Kafi shrugged. “It is not unheard of, though the Princess, being so highly born, can stretch the boundaries of … decorum more than others, if you follow.”
“What about the Princess Sojiana?” asked Locklear.
James grinned. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that one.”
Gamina narrowed her eyes a bit. “ ‘That one?’ ”
“A figure of speech, my love. Locky is known in court for trying … er, to get to know every pretty woman that comes into view.”
Kafi said, “If you send a note requesting a meeting with the Princess, be prepared for it to be but one of many she receives every day. Besides, it is said that these days she is … spending time with Lord Ravi, so I expect your note would be politely … ignored.”
Locklear sat back, attempting to find a comfortable position upon the stone, hard and unyielding despite the ornate cushion placed atop it. “Well, I’ll just have to find a way to get to meet her, I expect. Once I have the chance to speak with her …”
Kafi made the “things happen” gesture again. “Ma’lish.”
James glanced at Erland, who was off in a world of his own, thinking, James suspected, about the Princess Sharana. To Gamina, James silently said, Kafi isn’t saying something about the Princess Sojiana. Can you tell what it is?
No, she answered. But I have an impression at the mention of her name.
What is it?
Extreme danger.
Locklear adjusted his tunic for what might have been the one hundredth time since leaving the guest wing of the palace. He had been surprised to discover a message from Princess Sojiana waiting for him upon returning from an afternoon ride with Erland. James and Gamina had been “resting” in their quarters—a convenient excuse to allow James to attempt to reach his agent in the palace. As the official protocol representative of the Isles with Erland, Locklear had accompanied him on a somewhat dull tour of the city on horseback.
He had quickly bathed and changed after returning to the Prince’s apartment and receiving the Princess’s note. Kafi had informed him that among the truebloods of the royal family, the invitation could be anything from purely social to deeply political. With a wry smile he pointed out it could be both.
Erland was resting in the afternoon heat, as was the custom, and Locklear had no social obligations until the evening meal, which again would be with the Empress and her close family, at the ninth hour after midday. Locklear strode down the hallway feeling a mix of anticipation and wariness. It had been many years since a woman had made him feel caution, and he relished the tension.
Guards announced him as the servant led Locklear through the entrance to the Crown Princess’s quarters, and he was ushered into an antechamber divided from other portions of the Princess’s apartment by hanging curtains of translucent fabric. He could see Sojiana approach, moving like a big cat, with lithe purpose and supple steps, even before she entered the room.
She wore only her small skirt and her hair was free of all ornaments. “Baron Locklear,” she said with a smile that caused Locklear to feel a shock in his stomach. She was easily the most stunning woman he had ever encountered, and she carried herself with an open air of femininity that would have been scandalous by Kingdom standards—a flaunting of her femininity that was natural in this setting. For an instant, Locklear attempted to imagine what she would look like dressed in one of the ornate court gowns preferred by the Princess Anita and her daughter back in Krondor, and failed.
Locklear, despite his immediate attraction for the woman, kept his poise and bowed. “Highness, how may I be of service?”
She smiled and the curve of her lips was as seductive as anything he had seen in his life. “How may you, indeed?” Then she laughed. “Forgive me, sir, but I have a sense of playfulness that I indulge too often. My experience with your countrymen is that you are easily embarrassed by the women of my people. It’s a small flaw of character and I wish to apologize.”
Locklear smiled, almost a grin, and said, “A tiny flaw, then, Highness.”
She waved for him to sit on a divan with a small table before it, and with a motion of her hand, indicated chilled wine be brought forth. Two goblets were filled by a young woman who at any other time would have had Locklear’s attention, but who in this company he barely noticed. He sipped at the wine and his eyebrows went up. “This is very good!”
She smiled and rather than sitting on the divan opposite came to sit next to him. “It’s from your nation, Baron. From the Darkmoor region. Your latest Ambassador gave some to the royal family as a gift and I enjoyed it so much I purchased a large shipment last year.”
She studied him over the rim of the goblet as she sipped the wine. “You make this a great deal easier than I had hoped,” she said after putting down the goblet.
“What would that be, Highness?”
“Why, asking you for a particular favor.”
“How may I help?”
She sipped at her wine again, and said, “As you no doubt know, there is a certain … tension in our mother’s court these days.”
Locklear was noncommittal and just shrugged. “I’ve heard rumors.”
“And no doubt you also have read reports from Kingdom agents in our nation,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t protest; we have agents in the Kingdom as well. It’s part of what nations do to one another.
“The situation is thus: my brother, although younger than I, seeks to be named heir to the throne. There are many factions within the nation that would prefer to see a man upon the Falcon Throne. There are even some who would bypass my brother and me both to name my daughter heir so they might marry her off to this noble or that and name a new Emperor. Those few who are loyal to me are influential, but … limited.”
When she paused, Locklear said, “Might I observe that it is possibly a breach of protocol for me to be concerning myself with the internal politics of the Empire of Great Kesh?”
“You may observe whatever you wish,” said the Princess, playfully, “but the fact remains that what occurs here on the Overn Deep has repercussions that will be felt in Krondor and Rillanon. That is a simple fact of political life as we know it today.”
Locklear tried to force aside the powerful attraction he felt for this woman. In the years since he had first spent the night in the arms of a girl—ironically enough in the basement of a burned-out building during the Battle of Sethanon—he had never come close to feeling the emotions of love he had witnessed in others, but there was something about Sojiana that captivated him unlike any woman he had known. Yet he was an officer of the Royal Court of Krondor and vassal to Prince Arutha. No matter his near legendary appetite for beauty, he was oath-bound to put the needs of his nation ahead of personal consideration.
“What would you have of me, Highness?”
She smiled playfully, then said, “Our present situation may turn … ugly, should anything happen to my mother. I pray every day for her continued health and vigor, but you’ve seen the Empress. She wears the burden of office well, but it takes a toll. I am celebrating my forty-fourth birthday this year, and she was sixteen years upon the throne when she was my age. Most reigns among our monarchs last but a third of the time my mother has already ruled in Kesh.
“Should she unexpectedly be taken from us, the succession may be contested, and alliances can abruptly change. She Who Is Kesh would desire nothing more than a peaceful Empire. It would stand my claim in good stead if the King of the Isles were to quickly recognize the validity of my claim.”
Locklear said, “Ah, then …”
“There is nothing inappropriate in my request for recognition of my claim, Locklear. I am eldest and by tradition I should be the one to inherit. If my mother desires otherwise and makes her pleasure known before leaving us to enter the Hall of Eternal Beauty, so be it; I am only concerned with what happens if the situation changes suddenly.”
Locklear said, “Of course.” He became aware of her perfume as she leaned forward, and tried to k
eep his mind on the problems at hand. “I’ll see what I may do. I’ll forward your concerns to the Prince of Krondor in my next dispatch.”
“That is most kind.” She slid a little closer to him as she refilled the wine goblet, waving off a servant who was approaching the table. “Now, there is another thing.”
“What might that be?” he asked as she pressed against his arm and looked him in the eyes.
“Given the politics of the day, my choice in lovers is severely restricted. There was a time when it was of no importance to anyone who stayed in my bedchamber.” She stood up and took his hand, and he followed.
Leading him through a maze of curtains, she said, “No one faction or another can claim advantage if I’m spending my nights with an outlander. Do you see?”
Unable to not grin, Locklear squeezed her hand and said, “I do see … Sojiana.”
She laughed playfully as she led him past another series of curtains into her bedchamber.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BARGAIN
BORRIC RUBBED HIS JAW.
“I wish people would stop hitting me to make a point,” he grumbled.
Ghuda, who stood over him, said, “That’s for costing me my pay. I can’t go looking for Sabér now with half the Imperial Army looking for me, and even if I found him, I doubt he’d pay me what he owes me. And it’s your fault, Madman.”
Borric could only agree, though sitting on damp straw in an abandoned barn in the middle of a nation of people seemingly bent on killing him at every opportunity, he felt he deserved at least a little sympathy. “Look, Ghuda, I’ll make it up to you.”
The mercenary turned to remove a saddle from one of the horses they had stolen and, over his shoulder, said, “Oh, really? And how, pray tell, do you plan on doing that? Are you going to send a polite note to the Office of Aber Bukar, Lord of the Armies, saying, ‘Please, kind lord, let my friend off with a stern talking-to? He didn’t know I had the kill-on-sight order on my head when he met me’? Right!”
Borric stood, wiggling his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken. It hurt and popped in and out of the socket on one side, but he was fairly certain it was intact. He glanced around the old barn. The farmhouse that had stood nearby had been burned out, either by bandits or guardsmen for whatever reasons the Empire judged sufficient, but in either case, it gave Borric’s little band a chance to rest up the horses. Like most good cavalry provided, there was grain in the saddlebags, so Borric set about giving a handful to his horse. Suli sat tenderly upon a half-rotten pile of straw, a study in misery. Nakor had already unsaddled his horse and was wiping it down with the cleanest handful of straw he could find. He was absently humming a nameless tune as he went about his work. And his grin had not vanished even for an instant.
Ghuda said, “When the horse is rested, Madman, you and I are quits. I mean to get myself back to Faráfra somehow and take ship down to Lesser Kesh. Things are not quite as Imperial down there, if you catch my meaning. Just maybe I’ll live through this.”
Borric said, “Ghuda, wait.”
The large mercenary dumped the saddle on the ground and said, “What?”
Borric motioned him away from the others and quietly said, “Please. I’m sorry to have gotten you into all of this, but I need you.”
“You need me, Madman? For what? So you’ll not die alone? Thanks, but I’d rather die in the arms of a whore many years from now.”
“No, I mean I can’t get to Kesh without you.”
Ghuda glanced heavenward. “Why me?”
Borric said, “Look at the boy. He’s terrified and so sore he can’t think. He might know the back alleys of Durbin, but he knows nothing else. And the Isalani … well, he’s not exactly what I’d call reliable.” Borric put a finger to his head and made a circular motion.
Ghuda glanced at the sorry-looking pair and was forced to agree. “So, that’s your lookout. Why should I care?”
Borric thought and couldn’t come up with a single reason. Circumstances had thrown them together, but there was no real friendship. The older mercenary was likable in his own fashion, but not what Borric would call a comrade. “Look, I really will make it worth your while.”
“How?”
“Get me to Kesh, and see me to the people I must reach to clear this mess up, and I’ll pay you more gold than you’ll see in a lifetime of caravan duty.”
Ghuda’s eyes narrowed as he considered Borric’s words. “You’re not just saying this?”
Borric shook his head. “I give you my word.”
“Where are you going to get your hands on that kind of gold?” asked Ghuda.
Borric considered telling him the entire story, but couldn’t bring himself to trust Ghuda that much. A nameless man blamed for a crime he didn’t commit was one thing; a prince being hunted was another. Even though Borric knew anyone who guessed his identity was as good as dead should the guards find him in Borric’s company, Ghuda might be tempted enough by thoughts of reward to push his luck. Borric’s experience with mercenaries in the past didn’t argue for their sense of personal loyalty.
Finally Borric said, “I was accused of the murder of the wife of the Governor of Durbin for political reasons.” Ghuda didn’t blink an eye at that, so Borric felt he was on the right track; political murders in Kesh didn’t seem improbable. “There are people in Kesh who can clear me of that, and more. They have resources—substantial resources—and can provide you with”—he quickly calculated a sufficiently impressive figure by Kingdom standards into Keshian currency—“two thousand golden ecu.”
Ghuda’s eyes widened a second, then he shook his head. “Sounds good, Madman, but then so do a whore’s promises.”
Borric said, “All right, three thousand.”
Looking to call Borric’s bluff, Ghuda said, “Five thousand!”
“Done!” replied the Prince. He spit in his hand and held it out.
Ghuda looked at the outstretched hand, offered in the old trader’s fashion, and knew he was obliged to either take it or be known as an oath breaker. Reluctantly, he spit in his own hand and shook. “Damn your eyes, Madman! If this is a lie, I’ll have your guts on my sword, I swear! If I’m to die for stupidity, at least I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you dead the instant before I meet the Death Goddess!”
Borric said, “If we make it, you’ll die a rich man, Ghuda Bulé.”
Ghuda threw himself down upon the damp straw to rest as well as he could. “I would have preferred it had you chosen to put that a different way, Madman.”
Borric left the mercenary muttering to himself and sat down next to Suli. “Are you going to make it?” he asked.
The boy said, “Yes. I only hurt a little. But this beast has a back like a sword blade. I am split in two.”
Borric laughed. “It’s hard at first. We’ll try a little instruction, here in the barn, before we leave tonight.”
Ghuda said, “Not that it will do him much good, Madman. We’re going to have to lose those saddles. The boy’s going to have to ride bareback.”
Nakor nodded vigorously. “Yes, that is true. If we are to sell these horses, we must not have anyone suspect they are Imperial property.”
“Sell them?” said Ghuda. “Why?”
“With the Jubilee,” replied Nakor, “it is easier for us to reach the city by river travel up the Sarné, on a boat for hire. We will be but four among multitudes. But to travel so requires payment. So we must have funds.”
Borric considered the little money he had remaining after buying his clothing and armor in Faráfra, and knew Nakor was right. They didn’t have enough funds among them to buy a first-class meal for one at a decent inn.
“Who would buy them?” asked Ghuda. “They are branded.”
“True,” said the Isalani, “but that can be dealt with. The saddles, alas, cannot be altered without damaging them to the point of worthlessness.”
Ghuda levered himself up on one arm. “How can you change that brand? Do you have a running i
ron in your rucksack?”
“Better,” said the little man, reaching into his sack and pulling out a small, stoppered jar. He rummaged around in the sack and came up with a small brush. “Observe.” He pulled the cork from the jar and dipped the brush into the solution in the jar. “A running iron leaves a crude, easily detected alteration of the brand. This, however, is for an artist.” He approached the nearest horse. “The army brands all livestock with the Imperial Army glyph.” Dabbing at it with the brush, he began to apply fluid to the horse’s flank. A faint sizzling sound could be heard, and the hair where he touched with the brush began to blacken, as if being touched by flame. “Hold the horse, please,” he said to Borric. “This does not harm them, but the heat can alarm the animal.”
Borric went and grabbed at the animal’s bridle, holding it while the animal’s ears turned this way and that, as it tried to decide whether or not to get upset with the proceedings.
After a moment, Nakor said, “There. It is now the glyph of Jung Sut, horse trader of Shing Lai.”
Borric came around and looked. The brand had changed, and Nakor was right. It looked as if the brand had been made with a single iron. “Will anyone in Kesh know this Jung Sut?”
“Unlikely, my friend, as he does not exist. However, there are, perhaps, a thousand horse traders in Shing Lai, so who can claim to know them all?”
Ghuda said, “Well, then, when you’re done with that, and we’re ready to leave, wake me, will you?” So saying, he lay back on the damp straw and tried to make himself comfortable.
Borric looked at Nakor and said, “When we reach the river, it would probably be better if you left us.”
“I don’t think so,” he said with a grin. “I intend to travel to Kesh in any event, as the occasion of the Jubilee will make it easy to earn money. There will be many games of chance and many opportunities for my small tricks to serve me. Besides, if we move together, with Ghuda and the boy traveling a few hours behind or ahead, we will not be those the guards are seeking.”
“Perhaps,” said Borric, “but they have a pretty good description of the three of us by now.”
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