Prince of the Blood (6 page)

Arutha said, “I speak of nations now, and dynasties, and the fate of generations. Yes, men died, so that this nation and its people may live in peace.

“But there was a time when war was always with us, when border skirmishes with Great Kesh and the Eastern Kingdoms were a monthly occurrence and when Quegan galleys took our ships at their leisure, and when invaders
from the Tsurani world held part of your grandfather’s lands—for nine years!

“You will be asked to give up many things, my sons. You will be asked to marry women who will most likely be strangers to you. You will be asked to relinquish many of the privileges lesser men know: the ability to enter a tavern and drink with strangers, to pick up and travel to another city, to marry for love and watch your children grow without fear of their being used for others’ designs.” Gazing out over the city, he added, “To sit at day’s end with your wife and discuss the small matters of your life, to be at ease.”

Borric said, “I think I understand.” His voice was subdued.

Erland only nodded.

Arutha said, “Good, for in a week you leave for Great Kesh, and from this moment forward you are the Kingdom’s future.” He moved toward the stairs that led down into the palace and halted at them. “I wish I could spare you this, but I can’t.” Then he was gone.

Both boys sat quietly for a time, then as one turned to look out over the harbor. The afternoon sun beat down, yet the breeze from the Bitter Sea was cooling. In the harbor below, boats moved as punts and barges carried cargo and passengers back and forth between the docks and great sailing ships anchored in the bay. In the distance white dots signaled approaching ships, traders from the Far Coast, the Kingdom of Queg, the Free Cities of Yabon, or the Empire of Great Kesh.

Then Borric’s face relaxed as a smile spread. “Kesh!”

Erland laughed. “Yes, to the heart of Great Kesh!”

Both shared the laughter at the prospect of new cities and people, and travel to a land considered exotic and mysterious. And their father’s words vanished upon the wind to the east.

Some institutions linger for centuries, while others pass quickly. Some arrive quietly, others with fanfare. In years past it was considered a general practice to give apprentices and other servants the latter half of the sixth day of the week for themselves. Now the practice had come to include a closing of businesses on Sixthday at noon, with Seventhday usually held to be a day of devotions and meditations.

But within the last twenty years another “tradition” had arisen. From the first Sixthday following the winter equinox, boys and young men, apprentices and servants, commoner and noble, began preparing. For upon the holiday of First Thaw, held six optimistic weeks after the equinox, often despite inclement weather, football season commenced.

Once called barrel ball, the game had been played for as long as boys had kicked balls of rags into barrels. Twenty years before, the young Prince Arutha had instructed his Master of Ceremonies to draw up a standard set of rules for the game, more for the protection of his young squires and apprentices, for then the game was rough in the extreme. Now the game had been institutionalized in the minds of the populace; come spring, football returned.

On all levels, from boys playing in open fields up to a City League, with teams fielded by guilds, trading associations, or rich nobles eager to be patrons, players could be seen racing up and down attempting to kick a ball into a net.

The crowd shouted its approval as the Blues’ swiftest forward broke away from the pack with the ball, speeding toward the open goal net. The Reds’ goalkeeper hunkered down, ready to leap between ball and net. With a clever feint, the Blues’ player caused the Reds’ to overbalance, then shot it past him on his off side. The goalkeeper stood
with hands on hips, evidencing disgust at himself while the Blues’ players mobbed the scorer.

“Ah, he should have seen it coming,” commented Locklear. “It was so obvious. I could see it up here.”

James laughed. “Then why don’t you go down and play for him?”

Borric and Erland shared in James’s laughter. “Certainly, Uncle Locky. We’ve heard a hundred times how you and Uncle Jimmy invented this game.”

Locklear shook his head. “It was nothing like this.” He glanced about the field at the stands erected by an enterprising merchant years before, stands that had been expanded upon and enlarged until as many as four thousand citizens could crowd together to watch a match. “We used to have a barrel at each end and you couldn’t stand before the mouth. This net business and goalkeepers and all the other rules your father devised …”

Borric and Erland finished for him in unison, “… It’s not sport anymore.”

Locklear said, “That’s the truth—”

Erland inserted, “Not enough bloodshed!”

“No broken arms! No gouged eyes!” Borric laughed.

James said, “Well, that’s for the better. There was one time—”

Both brothers grimaced as one, for they knew they were about to hear the story of the time Locklear was hit from behind by a piece of farrier’s steel an apprentice boy had concealed in his shirt. This would lead, then, to a debate between the two Barons on the general value of rules, and which rules enhanced the game and which impeded.

But the lack of further comment from James caused Borric to turn. James had his eyes focused not on the game below, which was drawing to a close, but upon a man down near the end of the row upon which the Baron sat, one row behind the Princes. Rank and a well-placed bribe
had given the sons of the Prince of Krondor two of the best seats for the match, at the midfield line halfway up the stands.

James said, “Locky, is it cold?”

Wiping perspiration from his brow, Locklear said, “You’re joking, right? It’s a month after midsummer and I’m roasting.”

Hiking his thumb toward the end of the row, James said, “Then why does our friend over there feel the need to wear such a heavy robe?”

Locklear glanced past his companion and noticed a man sitting at the end of the bench, muffled in a large robe. “A priest perhaps?”

“I know of no order that has members with an interest in football.” James glanced away as the man turned toward him. “Watch him over my shoulder, but nod as if you’re listening to everything I’m saying. What’s he doing?”

“Nothing presently.” Then a horn was blown, signaling the end of the match. The Blues, a team sponsored by the Millers Guild and the Worshipful Association of Iron Mongers, had defeated the Reds, a team sponsored by a group of nobles. As such sponsorship was well-known among those in attendance, the result of the match met with general approval.

As the crowd began to depart, the man in the robe stood. Locklear’s eyes widened as he said, “He’s taking something out of his sleeve.”

James whirled about in time to see the man raise a tube to his lips and point it in the direction of the Princes. Without hesitation, James pushed hard, knocking the two young men into the row below. A strangled gasp sounded from a man standing just beyond where Erland had been, and the man raised a hand to his neck. It was a gesture never finished, for as his fingers neared the dart protruding from his throat, he collapsed.

Locklear was only an instant behind James to react. As James and the twins went sprawling below, accompanied by angry shouts as spectators were knocked about, Locklear had his sword out and was leaping toward the robed and cowled figure. “Guards!” he shouted, as an honor guard was stationed just below the viewing stands.

The sounds of boots pounding upon wooden stairs answered his call almost instantly as soldiers of the Prince raced to intercept the fleeing figure. With little concern for bruises caused, the guardsmen roughly shoved innocent onlookers out of their way. With the silent understanding mobs possess, suddenly everyone knew that something was wrong in the viewing stands. While those nearby scampered to get away, those in other parts of the field turned to observe the cause of such turmoil.

Seeing guardsmen mere yards away, with only a few confused citizens blocking their approach, the robed man put one hand upon the rail of the stairs and vaulted over the side, falling a full dozen feet to the earth below. Locklear heard a heavy thud and an exclamation of pain as he reached the railing.

Sprawled upon the ground, two stunned commoners sat inspecting the unmoving form that lay next to them. One man pushed himself back without standing while the other crawled. Locklear vaulted over the rail and landed upon his feet, sword point leveled at the robed figure. The form upon the ground stirred, then leaped at the young Baron.

Almost taken by surprise, Locklear let the man get inside his guard. The robed man had his arms around Locklear’s waist as he drove him back into the supports of the viewing stand.

Locklear’s breath burst from his lungs as he struck the heavy wooden beams, but he managed to strike the man behind the ear with his sword hilt. The man staggered away, obviously intent upon escape rather than combat,
but shouting voices heralded the approach of more guardsmen. Turning, the man struck out at Locklear, who was struggling to regain his breath, and his fist found Locklear’s ear.

Pain and confusion overwhelmed Locklear as the assailant rushed into the darkness under the viewing stands. The Baron shook his head to clear it, then turned and hurried after.

In the sudden darkness under the stands, the man could be hiding anywhere. “In here!” Locklear yelled, in reply to an inquiring shout, and within seconds a half dozen guardsmen were standing behind him. “Spread out and be alert.”

The men did as they were bidden and slowly advanced beneath the viewing stands. The men closest to the front were forced to stoop, as the lowest risers of the stands were but four feet off the ground. One soldier walked along, poking his sword into the gloom, against the fugitive having crawled under the front-most stands to hide. Above them the sounds of citizens leaving the stands filled the gloom with a thunderous clatter of sandals and boots upon wood, but after a few minutes, the noise diminished.

Then the sounds of struggle came from before them. Locklear and his men hurried forward. In the dark, two figures held a third. Without seeing who was who, Locklear drove his shoulder into the nearest body, knocking everyone to the ground. More guards piled on top of the fray, until at last the struggle at the bottom of the mass was ended by sheer weight. Then the guards were quickly unpiling and the combatants were pulled up. Locklear grinned as he saw that one of them was James and the other Borric. Looking down, he could see the still form of the man in robes. “Drag him out into the light,” he ordered the guards. To James he said, “Is he dead?”

“Not unless you broke his neck jumping on him that way. You damn near broke mine.”

“Where’s Erland?” asked Locklear.

“Here,” came an answering voice in the gloom. “I was covering the other side of the fray in case he got past these two.” He indicated James and Borric.

“Nursing your precious side, you mean,” shot back Borric with a grin.

Erland shrugged. “Maybe.”

They all followed the guards, who were carrying the still form of the assailant, and when they were in the afternoon sunlight again, discovered a cordon had been thrown up by other guards.

Locklear bent over. “Let’s see what we have here.” He pulled back the hood and a face stared blankly up at the sky. “He’s dead.”

James was instantly on his knees, forcing open the man’s mouth. He sniffed and said, “Poisoned himself.”

“Who is he?” said Borric.

“And why was he trying to kill you, Uncle Jimmy?” said Erland.

“Not me, you idiot,” snapped James. He pointed at Borric. “He was trying to kill your brother.”

A guard approached. “My lord, the man struck by the dart is dead. He died within seconds of his wounding.”

Borric forced a nervous grin. “Why would anyone wish to kill me?”

Erland joined in the strained humor. “An angry husband?”

James said, “Not you, Borric conDoin.” He glanced around the crowd, as if seeking other assassins. “Someone tried to kill the future King of the Isles.”

Locklear opened the man’s robe, revealing a black tunic. “James, look here.”

Baron James peered down at the dead man. His skin was dark, even darker than Gardan’s, marking him as
Keshian by ancestry, but those of Keshian ancestry were common in this part of the Kingdom. There were brown- and black-skinned people in every stratum of Krondorian society. But this man wore odd clothing: a tunic of expensive black silk and soft slippers unlike anything the young Princes had seen before.

James inspected the dead man’s hands, and noticed a ring set with a dark gem, then looked for a necklace and found none.

“What are you doing?” Borric asked.

“Old habits,” was all Jimmy would answer. “He’s no Nighthawk,” he observed, mentioning the legendary Guild of Assassins. “But this may be worse.”

“How?” asked Locklear, remembering all too well when the Nighthawks had sought to kill Arutha twenty years before.

“He’s Keshian.”

Locklear leaned down and inspected the ring. Ashen-faced, he stood. “Worse still. He’s a member of the Royal House of Kesh.”