this boy of the street, the position of a great man’s servant was the highest attainment he could imagine. Borric thought about the countless and nameless bodies that had surrounded him all his life, the servants who had brought this young son of the Royal House his clothing in the morning, who washed his back, who prepared his meals, each day. He doubted he knew more than one or two by name and perhaps only a dozen by sight. They were …part of the landscape, no more significant than a chair or a table. Borric shook his head, and sighed.

  “What is it, master?”

  Borric said, “I don’t know if I can promise you a position that close to me, personally, but I will guarantee that you’ll have a place in my household and that you will rise as high as your talents will take you. Is that fair enough?”

  The boy bowed with solemn formality. “My master is most generous.”

  Then the boy pulled some sausage from the sack. “I knew you would be a generous, kind master, so I returned with many things—”

  “Hold a moment, Suli. Where did you get all this?”

  The boy said, “In one of the rooms below, a woman’s sleeping chamber from its look, I found a comb with turquoise set within silver, left behind by a thoughtl
ess maid when the quarters were last vacated. I sold this to a man in the bazaar. I took the coins he gave me and purchased many things. Not to worry. I moved along and purchased each item from a different merchant, ensuring no one knew what business I was upon. Here.” He handed Borric a shirt.

  It was nothing fancy but obviously a significant improvement over the rough homespun the slavers had given him. Then the boy passed over a pair of cotton trousers, the kind worn by sailors throughout the Bitter Sea. “I could not find boots, master, that I could purchase, yet have enough left for food.”

  Borric smiled at the boy. “You did well. I can go without the boots. If we’re to pass as sailors, bare feet will not bring us any notice. But we’ll have to sneak to the harbor at night and hope no one sees this red hair of mine under a lamp.”

  “I have taken care of that, master.” The boy handed over a vial of some liquid and a comb. “I have this from a man who sells such to the older whores down by the waterfront. He claims it will not wash out nor run with water. It is called oil of Macassar.”

  Borric opened the vial and his nose was assaulted by a pungent, oily odor. “It better work. The smell will have people marking me.”

  “That will pass, according to the merchant.”

  “You’d better put it in my hair. I wouldn’t want to pour it over half my head. There’s barely enough light for you to see what you’re doing.”

  The boy moved behind him and ungently rubbed the vial’s contents into the Prince’s hair. He then combed it through, many times over, spreading it as evenly as possible. “With your sunburn, Highness, you will look every inch the Durbin sailor.”

  “And what of you?” asked Borric.

  “I have trousers and a shirt in the bag, too, my master. Suli Abul is known for his beggar’s robe. It is large enough for me to hide limbs when I play at being deformed.”

  Borric laughed as the boy continued to work on his hair. He sighed in relief as he thought, Just maybe we do have a chance to get out of this trap.

  Just before dawn, a sailor and his younger brother ventured into the streets near the Governor’s estate. As Borric had surmised, there was little activity near the Governor’s home, as it was logical to assume the fugitive was unlikely to be anywhere near the heart of Durbin authority. Which is why they made back toward the slave pens. If the Governor’s house was an unlikely place for the fugitives to hide, the slave quarters were even less likely. Borric was not entirely comfortable being in a rich part of town, as the presence of two obviously shabby figures near the residences of the wealthy and powerful was in and of itself sufficient to bring unwanted scrutiny upon them.

  When they were but a block from the slave quarters, Borric halted. Upon the wall of a storage shed was a newly hung broadside. Painted by skilled craftsmen, it proclaimed in red letters a reward. Suli said, “Master, what does it say?”

  Borric read aloud. “ ‘Murder most foul!’ it says. It says that I killed the wife of the Governor.” Borric’s face went pale. “Gods and demons!” He quickly read the entire broadside, then said, “They say a Kingdom-born house slave raped and killed his mistress, then fled into the city. They’ve put a reward of one thousand Golden Ecu on me.” Borric couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The boy’s eyes widened. “A thousand? That is a fortune.”

  Borric tried to calculate the worth. It came out to roughly five thousand Kingdom Sovereigns, or the income from a small estate for a year—a staggering sum indeed for the capture, dead or alive, of a runaway slave, but one who had murdered the city’s foremost lady of society. Borric shook his head in pained realization. “The swine murdered his own wife to give the guards a reason to kill me on sight,” he whispered.

  Suli shrugged. “It is no surprise when you understand that the Governor has a mistress who demands more and more from him. To put aside his first wife and marry his mistress—after the appropriate period of mourning, of course—will ease two sources of concern for him: keeping his mistress and Lord Fire happy. And while astoundingly beautiful, the mistress would do well to consider the future of one who marries a man who killed his first wife to make her his second. When she becomes older and less fair of face—”

  Borric looked around. “We better keep moving. The city will be at full speed within the hour.”

  Suli seemed unable to stifle his incessant chatter, except under the most dire circumstances. Borric didn’t attempt to shut him up, deciding the garrulous lad would look less suspicious than one who was sullenly glancing in all directions. “Now, master, we know how the Governor convinced the Three to help apprehend you. The Three and the Imperial Governor have little love amongst them, but they have less love for slaves who murder their lawful lords.”

  Borric could only agree. But he found the Governor’s means to achieve that reaction chilling. Even if he hadn’t loved the woman, he had lived with her for some number of years. Wasn’t there any compassion in him? wondered Borric.

  Rounding a corner, they saw the side of the slave pens. Because the auction had been canceled, the pens were especially crowded. Borric turned his face toward Suli and moved steadily, but not so hurried as to attract attention. To any guards who might be looking, he was simply a sailor speaking to a boy.

  A pair of guards walked around a corner and approached them. Instantly, Suli said, “No. You said I would have a full share this voyage. I am grown now. I do the work of a man! It was not my fault the nets fouled. It was Rasta’s fault. He was drunk. You always liked him better and take his side—”

  Borric hesitated only an instant, then replied in as gruff a voice as he could muster, “I said I would consider it. Be silent or I’ll leave you behind, little brother or not! See how you like another month working in Mother’s kitchen while I’m gone.” The guards gave the pair a quick glance, then continued on.

  Borric resisted the temptation of looking to see if the guards were paying attention. He would know quickly enough if they became suspicious. Then Borric turned another corner and collided with a man. For a brief instant the stranger looked into his eyes with a threatening mutter, his alcohol-laden breath in Borric’s face, then the man’s expression turned from drunken irritation to murderous hatred. “You!” said Salaya, reaching for the large dagger in the belt of his robe.

  Reacting instantly, Borric put his fingers together in a point and drove it as hard as he could into Salaya’s chest, right below the bottommost ribs. As his fingers smashed into the nerves there, Salaya’s breath was driven from his lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath, Salaya’s face turned crimson and his eyes went unfocused. Borric then struck hard into his throat, pulled him forward, and smashed down as hard as he could manage on the back of the slaver’s neck, at the base of the skull. Borric had him by the arm before the slaver hit the ground, and if any more guards chanced to glance their way a moment after the encounter, they would see nothing more suspicious than two friends, a man and boy, helping home a friend who had had too much to drink.

  Halfway down the street they came to an alley and turned into it, dragging the now-unconscious man along like so many sacks of rotten vegetables. Borric deposited him on a pile of refuse and quickly had his purse off. A fair number of Keshian and Kingdom coins weighed down the heavy leather pouch. That went inside Borric’s shirt. He removed the belt knife and sheath, wishing the slaver had carried a sword as well. As he hesitated as to what to do next, Suli stripped Salaya of his rings, four from his hands, two from his ears. Then the boy took off the slaver’s boots and hid them. “If we leave anything of value behind, it will look suspicious.” Stepping back, he said, “You can kill him now, master.”

  Borric halted. “Kill him?” Suddenly it registered. He had dreamed of revenging himself upon this swine, but all those visions had involved killing him in a duel, or bringing him before a magistrate on charges. “He’s unconscious.”

  “All the better, master. There will be no struggle.” Seeing Borric hesitate, he added, “Quickly, master, before someo
ne chances upon us. The city stirs and this alley will be traveled shortly. Someone is bound to find him soon. If he is not dead …” He let the consequences of that go unspoken.

  Steeling himself, Borric withdrew the knife he had taken from Salaya and held it. But then he was confounded by a completely unexpected concern: how to do it? Should he drive the knife into the man’s stomach, cut his throat, or what?

  Suli said, “If you wish not to kill a dog, master, let your servant do it for you, but it must be done now! Please, master.”

  The thought of letting the boy kill was even more repugnant to Borric, so he pulled his arm back and drove the knife into the slaver’s throat. There was not the slightest movement from Salaya. Borric stared in astonishment, then with a bitter laugh, he said, “He was already dead! The second blow must have broken his neck.” Borric shook his head in astonishment. “The punch to the chest and throat was one of the dirty fighting tricks taught me by James—not the sort of things noble sons usually learned, but one which I am glad to have been taught. I didn’t know the blow to the neck would be lethal.”

  Not caring for explanations, Suli said, “Let us go now, master! Please!” He tugged on Borric’s tunic, and the Prince let the boy pull him out of the alley.

  When he was clear of the sight of the dead slaver, Borric turned his thoughts away from revenge and back toward escape. Putting his hand upon Suli’s shoulder, he said, “Which way to the harbor?”

  Suli didn’t hesitate. He pointed down a long street and said, “That way.”

  “Then lead on,” was Borric’s answer. And the beggar boy led the Prince through a city ready to kill them both at a moment’s notice.

  “That one,” said Borric, indicating a small sailboat tied to a relatively lonely dock. It was a pinnace, the sort used as a tender, to run to and from larger ships in the harbor, carrying passengers, messages, and very small cargo. It was smaller than most, having only four oarlocks instead of the usual eight, and one mast rather than two. It was a flat bottom, with a drop centerboard; Borric judged it designed to work in shallows. But if handled right, it would do well upon the open sea, as long as the weather remained fair. As the entire Fleet of Durbin pirates had put out the day before to intercept the murdering slave, there was almost no activity in the harbor. But that condition wouldn’t last long, Borric was certain, as there were common citizens who had no concerns with the hunt for the murderer of the Governor’s wife. Soon the docks would be busy and the theft of the boat would be observed.