Prince of the Blood (40 page)

“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 iron 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.”

“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.