Prince of the Blood Read online

  Both men knew they faced an opponent worthy of wariness. The innkeeper was circling the room, armed with a large cudgel, threatening anyone who sought to enlarge the fray. As he neared the door, the man in the hood stepped out with startling speed and gripped his wrist. He spoke briefly, and the innkeeper’s face drained of color. The proprietor briskly nodded once and quickly slipped out the door.

  Borric disposed of the second sailor with little trouble and turned to discover Erland in a close struggle with the dandy. “Erland! Could you use a hand?”

  Erland shouted, “I think not. Besides, you always say I need the practice.”

  “True,” answered his brother with a grin. “But don’t let him kill you. I’d have to avenge you.”

  The dandy tried a combination attack, a high, low, then high series of chops, and Erland was forced to back away. In the night the sound of whistles could be heard.

  “Erland,” said Borric.

  The hard-pressed younger twin said, “What?” as he dodged another masterfully executed combination attack.

  “The watch is coming. You’d better kill him quickly.”

  “I’m trying,” said Erland, “but this fellow isn’t being very cooperative.” As he spoke, his bootheel struck a pool of spilled ale and he lost his footing. Suddenly he was falling backward, his defense gone.

  Borric was moving as the dandy lunged at his brother. Erland twisted upon the floor, but the dandy’s sword struck his side. Hot pain erupted along his ribs. And at the same instant the man had opened his left side to a counterthrust. Sitting upon the floor, Erland thrust upward with his rapier, catching the man in the stomach. The dandy stiffened and gasped as a red stain began to spread upon his yellow tunic. Then Borric struck him from behind, using the hilt of his sword to render the man unconscious.

  From outside the sound of rushing men could be heard, and Borric said, “We’d best get clear of this mess,” as he gave his brother a hand up. “Father’s going to be upset enough with us as it is without brawling—”

  Wincing from his injury, Erland interrupted, “You didn’t have to hit him. I think I would have killed him in another moment.”

  “Or he you. And I’d not want to face Father had I let that happen. Besides, you really wouldn’t have killed him; you just don’t have the instinct. You’d have tried to disarm him or something equally noble,” Borric observed, catching his breath in a gasp, “… and stupid. Now, let’s see about getting out of here.”

  Erland gripped his wounded side as they headed toward the door. Several town toughs, seeing blood upon Erland’s side, moved to block the twin’s exit. Borric and Erland both leveled their sword points at the band of men. Borric said, “Keep your guard up a moment,” picked up a chair, and threw it through the large bay window facing the boulevard. Glass and leading showered the street, and before the tinkle of shards upon stone had stopped, both brothers were leaping through what remained of the window. Erland stumbled and Borric had to grip his arm to keep him from falling.

  As they straightened, they took in the fact that they were looking at horses. Two of the more bold thugs jumped through the window after the twins, and Borric smashed one in the side of the head with his sword hilt, while the other man pulled up short as three crossbows were leveled at him. Arrayed before the door was the small company of ten burly and heavily armed town watchmen commonly known as the Riot Squad. But what had the half dozen denizens of the Sleeping Dockman standing in open-mouthed amazement, was the sight of the thirty horsemen behind the Riot Squad. They wore the tabards of Krondor and the badge of the Prince of Krondor’s own Royal Household Guards. From within the inn someone overcame his stupefaction and shouted, “Royal Guardsmen!” and a general evacuation through the rear door of the tavern began, while the gaping faces at the window vanished.

  The brothers regarded the mounted men, all armed and ready in case trouble came. At their head rode a man well-known to the two young mercenaries.

  “Ah … good evening, my lord,” said Borric, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The leader of the Riot Squad, seeing no one else in sight, moved to take custody of the two young men.

  The leader of the Royal Guard waved him off. “This doesn’t concern you, Watchman. You and your men may go.” The watch commander bowed slightly and led his men back to their barracks in the heart of the Poor Quarter.

  Erland winced a bit as he said, “Baron Locklear, what a pleasure.”

  Baron Locklear, Knight-Marshal of Krondor, smiled an unamused smile. “I’m certain.” Despite his rank, he looked barely a year or two older than the boys, though he was nearly sixteen years their senior. He had curly blond hair and large blue eyes, which were presently narrowed as he watched the twins in obvious disapproval.

  Borric said, “And I expect that means that Baron James—”

  Locklear pointed. “Is standing behind you.”

  Both brothers turned to see the man in the great cloak framed in the doorway. He threw back his hood to reveal a face still somewhat youthful despite his thirty-seven years of age, his curly brown hair slightly dusted with grey. It was a face the brothers knew as well as any, for he had been one of their teachers since boyhood, and more, one of their closest friends. He regarded the two brothers with ill-disguised disapproval and said, “Your father ordered you directly home. I had reports of your whereabouts from the time you left Highcastle until you passed through the city gates … two days ago!”

  The twins tried to hide their pleasure at being able to lose their royal escorts, but they failed. “Ignore for a moment the fact your father and mother had a formal court convened to welcome you home. Forget they stood waiting for three hours! Never mind your father’s insisting that Baron Locklear and I comb the entire city for two days seeking you out.” He studied the two young men. “But I trust you’ll remember all those little details when your father has words with you after court tomorrow.”

  Two horses were brought forward and a soldier deferentially held out the reins to each brother. Seeing the blood along Erland’s side, a Lieutenant of the Guard moved his horse nearby and said in mock sympathy, “Does His Highness require help?”

  Erland negotiated the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle without aid. In irritated tones, he answered, “Only when I see Father, Cousin Willie, and I don’t think you can do much for me then.”

  Lieutenant William nodded and in unsympathetic tones, he whispered, “He did say come home at once, Erland.”

  Erland nodded in resignation. “We just wanted to relax for a day or two before—”

  William couldn’t resist laughing at his cousins’ predicament. He had often seen them bring disaster down upon themselves and he never could understand their appetite for such punishment. He said, “Maybe you could run for the border. I could get very stupid following you.”

  Erland shook his head. “I think I’ll wish I had taken your offer, after tomorrow morning’s court.”

  William laughed again. “Come along, this dressing down won’t be much worse than a dozen you’ve already had.”

  Baron James, Chancellor of Krondor and first assistant to the Duke of Krondor, quickly mounted his own horse. “To the palace,” he ordered, and the company turned to escort the twin princes, Borric and Erland, home.

  Arutha, Prince of Krondor, Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm, and Royal Heir to the Throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat quietly attentive to the business of the court being conducted before him. A slender man in his youth, he had not gained the bulk commonly associated with middle age, but rather had become harder, more angular in features, losing what little softening effects youth had given his lanky appearance. His hair was still dark, though enough grey had come with the twenty years of ruling Krondor and the West to speckle it. His reflexes had slowed only slightly over the years, and he was still counted one of the finest swordsmen in the Kingdom, though he rarely had reason to exercise his skill with the rapier. His dark brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, a ga
ze that seemed to miss nothing, in the opinion of many who served the Prince. Thoughtful, even brooding at times, Arutha was a brilliant military leader. He had rightfully won his reputation during the nine years of the Riftwar—which had ended the year before the twins’ birth—after taking command of the garrison at Crydee, his family’s castle, when only a few months older than his sons were now.

  He was counted a hard but fair ruler, quick to dispense justice when the crime warranted, though often given to acts of leniency at the request of his wife, the Princess Anita. And that relationship more than anything typified the administration of the Western Realm: hard, logical, evenhanded justice, tempered with mercy. While few openly sang Arutha’s praises, he was well respected and honored, and his wife was beloved by her subjects.

  Anita sat quietly upon her throne, her green eyes looking off into space. Her royal manner masked her concern for her sons from all but those who knew her most intimately. That her husband had ordered the boys brought to the great hall for morning court, rather than to their parents’ private quarters last night, showed more than anything else his displeasure. Anita forced herself to be attentive to the speech being given by a member of the Guild of Weavers; it was her duty also to show those coming before her husband’s court the consideration of listening to every petition or request. The other members of the royal family were not normally required at morning court, but since the twins had returned from their service upon the border at Highcastle, it had become a family gathering.

  Princess Elena stood at her mother’s side. She looked a fair compromise between her parents, with red-brown hair and fair skin from her mother but her father’s dark and intelligent eyes. Those who knew the royal family well often observed that if Borric and Erland resembled their uncle, the King, then Elena resembled her aunt, the Baroness Carline of Salador. And Arutha had observed on more than one occasion she had Carline’s renowned temper.

  Prince Nicholas, Arutha and Anita’s youngest child, had avoided the need to stand next to his sister, by hiding from his father’s sight. He stood behind his mother’s throne, beyond his father’s gaze, on the first step off the dais. The door to the royal apartments was hidden from the eyes of those in the hall, down three steps, where, in years past, all four children had played the game of huddling on the first step, listening to their father conduct court, enjoying the delicious feeling of eavesdropping. Nicky waited for the arrival of his two brothers.

  Anita glanced about with that sudden sense mothers have that one of their children is somewhere he shouldn’t be. She spied Nicholas waiting down by the door and motioned him to stand close. Nicky had idolized Borric and Erland, despite their having little time for the boy and constantly teasing him. They just couldn’t find much in common with their youngest sibling, since he was twelve years their junior.

  Prince Nicholas hobbled up the three broad steps and moved to his mother’s side and, as it had every day since his birth, Anita’s heart broke. The boy had a deformed foot, and neither surgeon’s ministrations nor priest’s spell had any effect, save to enable him to walk. Unwilling to hold up the deformed baby to public scrutiny, Arutha had ignored custom and refused to show the boy at the Presentation, the holiday in honor of a royal child’s first public appearance, a tradition that may have died with Nicholas’s birth.

  Nicky turned when he heard the door open, and Erland peered through. The youngest Prince grinned at his brothers as they gingerly slipped through the door. Nicky scrambled down the three steps with his canted gate to intercept them, and gave each a hug. Erland visibly winced and Borric bestowed an absent pat on the shoulder.

  Nicky followed the twins as they slowly mounted the stairs behind the thrones, coming to stand behind their sister. She glanced over her shoulder long enough to stick out her tongue and cross her eyes, causing all three brothers to force themselves not to laugh. They knew no one else in court could see her fleeting pantomime. The twins had a long history of tormenting their little sister, who gave back as good as she got. She would think nothing of embarrassing them in the King’s own court.

  Arutha, sensing some exchange between his children, glanced over and gifted his four offspring with a quick frown, enough to silence any potential mirth. His gaze lingered on his elder sons and showed his anger in full measure, though only those close to him would recognize it as such. Then his attention was back upon the matter before the court. A minor noble was being advanced into a new office, and while the four royal children might not find it worthy of much dignity, the man would count this among one of the high points of his life. Arutha had tried to impress such awareness upon them over the years but continuously failed.

  Overseeing the Prince’s court was Lord Gardan, Duke of Krondor. The old soldier had served with Arutha, and his father before him, thirty years and more. His dark skin stood in stark contrast to his beard, almost white in color, but he still had the alert eyes of one whose mind had lost none of its edge and a ready smile for the royal children. A commoner by birth, Gardan had risen on his ability, and despite an often expressed desire to retire and return to his home in Far Crydee, he had remained in Arutha’s service, first as Sergeant in the garrison at Crydee, then Captain of the Prince’s Royal Household, then Knight-Marshal of Krondor. When the previous Duke of Krondor, Lord Volney, had died unexpectedly after seven years’ loyal service in his office, Arutha had awarded the office to Gardan. Despite the old soldier’s protestations of not being suited to the nobility, he had proven an able administrator as well as a gifted soldier.

  Gardan finished intoning the man’s new rank and privileges and Arutha proffered a terribly oversized parchment with ribbons and seals embossed upon it.

  The man took his award of office and retired to the crowd, to the hushed congratulations of others in court.

  Gardan nodded to the Master of Ceremonies, Jerome by name, and the thin man brought himself to his full height. Once a boyhood rival of Baron James, the office suited Jerome’s self-important nature. He was, by all accounts, a thorough bore and his preoccupation with trivia made him a natural for the post. His love of detail manifested itself in the exquisite stitching of his cloak of office and the pointed chin beard he spent hours in trimming. In pompous tones, he spoke: “If it pleases Your Highness, His Excellency, Lord Torum Sie, Ambassador from the Royal Court of Great Kesh.”

  The Ambassador, who had been standing off to one side, conferring with his advisors, approached the dais and bowed. By his attire, it was clear he was of the true Keshian people, for his head was shaved. His scarlet coat was cut away, revealing a pair of yellow pantaloons and white slippers. His chest was bare in the Keshian fashion, a large golden torque of office adorning his neck. Each item of clothing was delicately finished in almost imperceptible needlework, with tiny jewels and pearls decorating each seam. He was bathed in shimmering sparkles as he moved, and was easily the most splendid figure in court.

  “Highness,” he said, his speech tinged by a slight singsong accent. “Our Mistress, Lakeisha, She Who Is Kesh, inquires as to the health of Their Highnesses.”

  “Convey our warmest regards to the Empress,” responded Arutha, “and tell her we are well.”

  “With pleasure,” the Ambassador answered. “Now, I must beg of His Highness an answer to the invitation sent by my mistress. The seventy-fifth anniversary of Her Magnificent’s birth is an event of unsurpassed joy to the Empire. We will host a Jubilee that will be celebrated for two months. Will Your Highnesses be joining us?”

  Already the King had sent his apologies, as had the ruler of every neighboring sovereignty from Queg to the Eastern Kingdoms. While there had been peace between the Empire and her neighbors for an unusually long time—eleven years since the last major border clash—no ruler was foolish enough to come within the borders of the most feared nation on Midkemia. Those rejections were considered proper. The invitation to the Prince and Princess of Krondor was another matter.

  The Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles was
almost a nation unto itself, with the responsibility for rulership given to the Prince of Krondor. Only the broadest policy came from the King’s court in Rillanon. And it was Arutha, as often as not, who had been the one to deal with Kesh’s Ambassadors, for the majority of potential conflict between Kesh and the Kingdom were along the Western Realm’s southern border.

  Arutha looked at his wife, and then the Ambassador. “We regret that the press of official duty prevents us from undertaking so long a journey, Your Excellency.”

  The Ambassador’s expression didn’t change, but a slight hardening around the eyes indicated the Keshian considered the rejection close to an insult. “That is regrettable, Highness. My mistress did so consider your presence vital—should I say a gesture of friendship and goodwill.”

  The odd comment was not lost upon Arutha. He nodded. “Still, we would consider ourselves remiss in our friendship and goodwill to our neighbors in the south if we did not send one who could represent the Royal House of the Isles.” The Ambassador’s eyes at once fixed upon the twins. “Prince Borric, Heir Presumptive to the Throne of the Isles, shall be our representative at the Empress’s Jubilee, my lord.” Borric, suddenly the focus of scrutiny, found himself standing more erect, and felt an unexpected need to tug at his tunic. “And his brother, Prince Erland, will accompany him.”

  Borric and Erland exchanged startled glances. “Kesh!” Erland whispered, astonishment barely contained.

  The Keshian Ambassador inclined his head toward the Princes a moment in appreciation. “A fitting gesture of respect and friendship, Highness. My mistress will be pleased.”

  Arutha’s gaze swept the room, and for an instant fixed upon a man at the rear of the room, then continued on. As the Keshian Ambassador withdrew, Arutha rose from his throne and said, “We have much business before us this day; court will resume tomorrow at the tenth hour of the watch.” He offered his hand to his wife, who took it as she stood. Escorting the Princess from the dais, he whispered to Borric, “You and your brother: in my chambers in five minutes.” All four royal children bowed formally as their father and mother passed, then fell into procession behind them.