“But not me,” grinned the Isalani. “No guard caught sight of me when they stopped the wagon.”
Borric thought back and remembered that somehow when the Imperial Guards were looking over everyone, Nakor had been absent. “Yes, now that you mention it, how did you do that?”
“It is a secret,” he said with an affable grin. “But it is no matter. What does matter is that we must do something about your appearance.” He cast a knowing eye upon Borric’s uncovered head. “Your dark hair grows suspiciously red at the roots. So we must devise another look for you, my friend.”
Borric shook his head. “Another surprise from that bag of yours?”
Bending over the bag, Nakor’s grin widened more than usual. “Of course, my friend.”
Borric awoke to Suli’s pushing his shoulders emphatically. He came instantly awake and could see that it was growing dark outside. Ghuda was alert by the door, his sword drawn, so Borric was at his side with his own weapon at the ready an instant later.
“What is it?” hissed Borric.
Ghuda held up his hand for silence, listening. “Horsemen,” he whispered. He waited, then put up his sword. “They ride west. This barn is far enough back from the road that they’re likely to miss it, but once they meet up with the bunch we left on foot back at Jeeloge, they’ll be over this place like flies on dung. We better get moving.”
Borric had decided which of the four horses was likely to be the most agreeable for Suli and gave the boy a boost up. Giving him the reins, he said, “Hold on to her mane with your left hand if we have to go anywhere in a hurry. And keep your legs as long as you can; it’s balance, not gripping with your knees. Understand?”
The boy nodded, but it was clear from his expression the idea of going anywhere on a horse in a hurry was a notion only slightly less terrifying than running into more guards. Borric turned and found Nakor carrying the saddles out of the barn. “Where are you taking them?”
The grinning Isalani said, “There is an old compost pile in back. They’ll not look under it, I’m thinking.”
Borric had to laugh, and in a minute the chronically happy little man was back in the barn, nimbly leaping to his horse’s back, despite his ever-present rucksack and staff. Borric caught the aroma of decomposing compost and said, “Whew. If you’re an example of that pile you’re right. They’ll not be poking around in there soon.”
Ghuda said, “Come on. Let’s get as far up the road as possible by dawn.”
Borric motioned and the mercenary pushed open the barn door, then jumped to his horse’s back. He kicked it firmly and set off at a trot, with Borric, Suli, and Nakor coming behind. Borric put aside a terrible feeling that every turn in the road hid another ambush and focused on one fact: Every passing minute brought him that much closer to Kesh, and to Erland and the others.
The town of Páhes was busy, as it squatted upon the bridge across the River Sarné, where the road beginning at Faráfra and ending at Khattars, in the northeast, joined. Just east of the bridge, on the south bank, a huge warehouse and riverfront district had grown over the years, as teamsters pulled heavy wagons up close to barges and riverboats that carried goods into the heart of the Empire. A few shallow-draft sailing boats could be seen, as the prevailing winds were from the west, so that it was possible to sail upriver most times of year, save when there was flooding, from Kesh to Jalóme and the other towns that dotted the shore. And shipping upon the vast lake, the Overn Deep, was as plentiful as upon any sea of Midkemia.
Borric glanced around, still feeling foolish in his present costume. He was wearing the dahá, traditional costume of a Bendrifi, hillpeople of the Rainshadow Mountains. The garment consisted of a colorfully dyed piece of cloth tied around his waist, then drawn over the shoulder, like a toga. His sword arm was bare, as were his legs. Instead of boots, he now wore cross-gartered sandals. Borric felt both ridiculous and vulnerable without armor. But it was a good choice, as the Bendrifi were one of the few fair-skinned races native to Kesh. Borric’s hair had been cut close to his scalp and dyed with a foul-smelling concoction that Nakor had obtained the night before, and now he was a startlingly near-white blond color; the hair was standing straight up—held in place by a sweet-smelling pomade—while shaved over the ears. The Bendrifi were also a standoffish tribe, so it was unlikely anyone would wonder at his reticent manner. Borric only prayed he never ran into one this far from home, for their language was also unrelated to that of the other peoples of Kesh, and Borric couldn’t speak a single word. Though while Borric had been undergoing the transformation, Suli revealed he could curse a little in Ghendrifi, their language, so Borric had the boy teach him a few phrases.
Where Nakor had found the outlandish costume, Borric had no idea, but like anything else the Isalani tried, it usually meant astonishing results. The little man had gotten at least double what Borric thought the horses were worth and managed to find the Prince a new rapier in this modest town when Borric had failed to obtain one in one of Kesh’s largest cities. Against any reasonable expectation, Nakor had produced exactly what Borric needed to change his appearance to a startling degree.
Suli was now garbed as a boy of the Beni-Sherin, a large tribe of desert men in the Jal-Pur, with a sword at his side. He wore a robe and head covering, with only his eyes visible, and if he remembered to walk erect, could pass for a short adult. The boy had resisted giving up his old familiar rags until Ghuda threatened to cut him out of them with his sword. Given Ghuda’s lack of patience since their arrest, Borric wasn’t sure if he was only jesting.
Ghuda had sold his armor and purchased a finer rig, an almost new leather harness and a matching pair of bracers. His old dented helm was gone, replaced by one similar to that worn by the Dog Soldiers: a metal pot with a pointed spike at the crown, rimmed in black fur, with a chain-mail neck guard down to the shoulders. It could be hooked across the face, revealing only the eyes, and this is how Ghuda wore it for the moment.
Nakor had somehow managed to lose his faded yellow robe and now wore one that was almost as disreputable, but of a blotchy peach color. And he didn’t look one whit less ridiculous to Borric. But the Isalani felt this was a sufficient change in costume, and given his resourcefulness, Borric was unwilling to argue.
Nakor had secured passage for them on a barge heading downriver to the city of Kesh. They would be four among about a hundred passengers.
As Borric expected, there were guards everywhere. They attempted to look unobtrusive, but there were too many, spending too much time peering into every passing face, for them not to be there for a purpose.
Turning a corner, Borric and Suli walked a few yards ahead of Nakor and Ghuda, toward a tavern only a few yards from the dockside. The boat would be leaving in two hours’ time. They would act the part of travelers forced to idle their time away in the company of strangers.
They passed an open door and Suli faltered a step. Hissing to Borric, he said, “Master, I recognize that voice.”
Borric shoved the boy into the next doorway and motioned to Ghuda and Nakor to continue past as they approached. “What do you mean?” Borric asked.
Suli pointed back to the next door. “I heard only a few words, but I know the voice.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Let me return and perhaps I can remember.” The boy turned back and walked past the door, halting a moment on the other side, then turned the corner and looked down it as if expecting to see something. He then made a display of waiting a moment, turned, and shrugged to Borric, then walked back. As soon as he was past the door, he hurried to Borric and whispered, “That was one I heard in the Governor of Durbin’s house that night I overheard the plot to kill you!”
Borric hesitated. If they passed by again and glanced in the doorway, they would call unwanted attention to themselves, but he wanted to know who this bloodhound on his trail was. “Wait here,” Borric said, “and see who comes out. Then make for the inn and tell us.”
Borric
left the boy and hurried to where his companions waited, already drinking ale. He paused at their table for a moment, saying, “Someone who may know me is in town,” then turned and sat at the table next to them.
A short time later, Suli came and sat next to Borric. “It was the man in the black cloak. He wears it still, master. It was his voice,” whispered the boy.
“Did you get a look at him?”
The boy said, “Enough that I might know him again.”
“Good,” whispered Borric, knowing Ghuda and Nakor were listening. “If you see him again, let us know.”
“Master, there is something else.”
“What?”
“I saw enough of him to know he is of the trueblood.”
Borric nodded. “That is not surprising.”
“But that is not all. He gathered the front of his cloak before him, and as it shifted, I saw around his neck the glint of gold.”
Borric said, “What does that mean?”
It was Ghuda who answered, hissing angrily over his shoulder. “It means, you mush-brained maniac, that that trueblood is not just a trueblood, but he’s also a member of the Royal House of Kesh! They’re the only ones allowed to wear the golden torque. He’s maybe only a very distant cousin to the Empress, but she still sends him a gift on his birthday! Just what the hell kind of mess have you gotten us into?”
Borric fell silent as a large, sullen servingwoman approached. In a raspy voice he ordered two mugs of ale and, when she left, he half turned to Ghuda. “It’s a very deep and twisted mess, my friend. As I said, it is politics.”
When the servingwoman brought ale to them and left, Ghuda said, “My dear dead mother wanted me to go into an honorable trade, like grave robbing. Would I listen? No. Be an assassin, like your uncle Gustav, she said. Would I pay heed? No. Apprentice to the Necromancer—”
Borric tried to appreciate the gallows humor, but found himself chewing over the implication. Who was trying to kill him and Erland? And why? It was obvious that this plot came down from the very highest levels in the Empire, but from the royal family? He sighed and drank his bitter ale, and tried to relax his mind as he waited for the signal that the boat was ready to leave.
The call to board rang across the dockside, and Borric and his companions, as well as a half dozen others in the inn, rose, gathering together bundles and packages, and crowded through the door. Outside, Borric saw a company of Imperial Guards waiting at the boarding ramp, watching everyone who climbed onto the boat. These were the Guards of the Inner Legion, the command given dominion over the heart of Kesh. Each man wore a metal helm and breastplate enameled in black. Short black kilts and black greaves and bracers gave them an intimidating appearance. The officer in charge of the company wore a helm topped with a red horsehair crest, with another long red tail falling down his back. Borric said, “Quietly now, and act like you have nothing to hide.” He gave Suli a slight push, indicating the boy should move on alone, then waved Ghuda and Nakor ahead. Borric hung back, watching.
The guards consulted a parchment from time to time, probably a detailed description of the three of them. They let Suli aboard without a second look. Ghuda was halted and asked a question. Whatever answer he gave seemed to satisfy them, for they waved him aboard.
Then Borric’s heart seemed to go cold as he saw Nakor turn and speak to a guard, pointing at him across the crowd. The guard said something and nodded, then spoke to a second guard. Borric felt his mouth go dry as three guards left the ramp and started walking purposefully toward him. Deciding he might need room to break free, Borric moved toward the ramp as if nothing unusual was occurring.
As he attempted to move out of the guards’ way, one put a restraining hand upon his arm. “Hold a moment, Bendrifi.” It was not a request.
Borric did his best to look irritated and disdainful. He then glanced to where the officer stood on the ramp, observing the exchange. “What?” he said, sounding as surly as he could manage.
“We heard about the fight you almost started on the road from Khattars. Maybe the caravan guards couldn’t keep you in line, but you’ll have six legionaries on the boat with you. Any more trouble of that sort and we’ll pitch you into the river.”
Borric stared the man in the eye, made a slight snarling sound as he curved his lip, then said one of the phrases Suli had taught him. He yanked his arm out of the legionary’s grip, but when three hands went to the hilts of their swords, he held up his own, palm outward, showing he intended no trouble.
Turning his back on them, he attempted to maintain the pose of being a touchy, rude hillman, and hoped his knees weren’t looking as wobbly as they felt. He boarded the boat among the last to climb the ramp, and found himself a seat on the opposite side of the wide craft from where his three companions sat. The six guardsmen were the last to board and they stationed themselves at the stern, in a group, talking among themselves. Silently, Borric vowed that when they reached the city of Kesh he would happily throttle the little Isalani.
A day and a half later, stopping three times along the way, they saw the skyline of the city of Kesh in view. Borric had recovered from the shock the Isalani had handed him and had fallen into sullen brooding, a pose which took almost no effort on his part. The situation looked hopeless and yet he must somehow force himself to continue. His father had taught him and Erland when they were still young that the only thing they could guarantee in life was failure; to achieve success you had to take risks. He had not truly understood what his father had been talking about—Erland and he were both Princes of the Blood Royal, and there was really nothing they couldn’t do, but that was because of what they were.
Now Borric understood much of what his father had tried to explain before, and now the stakes were his own life, his brother’s, and perhaps the life of the Kingdom, as well. He had seen so many things since his capture that he could never have imagined before. Even when serving at Highcastle, fighting goblins and weapons runners in the north, the hardship was temporary. Yes, he and Erland had been at risk but barely, for never had they been without at least a full company of Baron Highcastle’s soldiers at their backs. Dirt was something you washed off when you got back to barracks, and most of the blood was from wounds easily staunched. The few deaths were the unfortunate result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, mourned by companions, but still, what one expected from being a soldier.
Now he had seen filth, starvation—he had been truly hungry, not knowing where his next meal would come from—misery, and murderous indifference to the plight of one’s fellow human. When his uncle Jimmy had told Erland and him about life in the Poor Quarter when he had been a boy thief, Borric somehow imagined it as a romantic adventure; the stories of daring and danger were devoid of the grime and wretchedness that were the daily existence of those who lived in that part of Krondor.
Now he knew the truth: People’s lives were filled every day with danger and unhappiness, and he above most any other but a few knew safety and joy. His family was burdened with great responsibility, but in exchange for that they received seemingly endless bounty.
Sitting in disguise, with an entire empire seeking to slay him on sight, traveling with men he would never have met in a dozen lifetimes as Prince of the Blood, he could barely remember what it felt like to be a child of privilege. That life was someone else’s, and Borric knew that should he survive this nightmare of intrigue and danger, he would never be the man he once was.
He glanced back at Suli, who stood quietly holding the rail of the barge, and thought of this beggar boy and how he had faced more terrors in the last month than he could have imagined. Yet despite being frightened to near immobility he had acted bravely and risked everything. And for what? For the “honor” of being a great man’s servant? How modest an ambition, thought Borric. He vowed should he survive, the boy would return to Krondor with him, and he would see he was educated and raised up, so that when he was a man, he could be the personal valet to the King of Isles, if t
hat was what he desired.
Then his gaze drifted to Ghuda, and he smiled. Forcing himself to scowl, as if an unpleasant thought had intruded, Borric considered this mercenary. He appeared a simple man at first blush, but Borric thought he knew him well enough to understand he was more than that. He had a personal code of honor that was as fierce as any Tsurani living up in LaMut. He could have tried to bargain for his own life with Borric’s many times, or he simply could have walked away, seeking to put as many miles and days between himself and the fugitive as he could. And for what? The promise of great reward? More than that, Borric knew. For whatever else Ghuda might claim, he knew that Borric was no murderer, and that was as much a reason for staying the course as any amount of gold.
Then Borric caught sight of Nakor and the wizened little man’s eyes seemed to glimmer a moment as they locked gazes. Then Nakor looked away and Borric was left with a question: Who was this odd little man? There was far more to Nakor than what he claimed. He was not just a gambler and confidence trickster. Borric had known enough magicians as a boy to sense power in the man, but even so, Nakor had come to the habit of claiming that he really wasn’t a magician—he just used that claim that all of his homeland were wizards to divert attention from his more egregious confidences—but that all magic was simply “tricks.” Borric had no reason to believe as he did: that Nakor was now with him for a reason, and that the reason might prove critical in the end. But either way, he found the odd man’s company reassuring in a fashion; maybe for no more reason than it seemed impossible for Nakor to take anything seriously.
As they approached the upper docks of Kesh, Borric saw companies of soldiers upon the boat landing. They might be taking passage across the Overn Deep or up-river, or they might be the normal guard, but they also might be screening passengers into the city—one more barrier between himself and his brother.
As the boat began nosing into the dockside, Borric made his way back toward the legionaries. The guardsmen were making ready to exit, and as the boat was tied off to the dockside, Borric moved to stand beside the man he had spoken with before boarding. The guardsman gave him a quick glance, then turned away.
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