Prince of the Blood

by Raymond Feist

  Borric looked about and pointed to a coil of old, filthy rope that lay nearby. Suli picked it up, and slung the wet, foul-smelling coil over his shoulder. Borric then picked up a discarded wooden crate, pushing the open slats closed. “Follow me,” he said.

  No one paid any attention to two sailors walking purposefully toward the small boat at the end of the docks. Borric put the crate down and jumped into the boat, quickly untying the bowline. He turned to find Suli standing in the rear of the boat, an open look of perplexity upon his face. “Master, what do I do?”

  Borric groaned. “You’ve never sailed?”

  “I have never been on a boat before in my life, master.”

  Borric said, “Bend down and look like you’re doing something. I don’t want anyone to notice a confused sailor boy on board. When we’re under way, just do what I tell you.”

  Borric quickly had the boat pushed free of the dock, and after a fitful start, the sail was up and the boat was moving steadily toward the harbor mouth. Borric gave Suli a quick list of terms and some duties. When he was done, he said, “Come take the tiller.” The boy moved to sit where the Prince had, and Borric gave him the tiller and the boom hawser. “Keep it pointed that way,” the Prince instructed, pointing at the harbor mouth, “while I see what we have here.”

  Borric went to the front of the boat and pulled a small boat’s locker out from under the foredeck. The box was unlocked and inside he found little of value: a single additional sail—he couldn’t tell until he unfolded it if it was a spare mainsail or a spinnaker—a rusty scaling knife left over from when the boat had belonged to an honest fisherman, and some frayed line. He doubted any fish caught on that line would be big enough for more than bait. There was also a small wooden bucket bound in iron, used as a bailer or to pull up water to keep a catch wet, back when this boat was used for fishing. A rusty lantern without oil was his only other discovery. Turning to face the boy who studied the sail and held the tiller with fierce concentration on his face, Borric said, “I don’t suppose you have any more bread or cheese left?”

  With a look of sincere apology, the boy said, “No, master.”

  One thing about this change in his circumstances, Borric commented to himself; hunger is becoming a way of life.…

  The wind was a brisk nor’easter, and the pinnace was fastest in a broad beam reach, so Borric turned her north by northwest as he left the harbor mouth. The boy looked both terrified and exhilarated. He had been babbling most of the way through the harbor, obviously his means of dealing with his fear, but as they had exited the harbor mouth, with no more than a casual glance by the deck crew of a large lateen-rigged caravel, the boy’s fear had vanished. Borric had sailed intentionally close to the ship, as if unconcerned by its presence, but rather irritated by the need to sail around it.

  Now with the harbor mouth behind them, Borric said, “Can you climb?”

  The boy nodded, and Borric said, “From the front—and mind the sail—climb the mast to that ring up there and hang on. Look in all directions and tell me what you see.”

  The boy shinnied up the mast like one born to it and gripped the observation ring at the top of the small mast. It swayed dramatically with the additional weight at the top, but the boy didn’t seem to mind. Yelling down, he said, “Master! There are small white things along that way!” He pointed eastward, then swept with his hand toward the north.

  “Sails?”

  “I think so, master. They mark the horizon as far as I can see.”

  “What about to the north?”

  “I think I see some sails there, too, master!”

  Borric swore. “What of to the west?”

  The boy squirmed and shouted, “Yes, there are some there, too.”

  Borric considered his choices. He had thought to escape to Ranom, a small trading port to the west, or if need be, LiMeth, a modest city high up on the southern peninsula below the Straits of Darkness. But if they had some pickets established just against that choice, he would have to put out farther north, perhaps reaching the Free Cities eventually—if he didn’t starve first—or brave the straits. This time of the year the straits were only moderately dangerous, unlike the winter, when they were impassable, save for an exceptional brave, or stupid, sailor.

  Borric signaled for Suli to climb down and when the boy was near, the Prince said, “I think we’ll have to run to the northwest and get around the pickets.” He glanced at the sun and said, “If we steer away from those western pickets, they’re sure to come running, but if we hold a steady course as if we’re simply going about our business, we may fool them.” He looked down. “See how the water changes color from here”—he pointed—“to there?”

  The boy nodded. “That’s because this is a deep channel, and that is a coral reef. This boat has a very shallow draft, so we can slip above those reefs, but that big ship we saw at the harbor would bottom out here and crash. We must also be cautious; some of these reefs are too near the surface for even our small boat, but if we are alert, we can avoid them.”

  The boy looked at Borric with fear in his eyes. He obviously felt overwhelmed by what the Prince was saying and didn’t understand. “That’s all right,” said Borric. “I’ll tell you what to look for if we have to flee.”

  He glanced at the distant western horizon, where he could barely see a single white dot on the surface of blue-green. “Anything in close to shore will have just as shallow a draft as we have and probably be faster.” Checking the luff of the sail to make sure he was at the proper angle to the wind for maximum speed, Borric said, “Just keep watching that white speck on the western horizon, Suli, and tell me if it starts to get bigger.”

  With concentration that bordered on the single-minded, the boy hung over the windward side of the boat, using the angle of the craft as a means to sit at the highest perch possible, short of climbing the mast again. For the better part of an hour the white spot appeared to neither shrink nor grow, then suddenly it was heading straight at them. “Master!” the boy yelled. “They are coming!”

  Borric turned the craft, attempting to get the maximum angle to the wind for speed, but the sail slowly grew. It was a faster craft. “Damn,” he swore. “They’ll overtake us if we keep running.”

  Suli shouted, “Master, another!”

  As if summoned by the first ship to intercept the pinnace, a second sail appeared upon the northern horizon. “We’re cut off,” yelled Borric. He swung the tiller hard about, cursing himself for a fool. Of course the guards at the harbor mouth had been lax. They were instructed to intercept only those who looked like the runaway, and could clearly see that the two sailors were neither red headed. But the ships on picket would only know a sail was on the horizon. They would intercept, and Borric wanted nothing to do with close inspection. In Durbin, he might have tried to bluff his way out with a contrived story, but out here, with freedom so close, he wasn’t going to chance another capture. To be caught was to be killed, he reminded himself.

  Borric looked about and said, “Come here!”

  The boy hurried to Borric’s side and the Prince gave him the tiller and boom line. “Hold on this course.”

  Borric moved quickly to the front of the boat and took the second sail from the locker. He quickly pulled it open and discovered it was a spinnaker. He attached it to the front of the mast, but didn’t raise it. “Hurry, master!” cried the boy.

  “Not now. It would only slow us down. We’re at the wrong angle.” Borric returned to the tiller.

  The two other boats were turning to give chase and now Borric could make them out. The northern interceptor was a large two-masted galleon, fast running before the wind, but slow to maneuver and with a deep draft. He knew that captain wouldn’t follow him into the reefs. But the first boat they had seen was a fore-and-aft-rigged, sleek-looking sloop. Newly found upon the Bitter Sea over the last twenty years, they were favored by pirates working the shoals of the southern coast. Faster than the pinnace in a light wind, they
were maneuverable and had almost as shallow a draft. Borric’s only hope was to get past the sloop, put on more canvas, and get into the shallowest water possible. Only in a very heavy wind in a broad reach could his pinnace possibly outrun that boat.

  The larger boat moved to cut off Borric’s smaller craft and he eased off the tiller, turning more and more up-wind. Then he jibbed his boat and left the galleon wallowing close-hauled into the wind, its speed evaporating like water on a hot stone.

  The sloop turned to cut him off as he sailed back toward the reef, and Borric spilled wind from his sail, letting the captain of the larger boat think he had cut off the fugitives. Borric concentrated. It was going to be a very close thing, and any miscalculation would leave him either too much room between the sloop and pinnace, so the larger boat could turn again and intercept him, or bring them too close, so they could be grappled and boarded. Borric pulled hard over on the tiller, as if attempting to turn back away once more. Sailing just shy of directly into the eye of the wind was the only point of sailing he was faster at than the sloop in this light breeze, but not by much. And if he attempted to stay that course, he would end up sailing directly back to the galleon.

  He remembered the first time he had brought a sail-boat—a small twelve-foot dingy with sail—directly in the wind when he first learned to sail, and found the boat sailing backward! His tutor had tried to hide his mirth, but Erland had been openly mocking about it until he fell to the same fate a week later. Keeping close to a headwind and keeping forward motion was something a trained crew could manage, but here he had only himself and one inexperienced boy.

  Borric let the pursuing craft get near enough to make out the crew, nearly thirty unsavory-looking thugs, all armed with sword and pike. If there are archers on the boat, he thought to himself, we’ll never make it alive.

  Then he surprised the crew of the sloop and Suli both by jibbing his boat directly toward the larger craft. Suli cried out and threw his arms before his face, expecting a collision, but rather than the crack of splitting timbers, the only sound above the sounds of the sea were the loud oaths from the sailors on the sloop. The sloop’s helmsman reacted as Borric hoped he would, turning his wheel hard over. The sloop’s captain’s curses filled the air. The helmsman was now steering away from the boat they wanted to come alongside and grapple, and he started to turn the wheel back. But the damage had been done.

  Borric’s pinnace stood still, head directly into the wind, and Borric shouted, “Raise that centerboard!” Suli did as he was instructed, and the boat was left trembling in the teeth of the wind, then started moving slightly backward. Unlike the dinghy of his youth, this boat would not move sternward obediently, but would want to spin. The trick was to control the turn. Like a dancer spinning on her heels, then sliding across the dance floor, the boat stopped for an instant, started to move backward, then moved sideways until full into the wind, where it heeled over a moment, then swung away from the sloop, coming quickly around. The sound of the canvas snapping taut echoed across the waters as the pinnace seemed to jump away, running before the wind. “Drop the board!” Borric shouted to Suli and he obeyed. Astonished-looking sailors stood at the rail of the sloop with their mouths open. Then one made so bold as to attempt to leap across the narrow gap between. He fell only a few feet short of the stern of Borric’s craft.

  Borric yelled, “Suli! Come here!”

  The boy scampered to take the tiller from Borric, while the Prince raced the mast. The instant he was sure they were on a running broad reach again, he hauled the spinnaker aloft. He hoped it would give the pinnace just enough extra speed to stay away from the sloop.

  The captain of the sloop, swearing mightily, ordered his men to come about. Quickly, the nimble boat turned and gave chase. Borric divided his attention fore and aft, watching to see if the larger boat was overtaking them, then looking to see they stayed clear of dangerous shoals.

  Suli sat with eyes wide with terror, listening as Borric shouted, “A little more to starboard!”

  The boy yelled, “What, master?” He stared at the Prince in confusion, not understanding the nautical term.

  Borric yelled back, “More to the right!” Borric turned his attention back to the dangers ahead. He shouted to Suli, directing him first to come a little right, then left, then right again, as they steered a maddening course through the shoals.

  Borric glanced back and saw that the larger boat had closed some distance. He cursed. Even with the spinnaker, they were not moving fast enough. He yelled, “Turn toward shore!”

  The boy reacted instantly, turning so hard Borric almost lost his footing. Borric looked for rocks, rocks just below the surface of the water that they could avoid but that would bring their pursuer to a nasty halt.

  As they moved closer to shore, the boat’s up and downward movement became more pronounced, as the ground swells moved toward the breaker line. The sound of surf could now be heard clearly. Borric pointed with one hand. “There! Steer there!”

  Praying to the Goddess of Luck, Borric said, “Let us hit that on the crest!”

  As if the Laughing Lady had heard him, Borric felt the boat on the rise as they passed over the spot he had marked. Even so, as they started to feel the boat come down, a groaning, tearing sound of the bottom scraping rock could be heard and a teeth-jarring vibration came up through the hull of the boat. The centerboard seemed to pop upward as if by its own volition, then fell back into place.

  Suli’s face turned ashen as he crouched, holding on to the tiller as if it were his only connection to life. Borric shouted, “Come left!” and the boy yanked upon the tiller. Again the sound of wood scraping over rock filled their ears, but the boat settled down into a trough and rose without further difficulty.

  Borric glanced back and saw the sloop heeling over as the captain gave orders to his frantic crew to turn away from shoals too lethal even for his shallow craft. Borric gave a low whistle of relief.

  Turning his mind to what to do next, he signaled Suli to head slightly away from the coast, picking up speed as they moved out of the tide’s pull and into a better angle away from the wind. The freshening breeze moved the boat along, and Borric could see the sloop fall farther behind with every minute as the captain had to stay outside the reef that now lay between the two boats.

  Borric lowered the makeshift spinnaker and took the tiller from Suli. The boy grinned at him with an expression that was half delight, half terror. Perspiration soaked the lad’s tunic and Borric found himself wiping his drenched brow.

  Borric pointed the boat slightly upwind and could see the sloop’s sail falling off even farther as the reef ran off toward the northwest. He laughed. Even with the headsail jib the sloop’s crew was running out, it was too late. By the time they rounded the reef, the pinnace would be so far ahead they could be anywhere upon the sea. It would be nightfall before the distance could be made up, and Borric planned on being far away by nightfall.

  The next two hours passed uneventfully, until Suli left his place at the bow and came toward Borric. Borric noticed water splashing under the boy’s feet.

  Borric looked down and saw water was gathering in the bilge. “Start bailing!” he yelled.

  “What, master?”

  Realizing the boy didn’t understand that term either, he said, “Get the bucket from the locker and start scooping up the water and pouring it out!”

  The boy turned, got the bucket, and began bailing out the water. For an hour or so it seemed the boy kept even with the incoming water, but after another hour of the exhausting work, the water had gathered about his ankles. Borric ordered him to switch places and took over. After another hour, it was clear that even when bailing at a furious rate, it would prove an eventually hopeless undertaking. Sooner or later the boat was going to sink. The only question seemed to be when and where.

  Borric glanced to the south and saw that not only had the coastline been running southwest, away from them, but their course was northwest, toward th
e Straits of Darkness. By his reckoning, they were now as far away from the coastline as they could get, slightly northeast of Ranom, where the coastline would turn northward. Borric had to make a quick choice, either head for the south shore, or hope that between Suli and himself they could keep the boat afloat long enough to reach the coast somewhere south of LiMeth. As he was about equal distance between either part of the shoreline, he decided his best choice was to keep as much speed as possible and hold his present course.

  As the sun sped westward, Borric and Suli alternated bailing out the boat and keeping it pointed toward LiMeth. Near sundown, a scattering of clouds appeared in the north and the wind turned, now blowing into their faces. The pinnace was decent enough traveling into the eye of the wind, but Borric doubted they would survive long enough to reach land if it started to rain. As he considered this, the first drops hit him in the face, and less than an hour later, the rain began to fall in earnest.

  As the sun rose, a ship was upon them. Borric had seen its approach for the last quarter hour, as it suddenly had appeared out of the predawn gloom. Both the Prince and Suli, exhausted from a night’s bailing to keep afloat, could barely move. Yet Borric mustered what little reserve of energy he possessed and stood up.