Prince of the Blood

by Raymond Feist

They had taken down the sail at sundown, decided it was better to drift in the dark and have both of them bail for periods than to sail blindly in the gloom. The sound of breakers would alert them to any chance of coming too close to shore. The only problem was that Borric didn’t have any idea of how the currents in this part of the Bitter Sea ran.

  The ship was a small three-masted merchantman, square-rigged with a lateen sail on the back. It could have come from any nation on the Bitter Sea, so it could be their salvation or their doom.

  When the ship was close enough for him to be heard, Borric called out, “What ship?”

  The Captain of the vessel came to the rail as he ordered the helm put over, bringing the ship to a slow pace as it passed Borric’s sinking pinnace, wallowing in the chop. “The Good Traveler, out of Bordon.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  “Bound for Farafra,” came the reply.

  Borric’s heart began to beat again. It was a Free Cities trader bound for an Empire city on the Dragon Sea. “Have you berths for two?”

  The Captain looked down at the ragged pair and their rapidly wallowing boat and said, “Have you the price of passage?”

  Borric did not wish to part with the coins he had taken from Salaya, as he knew they would need them later. He said, “No, but we can work.”

  “I’ve all the hands I need,” called back the Captain.

  Borric knew by stories that the Captain would not likely leave them to drown—sailor’s superstition forbade it—but he could exact a price of an indenture for several cruises; seamen were an inconstant lot and keeping a steady crew was difficult. The Captain was bargaining. Borric pulled out the rusty fishing knife and brandished it. “Then I order you to strike your colors; you are all my prisoners.”

  The Captain stared in wide-eyed disbelief, then began to laugh. Soon every sailor on the ship was laughing uproariously. After a moment of genuine amusement, the Captain called out, “Bring the madman and the boy aboard. Then make for the Straits!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WELCOME

  THE TRUMPETS SOUNDED.

  A thousand soldiers came to attention and presented arms. One hundred drummers on horseback began a rhythmic tattoo. Erland turned to James, who rode to his left, and said, “This is unbelievable!”

  Before them stood the Imperial city, Kesh. They had entered the “lower city” an hour earlier, to be met by a delegation from the City Governor and his retinue. It was the same ceremony they had been forced to endure at each stop along the wearisome journey from Nar Ayab to the capital. When the Governor of Nar Ayab had met them at the outskirts of town, Erland found the welcome a relief from his black mood. He had been numb with Borric’s death for nearly a week, giving himself over to dark bouts of depression, interspersed with rage at the unfairness of it all. The pageantry of the Governor’s welcome had taken his mind off the ambush for the first time, and the novelty of seeing such a display had kept him diverted for over three hours.

  But now, the displays wore upon his patience. He had received another extravagant welcome at the cities of Kh’mrat and Khattars, and a half dozen other welcomes that might have been smaller in scale, but were just as formal and tedious at smaller towns along the way. From any official from Regional Governor down to town alderman, Erland had been forced to endure welcoming speeches from them all.

  Erland glanced behind to where Locklear rode with the Keshian official sent to meet them at the lower-city gates. The Prince signaled, and both men set heels to their mounts, trotting them to where Erland rode. The official was one Kafi Abu Harez, a noble of the Beni-Wazir, one of the desert people of the Jal-Pur. Many desert men had come to Imperial service over the last hundred years, with a marked preference and talent for diplomacy and negotiations. Kesh’s old Ambassador to the Western Realm, Abdur Rachman Memo Hazara-Khan, deceased for ten years now, had once told Erland and his brother, “We are a horse people, and as such we are rigorous horse traders.” Erland had heard his father curse the man with grudging respect enough times to believe it so. He knew that whatever else this protocol officer might be, he was no man’s fool and needed to be watched. The desert men of the Jal-Pur were terrible enemies.

  Kafi said, “Yes, Your Highness. How may I serve you?”

  Erland said, “This is a bit of a change from what we’ve been seeing. Who are these soldiers?”

  Kafi pulled his robe around him slightly as he rode. His outfit was similar to those Erland had seen before in Krondor, head covering, tunic, trousers, long vest, knee-high boots, and belt. But where this costume differed from those Erland had seen before was in the intricate designs sewn into the fabric. Keshian court officials seemed to display an almost unnatural affection for gold thread and pearls.

  “These are the Imperial Household Guard, Highness.”

  Erland casually said, “So many?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “It looks almost like a full city garrison,” observed Locklear.

  The Keshian said, “It would depend which city, m’lord. For a Kingdom city, it is. For a Keshian city, not quite. For the city of Kesh, but a small part.”

  “Would it be giving military secrets away to ask how many soldiers guard the Empress?” asked Erland dryly.

  “Ten thousand,” answered Kafi.

  Erland and Locklear exchanged glances. “Ten thousand!” said the Prince.

  “The Palace Guard, which is a part of the Household Guard, which is but again a part of the city garrison—which is the heart of Kesh’s armies. Within the walls of the upper and lower city, ten thousand soldiers stand ready to defend She Who Is Kesh.”

  They turned their horses along the route lined by soldiers and curious citizens, who stood and observed the passing Islemen in relative quiet. Erland saw the road turn upward and climb an incline, a gigantic highway of stone that wound its way up to the top of the plateau. Halfway up the ramp, a gold-and-white banner flew and, Erland took note, the uniform of the soldiers above and below changed. “These are different regiments, then?” he asked.

  Kafi said, “In ancient times, the original people of Kesh were but one of many nations around the Overn Deep. When pressed by enemies, they fled to the plateau upon which the palace rests. It has become tradition that all who serve the Empire, but who are not of true Keshian stock, live in the city below the palace.” He pointed up the ramp to where the banner flew. “All the soldiers you see here in Kesh are of the Imperial garrison, but those above the Imperial banner are all soldiers of true blood. Only they may serve and live in the palace.” There was a faint edge to his voice as he added, “No one who is not of the true Keshian blood may live within the palace.” Erland looked close, but there was nothing to indicate any feelings one way or the other in the protocol officer. He smiled, as if to say it was a mere fact of Keshian life.

  As they neared the bottom of the ramp, Erland also could see that those who stood guard along the route were much as he had seen throughout the Empire so far: men from all races and of all appearances—more dark skins and hair coloring than in the Kingdom, to be certain, but a few redheaded and blond citizens. But those above the banner were of nearly uniform appearance: dusky skin, but not black or dark brown, nor fair. Hair uniformly black or dark brown, with an occasionally red cast to it, but no real redheads, blonds, or light browns in sight. It was clear that this company of soldiers came from bloodlines with little intermixing with the other peoples of Kesh.

  Erland studied the wall that ran along the edge of the plateau above, noticing the many spires and towers visible from where he rode. Considering the size of the plateau, he said, “So then all who live in the city above, but outside the palace, are also of ‘true’ blood?”

  Kafi smiled indulgently. “There is no city atop the plateau, Your Highness. All you will see atop the plateau is the palace. Once there were other buildings atop the plateau, but as the palace grew and expanded over the centuries, they were displaced. Even the great temples were relocated below so th
at those not of true Keshian blood could worship.”

  Erland was impressed. Under the rule of Mad King Rodric, the city of Rillanon had been beautified to become the most splendid city on Midkemia, or that was Rodric’s stated ambition. But Erland was forced to admit that even had Rodric’s plan come to fruition—even with the marble facings on all public buildings, the gardens along the walking paths throughout the city, the waterways around the palace—even with all that, Rillanon was a poor thing next to the city of Kesh. It was not that Kesh was a lovely city; it wasn’t. Many of the streets they had ridden were packed tight with dirty little buildings thick with the odors of life: cooking, the acrid smell of the forge, the pungent leather of the tanner, and the ever-present stink of unwashed bodies and human waste.

  There was little that was lovely in the city of Kesh. But it was ancient. It held the echoes of centuries of history, a city rising to become a state, then a mighty nation rising to become a great empire. There was a culture that produced artists and musicians here when Erland’s own ancestors were fishermen who had just turned their hand to raiding their neighboring islands from their safe harbor at Rillanon. The point had been made to him by his history teacher as a child, but now he could see exactly what his teacher had meant. The stones under his horse’s hooves were worn with the passage of raiders, captive chieftains, and triumphant commanders before Rillanon had come under conDoin rule. And conquering armies under legendary generals passed here to bring subjugation to other nations when Rillanon and Bas-Tyra first began their trade wars, two city-states seeking dominance over what would come to be called the Sea of Kingdoms. Kesh was old. Very old.

  Kafi said, “Of course, Your Highness, those who are guests of the Empress, will be housed in a special wing of the palace, overlooking the Overn Deep. It would be unkind to require you to ride this route daily.”

  Erland came out of his reverie and said, “But you ride this route each day, do you not?”

  There was a tiny tightening around the man’s mouth as he said, “Of course, but those of us not of true Keshian blood understand our place in the scheme of things. We serve gladly, and such a small inconvenience is not even to be discussed.”

  Erland took the clue and let the subject drop. Coming down to meet him was an assortment of officials, each more colorfully dressed than the one before. The thundering drums ceased, and a band of musicians played something that sounded suspiciously like a Kingdom tune but played by those who had never heard such.

  To James, he said, “Welcomed in grand fashion.”

  James nodded absently. Since reaching the city, he had let old habits of watchfulness come to the fore. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd, looking for any sign that trouble was coming at Erland. Messages had been dispatched to Krondor and an answer had overtaken them, as the Keshian rider post had operated with amazing efficiency in carrying word to Arutha of Borric’s death and bringing his answers. There had been many letters in the pouch the rider had carried. The Kingdom rider was exhausted as he had been ordered not to surrender the contents of the diplomatic pouch to any but Earl James, Baron Locklear, or Prince Erland. He had been escorted by a changing succession of Keshian post riders, changing fresh horses at stations along the way. The man had ridden without stopping for over three weeks, halting only when exhaustion was overwhelming, otherwise napping in the saddle as well as eating while riding. James had commended the man and sent back word to Krondor with him, along with an order to return at a more sedate pace—and a recommendation for promotion and reward for his heroic ride.

  Arutha’s reply to the news of Borric’s death had been what James expected: closed off, all personal reaction to the news absent. The Prince of Krondor let nothing sway him from the hard choices he faced as ruler of the Western Realm. He had cautiously instructed Earl James to see to recovering Borric’s body, but that under no circumstances was there to be any significant change in their demeanor. The envoy’s first duty was to pay the Kingdom’s respects to the Empress, on the event of her seventy-fifth birthday Jubilee, and nothing was to cause more friction between the two nations. James smelled trouble. Borric had been murdered to plunge the Empire into war with the Kingdom, but Arutha had refused to rise to the bait. This could only mean an escalation in the provocations. And the only thing James could imagine more provocative than killing one would be killing both of them. He felt personally responsible for Borric’s death, and he had put his own grieving aside for a time while he protected Erland. Glancing at his side, he noticed his wife watching him. To Gamina, he thought, How are you doing, my love?

  I will be glad to be off this horse, at last, came the answer, though Lady Gamina showed no outward signs of discomfort. She had borne up under the rigors of the long trip without complaint, and each night as she lay at James’s side, she was well aware that their happiness at being together took away the day’s discomfort but could not eradicate James’s pain at Borric’s death, nor his concern for Erland’s well-being. She nodded toward the front of the procession. The most official welcome yet, my darling.

  At least a hundred officials stood just a short distance beyond the white-and-gold banner, to welcome the Prince and his retinue to the upper city. Erland’s eyes opened slightly at the sight. The first impression was disbelief, as if some odd joke was being perpetrated upon him. For standing before him were men and women wearing very little clothing and a great deal of jewelry. The common dress was a simple skirt or kilt, fashioned from gauzy silk, wrapped once about the hips, from waist to midthigh. Ornate belts held the kilt in place, with golden clasps of complex designs common throughout the party. But both men and women alike were bare-chested, and the footgear of choice was an unadorned cross-gartered sandal. All the men had their heads shaved and the women wore their hair cut short, at the shoulder or at the ear, with magnificent rows of gems and gold woven into the tresses.

  Kafi spoke with his head turned slightly toward Erland. “Perhaps Your Highness didn’t know, but the nudity taboo common to your nation and some of the people of the Empire does not exist among those of the true Keshian blood. I also had to become accustomed to the sight—among my people, to see another man’s wife’s face is to die.” With an ironic note, he said, “These people are from a hot land, Highness, but not so hot as my home desert, where to dress so would be to invite death. When you experience the long, hot, sultry nights up on the plateau, you will understand why here clothing is a matter of fashion only. And the Keshian truebloods have never been terribly concerned with the sensibilities of their subject peoples. ‘In Kesh you do as the true Keshians do,’ goes an old adage.” Lowering his voice as to not be overheard, he added, “And they are a vain people.”

  Erland nodded, attempting not to stare at so much skin. He found himself thinking that if they were a vain people, that vanity was hardly undeserved. There were exceptions, but for the most part the trueblood Keshians were a handsome breed. The men were muscled and the women slender. Even those who were unusually portly or thin carried themselves with pride and that manner went a long way to overcoming any hint of the ridiculous.

  A man stepped forward, not much older than Erland, powerfully muscled and carrying a shepherd’s crook and a bow, both of which appeared ceremonial rather than functional. His head was shaved like the others, but for a lock of hair, tied with loops of precious stone, gems, and gold. An instant later, another man, stout and obviously discomforted by standing in the hot sun, stepped to the first’s side. He was the first truly fat trueblood Erland had seen and it was hard to not stare at the wattles of fat that jiggled as he walked. Ignoring the perspiration that coursed off his reddening skin, he said, “We welcome our guests.”

  To Erland, Kafi said, “Highness, may I present Lord Nirome, First Counselor to She Who Is Kesh, and her beloved nephew?” The fat man bowed. To him, Kafi said, “My lord Nirome. I have the honor of presenting His Highness, Prince Erland, Heir to the Throne of the Isles, Knight-Captain of the Armies of the West, and envoy to She Who Is
Kesh from His Majesty, Lyam, King of Isles.”

  “Your Highness,” said the stout Nirome. “To honor your arrival, one of the Imperial blood comes to greet you. It is my great honor to present Prince Awari, son of She Who Is Kesh.”

  The young man stepped forward again, and spoke directly to Erland. “We welcome our brother Prince. May your stay here be happy and for as long as it pleases you, Prince Erland. For the King of the Isles to send his heir is an honor indeed. She Who Is Mother To Us All is pleased enough to have sent her poor son to bid you welcome. I am to tell you that all Kesh’s hearts are gladdened the moment you come to us and that each moment of your stay is as riches in our treasury. Your wisdom and valor are unrivaled and She Who Is Kesh waits with anticipation at welcoming you to her court.” So saying, Prince Awari turned and began walking up the road. The men and women of the Imperial welcoming committee stepped aside so the Prince and Lord Nirome could pass, then Kafi indicated the Prince and Baron Locklear should follow, with himself and Earl James behind.

  As they moved up the ramp, James turned to Kafi and said, “In truth, we know so little about the Empire, save what we see along its northern border. It would please His Highness if you could guest with us and perhaps tell us more of this wondrous place.”

  The man smiled and James saw something in his eyes. “Your wish has been anticipated. I shall be outside your door at first light each day and not be gone from your side until you have given me leave to depart. The Empress, blessings be upon her, has ordered it so.”

  James smiled and inclined his head. So, he’s our watchdog.

  Gamina smiled at those nearby and said, Among many, I’m sure, beloved.

  James turned his attention to the front of the company, where Erland followed the Imperial welcoming delegation. His wits and talents might be tested in the next two and a half months, he knew. And he had but two basic tasks: keep Erland alive and the Kingdom out of war.