Prince of the Blood (24 page)

Reacting instantly, Borric put his fingers together in a point and drove it as hard as he could into Salaya’s chest, right below the bottommost ribs. As his fingers smashed into the nerves there, Salaya’s breath was driven from his lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath, Salaya’s face turned crimson and his eyes went unfocused. Borric then struck hard into his throat, pulled him forward, and smashed down as hard as he could manage on the back of the slaver’s neck, at the base of the skull. Borric had him
by the arm before the slaver hit the ground, and if any more guards chanced to glance their way a moment after the encounter, they would see nothing more suspicious than two friends, a man and boy, helping home a friend who had had too much to drink.

Halfway down the street they came to an alley and turned into it, dragging the now-unconscious man along like so many sacks of rotten vegetables. Borric deposited him on a pile of refuse and quickly had his purse off. A fair number of Keshian and Kingdom coins weighed down the heavy leather pouch. That went inside Borric’s shirt. He removed the belt knife and sheath, wishing the slaver had carried a sword as well. As he hesitated as to what to do next, Suli stripped Salaya of his rings, four from his hands, two from his ears. Then the boy took off the slaver’s boots and hid them. “If we leave anything of value behind, it will look suspicious.” Stepping back, he said, “You can kill him now, master.”

Borric halted. “Kill him?” Suddenly it registered. He had dreamed of revenging himself upon this swine, but all those visions had involved killing him in a duel, or bringing him before a magistrate on charges. “He’s unconscious.”

“All the better, master. There will be no struggle.” Seeing Borric hesitate, he added, “Quickly, master, before someone chances upon us. The city stirs and this alley will be traveled shortly. Someone is bound to find him soon. If he is not dead …” He let the consequences of that go unspoken.

Steeling himself, Borric withdrew the knife he had taken from Salaya and held it. But then he was confounded by a completely unexpected concern: how to do it? Should he drive the knife into the man’s stomach, cut his throat, or what?

Suli said, “If you wish not to kill a dog, master, let your
servant do it for you, but it must be done now! Please, master.”

The thought of letting the boy kill was even more repugnant to Borric, so he pulled his arm back and drove the knife into the slaver’s throat. There was not the slightest movement from Salaya. Borric stared in astonishment, then with a bitter laugh, he said, “He was already dead! The second blow must have broken his neck.” Borric shook his head in astonishment. “The punch to the chest and throat was one of the dirty fighting tricks taught me by James—not the sort of things noble sons usually learned, but one which I am glad to have been taught. I didn’t know the blow to the neck would be lethal.”

Not caring for explanations, Suli said, “Let us go now, master! Please!” He tugged on Borric’s tunic, and the Prince let the boy pull him out of the alley.

When he was clear of the sight of the dead slaver, Borric turned his thoughts away from revenge and back toward escape. Putting his hand upon Suli’s shoulder, he said, “Which way to the harbor?”

Suli didn’t hesitate. He pointed down a long street and said, “That way.”

“Then lead on,” was Borric’s answer. And the beggar boy led the Prince through a city ready to kill them both at a moment’s notice.

“That one,” said Borric, indicating a small sailboat tied to a relatively lonely dock. It was a pinnace, the sort used as a tender, to run to and from larger ships in the harbor, carrying passengers, messages, and very small cargo. It was smaller than most, having only four oarlocks instead of the usual eight, and one mast rather than two. It was a flat bottom, with a drop centerboard; Borric judged it designed to work in shallows. But if handled right, it would do well upon the open sea, as long as the weather remained fair. As the entire Fleet of Durbin pirates had put out the day before to intercept the murdering slave, there
was almost no activity in the harbor. But that condition wouldn’t last long, Borric was certain, as there were common citizens who had no concerns with the hunt for the murderer of the Governor’s wife. Soon the docks would be busy and the theft of the boat would be observed.

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.