Читать книгу The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 17

BORRIC AWOKE.

He lay motionless, straining to hear through the confusion of voices and sounds that were ever-present in the camp, even at night. For an instant, while still half-dozing, he had thought he heard his name being faintly called.

Sitting up, he blinked as he looked around. Most of the captives still sat huddled near the campfire, as if its light and warmth would somehow banish the cold fear in their souls. He had chosen to lay as far from the stench of the waste trench as possible, on the opposite side of the band of slaves. As Borric moved, he was again reacquainted with the manacles that bound his wrists, the odd-looking flat silver metal with the reputed property of blanking out all magic powers of whoever was forced to wear them. Borric shivered, and realized the desert night was indeed turning cold. His robe had been taken from him and his shirt as well, leaving him with only a pair of trousers to wear. He moved toward the campfire, eliciting an occasional curse or complaint as he forced his way between captives reluctant to move. But as all the fight was gone from them, his inconsiderate shoving through the mass of slaves got him nothing more than a glare of anger or a muttered oath.

Borric sat down between two other men, who attempted to ignore his intrusion. Each lived moment to moment in his own world of misery.

A scream cut through the night as one of the five women captives was again assaulted by the guards. Earlier a sixth woman had struggled too much, biting out the neck artery of the guard who was raping her, earning both of them death, his the swifter and less painful.

From the sound of the pitiful wail that trailed on after the scream, Borric considered her the lucky one. He doubted any of the women would be alive by the time they reached Durbin. By turning them over to the guards, the slaver avoided problems for many days to come. Should any survive the trip, she would be sold cheaply as a kitchen drudge. None was young enough nor attractive enough that it was worth the slave master’s trouble to keep them out of the guards’ reach.

As if summoned by Borric’s thoughts of him, the slaver appeared at the edge of the campfire. He stood there in the golden red glow of the firelight and made his tally. Pleased by what he saw, he turned toward his own tent. Kasim. That’s what Borric had heard him called. He had marked him well, for someday the Prince was certain he would kill Kasim.

As he moved away from the closely guarded slaves, another man called his name and approached. The man’s name was Salaya, and he wore the purple robe Borric had won two nights before in Stardock. When Borric had first come to camp in the dawn hours that morning, the man had demanded the robe at once and had beaten the Prince when he appeared slow to remove it. The fact Borric was wearing manacles at the time seemed to make no difference. After the Prince had been struck repeatedly, Kasim had intervened, pointing out the obvious. Salaya was hardly mollified as Borric had one wrist, then the other, freed while he removed the robe. He seemed to blame Borric for that embarrassment before the others his own impatience had caused, as if it had been the Prince’s fault somehow that Salaya was a stupid pig. Borric had marked him for death as well. Kasim gave some instructions to Salaya, who seemed to listen with a surly half-attention. Then the slaver was gone, heading off toward the string of horses. Most likely, thought Borric, he’s off to supervise another band of slaves being brought to the impromptu caravansary.

Several times during the day, he had considered revealing his identity, but caution always overruled him. There was a good chance he would not be believed. He never wore his signet, always finding it inconvenient when riding, fighting, or doing any of the camp chores common to his life on the frontier while serving at Highcastle. He had got out of the habit of wearing it, so it was locked away in his baggage, among those packs the bandits did not conspire to capture. While red hair might make them pause to consider the probability of his claim, it was in no way unique among those who lived in Krondor. Blond hair might be the norm for fair-skinned people living in Yabon and along the Far Coast, but Krondorians numbered as many redheads as blonds among their citizenry. And proving he was not a magician would take some doing, for what difference was there between someone who doesn’t know any magic and someone who knows magic but pretends he doesn’t.

Borric was decided. He would wait until he reached Durbin then seek to find someone a little more likely to understand his circumstance. He really doubted Kasim or any of his men – especially if they all were as bright as Salaya – would either understand or believe him. But someone with the intelligence to be the master of such as these might. And if so, Borric could most likely ransom himself to freedom.

Taking what comfort he could from thoughts like these, Borric pushed a half-dozing captive, moving him a few inches, so Borric might lie down again. The blows to the head had made him very groggy and sleep beckoned often. He closed his eyes, and for a moment the sensation of the ground spinning beneath made him nauseous. Then it passed. Soon a fitful sleep descended.

The sun burned like the angry presence of Prandur, the Fire God, himself. As if hanging only a few yards above him, the sun beat down on Borric’s fair skin, searing it. While Borric’s hands and face had been lightly tanned when serving at the northern borders, the scorching desert sun burned him to weakness. Blisters had erupted along Borric’s back the second day, and his head swam from the pain of his burn. The first two days had been bad enough, as the caravan had moved from the rocky plateau country down into the sandy wastes the local desert men called the ergs of the Jal-Pur. The five wagons moved slowly over what was less dirt than hard-packed sand baked to brick finish by the same sun that was slowly killing the slaves.

Three had died yesterday. Salaya had little use for weaklings; only healthy, strong workers were wanted on the slave blocks at Durbin. Kasim had still not returned from whatever business he was upon, and the deputized caravan leader was revealed for the sadistic pig Borric had marked him in their first minute of meeting. Water was handed out three times a day, before first light, at the noon break when the drivers and guards halted to rest, and then with the evening meal, the only meal, Borric corrected himself. It was a dried mush bread, with little flavour and little that gave strength. He hoped the soft things in the bread were indeed raisins; he had not bothered to look. Food kept him alive, no matter how distasteful it might be.

The slaves were a sullen group, each man lost in his own suffering. Weakened by the heat, few had anything to say to each other; talk was a needless waste of energy. But Borric had managed to glean a few facts from one or two of them. The guards were less vigilant now that the caravan was into the wastes; even should a slave escape, where would he go? The desert was the surest guard of all. Once in Durbin, they would rest for a few days, perhaps as long as a week, so bloody feet and burned skins could heal, and weight could be regained before they were offered upon the block. Travel-weary slaves brought little gold.

Borric attempted to consider his choices, but the heat and sunburn had weakened him, made him ill, and the lack of food and water was keeping him dull and stupid. He shook his head and tried to focus his attention on ways to escape, but all he could manage was to move his feet, one then the other, pick them up and let them fall before him, over and over, until allowed to halt.

Then the sun vanished and it was night. The slaves were ordered to sit near the campfire as they had been for the last three nights and listened to the guards having sport with the five remaining women captives. They no longer struggled or screamed. Borric ate his flat piece of bread and sipped his water. The first night after entering the desert, one man had gulped his water, then vomited it a few minutes later. The guards would give him no more. He had died the next day. Borric had learned his lesson. No matter how much he wished to tilt back his head and drain the copper cup, he lingered over the stale, warm water, sipping it slowly. Sleep came quickly, the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion, with no real rest obtained. Each time he moved, angry sunburns brought him awake. If he faced away from the fire, his back smarted at any touch of heat, yet if he moved from the fire, the cold brought him chills. But no matter how close or far the source of his discomfort, he soon was overcome by his fatigue, until he moved, when the cycle began again. And then suddenly, spear butts and boot kicks roused Borric to his feet with the others.

In the cool of the morning, the almost damp night air seemed nothing so much as a lens for the sun, bringing the searing touch of Prandur to torment the slaves. Before an hour was passed, two more men were fallen, left where they hit the sand.

Borric’s mind retreated into itself. An animal consciousness was all that remained, a cunning, vicious animal that refused to die. Every iota of energy he possessed was given over to but one task, to move forward and not to fall. To fall was to die.

Then after a time of mindless moving forward, hands seized him. ‘Stop,’ commanded a voice.

Borric blinked and through flashing yellow lights, he saw a face. It was a face composed of knots and lumps, angles and planes, skin dark like ebony over a curly beard. It was the ugliest face Borric had ever beheld. It was magnificent in its repulsiveness.

Borric began to giggle, but all that came from his parched throat was a dry wheeze. ‘Sit,’ said the guard, helping Borric to the ground with a surprising gentleness. ‘It’s time for the midday halt.’ Glancing around to see if he was being observed, he opened his own water skin and poured some out upon his hand. ‘You northerners die from the sun so quickly.’ He washed the back of Borric’s neck and dried his hand by running it through Borric’s hair, cooling his baking head slightly. ‘Too many have fallen along the way; Kasim will not be pleased.’ Quickly he poured a mouthful for the young Prince, then moved on, as if nothing had passed between them.

Then another guard brought around the water skin and cups and the clamour for water began. Each slave who could still speak announced his thirst, as if to remain silent was to chance being ignored.

Borric could barely move, and each motion brought waves of bright yellow and white light and red flashes behind his eyes. Yet, almost blindly, he pushed out his hand to take the metal cup. The water was warm and bitter, yet sweeter than the finest Natalese wine to Borric’s parched lips. He sipped the wine, forcing himself to hold it in his mouth as his father had taught him, letting the dark purple fluid course around his tongue, registering the subtle and complex components of the wine’s flavour. A hint of bitterness, perhaps from the stems and a few leaves left in the vat of must, while the winemaker attempted to bring his wine to just the proper peak of fermentation before barrelling the wine. Or perhaps it was a flaw. Borric didn’t recognize the wine; it lacked noticeable body and structure, and was deficient in acid to balance the fruit. It was not a very good wine. He would have to see if Papa was testing him and Erland by putting a poor local wine on the table, to see if they were paying attention.

Borric blinked and through eyes gummy from heat and dryness, he couldn’t see where the tip was. How was he to spit the wine if there was no tip bucket to spit into? He mustn’t drink it, or he would be very drunk, as he was only a small boy. Perhaps if he turned his head and spit behind the table, no one would notice.

‘Hey!’ shouted a voice. ‘That slave is spitting out his water!’

Hands ripped the cup from Borric’s hands and he fell over backwards. He lay on the floor of his father’s dining hall and wondered why the stones were so warm. They should be cool. They always were. How did they get so warm?

Then a pair of hands lifted him ungently from his sitting position, and another helped to hold him up. ‘What’s this? Trying to kill yourself by not drinking?’ Borric opened his eyes slightly and saw the vague outline of a face before his.

Weakly, he said, ‘I can’t name the wine, Father.’

‘He’s delirious,’ said the voice. Hands lifted him and carried him and then he was in a darker place. Water was daubed over his face and poured over his neck, wrists, and arms. A distant voice said, ‘I swear by the gods and demons, Salaya, you haven’t the brains of a three days’ dead cat. If I hadn’t ridden out to meet you, you’d have let this one die, too, wouldn’t you?’

Borric felt water course into his mouth and he drank. Instead of the bitter half-cup, this was a veritable stream of almost fresh water. He drank.

Salaya’s voice answered: ‘The weak ones fetch us nothing. It saves us money to let them die on the road and not feed them.’

‘You idiot!’ shouted the other. ‘This is a prime slave! Look at him. He’s young, not more than twenty years, if I know my business, and not bad looking under the sunburn, healthy, or at least he was a few days ago.’ There was a sound of disgust. ‘These fair-skinned northerners can’t take the heat like those of us born to the Jal-Pur. A little more water, and some covering, and he’d have been fit for next week’s block. Now, I’ll have to keep him an extra two weeks for the burns to heal and his strength to return.’

‘Master—’

‘Enough, keep him here under the wagon while I inspect the others. There may be more who will survive if I find them in time. I do not know what fate befell Kasim, but it was a sorry day for the Guild when you were left in charge.’

Borric found this exchange very odd. And what had happened to the wine? He let his mind wander as he lay in the relative cool, under the wagon, while a few feet away, a Master of the Guild of Durbin Slavers inspected the others who in a day’s time would be delivered to the slave pens.

‘Durbin!’ said Salman. His face of dark knots split in a wide grin. He drove the last wagon in the train, the one in which Borric rode. The two days since Borric was carried into the shade of the wagon had returned him from the edge of death. He now rode in the last wagon with three other slaves who were recovering from heat-stroke. Water was there for the taking, and their burned skins were dressed with a soft oil and herb poultice, which reduced the fiery pain to a dull itch.

Borric rose to his knees then stood upon shaky legs as the wagon lurched across the stones in the road. He saw little remarkable about the city, save the surrounding lands were now green rather than sandy. They had been passing small farms for about a half-day. He remembered what he had been taught about the infamous pirate stronghold as a boy.

Durbin commanded the only arable farm land between the Vale of Dreams and the foothills of the Trollhome Mountains, as well as the one safe harbour to be found from Land’s End to Ranom. Along the south coast of the Bitter Sea the treacherous reefs waited for ships and boats unfortunate enough to be caught in the unexpected northern winds that sprang up routinely. For centuries, Durbin had been home to pirates, wreckers and scavengers, and slavers.

Borric nodded to Salman. The happy little bandit had proved to be both friendly and garrulous. ‘I’ve lived there all my life,’ said the bandit, widening his grin. ‘My father was born there, too.’

When the desert men of the Jal-Pur had conquered Durbin hundreds of years before, they had found their gateway to the trade of the Bitter Sea, and when the Empire had conquered the desert men, Durbin was the capital city of the desert men. Now it was the home of an Imperial Governor, but nothing had changed. It was still Durbin.

‘Tell me,’ asked Borric, ‘do the Three Guilds still control the city?’

Salman laughed. ‘You’re a very educated fellow! Few outside Durbin know of this thing. The Guild of Slavers, the Wreckers Guild, and the Captains of the Coast. Yes, the Three still rule in Durbin. It is they, not the Imperial Governor, who decide who is to live and die, who is to work, who is to eat.’ He shrugged. ‘It is as it has always been. Before the Empire. Before the desert men. Always.’

Thinking of the power of the Mockers, the Guild of Thieves, in Krondor, he asked, ‘What of the beggars and thieves? Are they not a power?’

‘Ha!’ answered Salman. ‘Durbin is the most honest city in the world, my educated friend. We who live there lay at night with doors unlocked and may walk the streets in safety. For he who steals in Durbin is a fool, and either dead or a slave within days. So the Three have decreed, and who is foolish enough to question their wisdom? Certainly not I. And so it must be, for Durbin has no friends beyond the reefs and sands.’

Borric lightly patted Salman on the shoulder and sat down in the back of the wagon. Of the four sick slaves, he was the quickest to recover, as he was the youngest and fittest. The other three were older farmers, and none had shown any inclination to quick recovery. Despair robs you of strength faster than sickness, Borric thought.

He drank a little water and marvelled at the first hint of ocean breeze that came into the wagon as they headed down the road toward the city gate. One of his father’s advisors, and the man who had taught Borric and Erland how to sail, Amos Trask, had been a pirate in his youth, raiding the Free Cities, Queg, and the Kingdom under the name Captain Trenchard, the Dagger of the Sea. He had been a renowned member of the Captains of the Coast. But while he had told many tales of the high seas, he had said almost nothing of the politics of the Captains. Still, someone might remember Captain Trenchard and that might stand Borric in good stead.

Borric had decided to keep his identity hidden a while longer. While he had no doubt the slavers would send ransom demands to his father, he thought he might avoid the sort of international difficulties that would arise should it come to pass. Instead, he might bide his time in the slave pens a few days, regain his strength, then flee. While the desert was a formidable barrier, any small boat in the harbour would be his passage to freedom. It was nearly five hundred miles of sailing against prevailing winds to reach Land’s End, Baron Locklear’s father’s city, but it could be done. Borric considered all this with a confidence of one who, at the age of nineteen, did not know the meaning of defeat. His captivity was merely a setback, nothing more.

The slave pens were sheltered by shingle roofs rested upon tall beams, protecting the slaves from the noon heat or unexpected storms off the Bitter Sea. But the sides were open slats and crossbeams, so the guards could watch the captives. A healthy man could easily climb over the ten-foot fence, but by the time he reached the top and crawled through the space between the fence and the crossbeams supporting the roof three feet above, guards would be waiting for him.

Borric considered his plight. Once he was sold, his new master might be lax in his security, or he might be even more stringent. Logic dictated he attempt to escape while confined close to the sea. His new owner could be a Quegan merchant, a traveller from the Free Cities, or even a Kingdom noble. What would be worse, he could be carried deep into the Empire. He was not sanguine about letting fate make the choice.

He had a plan. The only difficulty lay in getting cooperation from the other prisoners. If a long enough diversion could be arranged for, then he could be over the fence and out into the city. Borric shook his head. He realized as plans go, it wasn’t much.

‘Pssst!’

Borric turned to see from where the odd sound came. Seeing nothing, he turned back into himself as he considered improvements on his plan.

‘Pssst! This way, young noble.’ Borric looked again through the bars of the pen, but this time down, and in the scant shadows he saw a slight figure.

A boy, no more than eleven or twelve years old, grinned up at him from the meagre shelter of a large roof support. If he moved more than inches in any direction, he would certainly be spotted by the guard.

Borric glanced around, seeing the two guards at the corner speaking to one another. ‘What?’ he whispered.

‘Should you but divert the guards’ attention for an instant, noble sir, I will be indebted to you for ages,’ came the answering whisper.

Borric said, ‘Why?’

‘I need but a moment’s distraction, sir.’

Counting no harm from it, save perhaps a blow for insolence, Borric nodded. Moving to where the guards stood, he said, ‘Hey! When do we eat?’

Both guards blinked in confusion, then one snarled. He jammed the butt of his spear through the staves of the fence, and Borric had to dodge not to be struck. ‘Sorry I asked,’ he said.

Chuckling to himself, he moved his shoulders under the rough shirt they had given him, fighting the impulse to scratch. The sunburn was healing after being dressed for the last three days, but the peeling skin and the itching were making him doubly cross. The next slave auction was over a week away, and he knew he would be on the block. He was regaining his strength quickly.

A tug at his sleeve caused him to turn and there beside him was the boy. ‘What are you doing here?’

The boy gave him a questioning look. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘I thought you were trying to escape the pens,’ said Borric in a harsh whisper.

The boy laughed. ‘No, noble youth. I needed the distraction you so magnanimously provided, so I might enter the pen.’

Borric looked heavenward. ‘Two hundred prisoners all dreaming continuously of a way out of here, and I have to meet the one madman in the world who wishes to break in! Why me?’

The boy looked up to where Borric’s gaze went, and said, ‘To which deity does my lord speak?’

‘All of them. Look, what is this all about?’

The boy took Borric’s elbow and steered him to the centre of the pen, where they would be the least conspicuous to the guards. ‘It is a matter of some complexity, my lord.’

‘And why do you address me as “my lord”?’

The boy’s face split with a grin, and Borric took a good look at him. Round cheeks burned red by the sun dominated a brown face. What he could see of the boy’s eyes, made narrow slits by merry amusement, suggested they were dark to the point of being black. Under a hood several sizes too large, ill-cropped coarse black hair shot out at differing lengths.

The boy made a slight bow. ‘All men are superior to one as low as I, my lord, and deserve respect. Even those pigs of guards.’

Borric couldn’t help but smile at this imp. ‘Well, then, tell me why you, alone among sane men everywhere, would wish to break into this miserable company?’

The boy sat upon the ground and motioned Borric to do likewise. ‘I am called Suli Abul, young sir. I am a beggar by trade. I am also, I am ashamed to admit, under threat of punishment from the Three. You know of the Three?’ Borric nodded. ‘Then you know their wrath is great and their reach long. I saw an old merchant who had paused to sleep in the midday sun. From his torn purse, some coins had fallen. Had I waited until he had awoken, and chanced he would not miss his coins, then I would have but found them upon the ground, and none would think the worse of me. But not trusting the gods to keep the man from noticing his loss, I sought to pick them up while he dozed. As the Lady of Luck decreed, he did awake at the worst moment, and cried “thief!” to all who were nearby. One who recognized me added my name to the shout, and I was pursued. Now I am being sought after by the Three for punishment. Where better to hide than among those already condemned to slavery?’

Borric was silent for a moment, at a loss to answer that. Shaking his head in wonder, he asked, ‘Tell me, in nine days when we are to be sold, then what shall you do?’

With a laugh, the boy said, ‘By then, gentle lord, I shall be gone.’

‘And where shall you go?’ asked the Prince, his eyes narrowing.

‘Back to the city, young sir. For my transgressions are slight and the Three have much to concern their attentions. Some great issue is being decided now, at the Governor’s palace, or so the rumours in the streets tell. Many officials of the Three as well as Imperial envoys come and go. In any event, after a few days, those who are searching for myself will be about other business and I may safely return to my craft.’

Borric shook his head. ‘Can you get out as easily, as you got in?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Probably. Nothing in life is certain. I expect I shall be able to. If not, it’s the gods’ will.’

Borric gripped the young beggar’s shirt, pulling him close. In whispers, he said, ‘Then, my philosophical friend, we shall cut a bargain. I helped you in, and you shall help me out.’

The boy’s dark face paled. ‘Master,’ he said, almost hissing between his teeth, ‘for one as adroit as I, we might contrive a means to release you from your captivity, but you are the size of a mighty warrior, and those manacles upon your wrists confine your movement.’

‘Have you the means for my release of these?’

‘How could I?’ asked the frightened boy.

‘You don’t know? What kind of a thief are you?’

The boy shook his head in denial. ‘A poor one, master, if the truth be known. It is the height of stupidity to steal in Durbin, therefore I am also a stupid one. My thievery is of the lowest order, the most inconsequential of thefts. Upon the soul of my mother, I so swear, master! Today was my first attempt.’

Shaking his head, Borric said, ‘Just what I need, an incompetent thief. I could get free myself if I had a pick.’ He took a breath, calming himself so as not to frighten the boy more. ‘I need a hard piece of wire, so long. A thin nail might work.’ He showed the boy by holding up thumb and forefinger, two inches of length. The manacle chain made the gesture difficult.

‘I can get that, master.’

‘Good,’ said Borric, releasing the boy. The instant he was released, he turned as if to flee, but anticipating just such a reaction, Borric’s foot went out and tripped the beggar. Before the boy could scramble to his feet, the Prince had him by the shoulder of his garment. ‘You make a scene,’ said the Prince, indicating the guards a short distance away with a nod of his head. ‘I know what you are going to do, boy. Don’t seek to flee my grasp. If I’m to be sold at auction in a week’s time, I might as well not go alone. Give me one more excuse to turn you over to the guards and I will. Understand?’

‘Yes, master!’ whispered the boy, now completely terrified.

Borric said, ‘I know you, boy. I’ve been taught by one who was to you as you are to the fleas who live in your shirt. Do you believe me?’ Suli nodded, unwilling to trust his voice. ‘If you seek to betray me or leave me, I will ensure I don’t go to the block alone. We are in this as one, do you understand?’ The boy nodded, and this time Borric saw his agreement wasn’t just to gain his freedom, but to show he believed Borric would indeed turn him over to the guards if he attempted to abandon the Prince. Borric released him, and the boy fell hard upon the ground. This time he didn’t attempt to run, but simply sat upon the hard-packed dirt, a look of fear and hopelessness upon his face.

‘Oh, Father of Mercies, I pray you, forgive my foolishness. Why, oh, why did you cast me in with this mad lord?’

Borric settled to one knee. ‘Can you get me the wire, or were you just lying?’

The boy shook his head. ‘I can get it.’ He rose to his feet and motioned Borric to follow.

Borric followed him to the fence. The boy turned his back so the guards would not see his face should they look in his direction. Pointing to the boards, the boy said, ‘Some of these are warped. Look for what you need.’

Borric turned his back as well, but studied the fencing from the corner of his eye. About three boards down, a warp had bowed the fence outward slightly, pushing a nail out. The Prince leaned against that board and could feel the nailhead poking him in the shoulder.

Borric turned suddenly and pushed the boy against the board. The boy leaned into it and, in one motion, Borric hooked the edge of his metal cuff over the nail. ‘Now pray I don’t bend it,’ he whispered. Then with a quick yank, the nail was free.

Stooping to pick it up, he moved to hide his prize from any watching eyes. Glancing around, he saw with relief that no one had bothered to take note of his odd behaviour.

With little movements, he had one, then the other manacle off. He quickly rubbed his chafed wrists, then put the manacles back on.

‘What are you doing?’ whispered the young beggar.

‘If the guards see me without the bracelets, they’ll come investigate. I just wanted to see how difficult it was going to be to get them off. Obviously, not very.’

‘Where has a noble son such as yourself learned such a thing?’ asked Suli.

Borric smiled. ‘One of my instructors had a … colourful childhood. Not all his lessons were standard teaching for—’ He had almost said princes but at the last instant, he said, ‘—noble sons.’

‘Ah!’ said the boy. ‘Then you are one of noble birth. I thought as much from your speech.’

‘My speech?’ asked Borric.

‘You talk like one of the commoners, most noble lord. Yet your accent is that of one from the highest born families, even royalty itself.’

Borric considered. ‘We’re going to have to change that. If we are forced to hide in the city for any length of time, I must pass as a commoner.’

The boy sat. ‘I can teach you.’ Looking down at the manacles, he said, ‘Why the special confinement, son of a most noble father?’

‘They think I’m a magician.’

The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Then why have they not put you to death? Magicians are most troublesome to confine. Even the poor ones can visit boils and hairy warts upon those who displease them.’

Borric smiled. ‘I’ve almost convinced them I am a poor tutor.’

‘Then why have they not removed the chains?’

‘I’ve almost convinced them.’

The boy smiled. ‘Where shall we go, master?’

‘To the harbour, where I plan to steal a small boat and make for the Kingdom.’

The boy nodded his approval. ‘That is a fine plan. I shall be your servant, young lord, and your father will reward me richly for helping his son escape this evil den of black-souled murderers.’

Borric had to laugh. ‘You’re given to a noble turn of phrase yourself, now, aren’t you?’

The boy brightened. ‘One must be gifted in the use of words to earn one’s living as a beggar, my most glorious lord. To simply ask for alms will bring nothing but kicks and cuffing from all but the kindest of men. But to threaten them with curses of the most elaborate sort will bring gifts.

‘If I say, “May your wife’s beauty turn to ugliness,” what merchant would bother to hesitate in his passing. But should I say, “May your mistress grow to resemble your wife! And may your daughters do likewise!’” then he’ll pay many coppers for me to remove the curse, lest his daughters grow to look like his wife and he can find no husbands for them, and his mistress grow to look like his wife and he lose his pleasure.’

Borric grinned, genuinely amused. ‘Have you such powers of cursing that men fear you so?’

The boy laughed. ‘Who’s to say? But what man would hoard a few coppers against the chance the curse might work?’

Borric sat down. ‘I shall share my meals with you, as they account the bread and stew. But I must be free of this place before they finally tally for auction.’

‘Then they will raise alarm and search for you.’

Borric smiled. ‘That is what I wish them to do.’

Borric ate his half of his dinner and gave the plate to the boy. Suli wolfed the food down and licked the tin plate to get the last bits.

For seven days they had shared Borric’s rations, and while they both felt hunger, it was sufficient for them; the slavers gave generous portions for those heading toward the auction. No dark circles under eyes, nor hollow cheeks, nor shrunken frames would lower price if a few meals would prevent it.

If any others had noticed the unorthodox manner in which the boy had joined the company in the pen, no one commented upon it. The slaves were quiet, each man lost in his own thoughts, and little attempt was made to converse. Why bother to make friends with those you would most likely never see again?

Whispering so that no one would overhear, Borric said, ‘We must flee before the morning tally.’

The boy nodded, but said, ‘I don’t understand.’ For seven days, he had been hiding behind the assembled slaves, ducking not to be included in the head count. Perhaps he had been seen once or twice, but the guards would not bother to recheck the number if they had one too many heads, simply assuming they had miscounted. If there had been too few, they would have recounted.

‘I need as much confusion in their search for us as possible. But I want most of the guards back at the auction the day following. You see?’

The boy made no pretence of understanding. ‘No, master.’

Borric had spent the last week profitably picking the boy’s brain for every piece of information he could about the city and what lay in the area surrounding the Slavers Guild. ‘Over that fence is the street to the harbour,’ Borric said, and Suli nodded to show he was correct. ‘Within minutes, dozens of guards will be racing down that street to find us before we can steal away on a boat for Queg or elsewhere, right?’

The boy nodded. It was the logical assumption. ‘No one in his right mind would risk the desert, right?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then we’re going to head toward the desert.’

‘Master! We will die!’

Borric said, ‘I didn’t say we’d go into the desert, just we’d head that way and find a place to hide.’

‘But where, master? There are only the houses of the rich and powerful between here and the desert, and the soldiers’ barracks at the Governor’s house.’

Borric grinned.

The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, gods preserve us, master, you can’t mean …’

Borric said, ‘Of course. The one place they’ll never look for two runaway slaves.’

‘Oh, kind master. You must be joking to torment your poor servant.’

‘Don’t look so crestfallen, Suli,’ said Borric, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. ‘You gave me the idea.’

‘I, master? I said nothing about delivering ourselves up to the Governor.’

‘No, but if you hadn’t been trying to hide from the slavers in the slave pen, I’d have never thought of this.’

Borric slipped the manacles and motioned for the boy to stand. The guards at the far end of the pen were playing a game of knucklebones and the one delegated to keep watch was dozing. Borric pointed upward and the boy nodded. He stripped his robe, leaving himself unclothed save for his breechcloth, and Borric made a cup with his hands. The boy took one step and Borric half-lifted, half-threw him up into the overhanging beams of the roof supports. The boy moved agilely along the beams to the farthest corner from the gambling guards, near where the single guard dozed.

Hesitation and any sort of noise would undo them, so Borric found himself holding his breath while the little beggar scampered to the corner of the pen. There Borric quickly climbed a few feet of fence, and reached up to grip the robe the boy had tied around the beam. Hauling himself over the fence with two pulls, he swung down to where the sleeping guard lay. Suli Abul climbed down to hang almost directly over the sleeping guard.

In a coordinated movement, the boy lifted the guard’s metal helm from his head as Borric swung the manacles. The iron struck the guard on the side of the head with a dull crack, and the man slumped down.

Not waiting to see if they were observed – if one of the other guards noticed they might as well give up now – Borric leaped and grabbed the hanging robe.

Pulling himself up beside the boy, he paused a second to gulp his breath back into his lungs, then motioned. Suli set off in a crouched-over, silent walk, along the beam that ran the length of the roof. Borric followed, though his bulk forced him to move on hands and knees, crawling behind the slight boy.

Over the gambling guards they moved, then into the gloom. At the far end of the compound, they dropped to the top of the last pen, then leaped to the outside wall. Half-falling, half-jumping, they hit the ground and were off in the night, running as if the entire garrison of Durbin was on their heels, heading straight for the home of the city’s Governor.

Borric’s plan had worked as he had thought it would. In the busy house of the Governor of Durbin, there was much confusion and many people moving. A nameless pair of slaves crossing the courtyard to the kitchen elicited no comment.

Within ten minutes, the alarm had been raised, and many of the city’s watchmen were in the streets, crying that a slave had escaped. By then, Borric and Suli had found a nice attic in the guest wing of the house, vacant and, from the amount of dust on the floor, unused for years.

Suli whispered, ‘You are certainly a magician, my lord. If not of the sort they thought, of a different kind. No one will think to search the Governor’s home.’

Borric nodded. He held up his finger to indicate silence, then lay back as if to sleep.

The excited boy could hardly believe his eyes when the young man fell into a fitful doze. Suli was too tense and excited – and afraid – to try to sleep. He glanced through the small roof window they had used to enter the attic, one which gave them a clear view of part of the Governor’s courtyard and some of the other wing of the house.

After watching the occasional comings and goings of the household, the beggar turned to inspect the rest of the attic. He could stand easily enough, though Borric would have to stoop. He walked carefully upon the beams of the room, lest any who might happen to be beneath the attic hear movement.

At the far end of the attic, he found a trapdoor. Putting his ear against it, the boy heard nothing. He waited a long time, or at least what he felt was a long time, before prying the door up slightly. The room below was empty and dark. The boy moved the trap carefully, attempting not to cause dust to fall in the room below, and stuck his head through the trap.

He almost cried out as he turned to see a face inches from his own. Then his night vision adjusted and he saw he was nose to nose with a statue, the sort imported from Queg, life-size and carved from marble or some other stone.

The boy put his hand upon the stone head and lowered himself into the room. He glanced around and was satisfied the room was being used for storage. In a corner, under some bolts of cloth, he found a dull kitchen knife. A poor weapon was better than none, he thought, and he stuck the knife in his robe.

Moving as quietly as possible, the boy inspected the only door in the room. He tested it and found it unlocked. Opening it slowly, he peered through a tiny crack, into an empty, dark hall.

He moved cautiously into the hall and slowly walked to where the hall met with another, also dark, After listening, Suli was certain no one was using this wing of the Governor’s large home. He scurried along, checking in rooms randomly, and found that all were deserted. Many were empty, and a few had furnishings covered with canvas tarps.

Scratching his arm, the boy glanced around. Nothing suggested itself to him as likely plunder, so he determined to return to the attic, to see if he could get some rest.

Then, at the far end of the hall he was leaving, he noticed a faint line of light. At the same instant, the silence was broken by the distant sound of an angry voice.

Caution and curiosity fought. Curiosity won. The boy stole down the hall, to find a door through which muffled voices could be heard. Putting his ear to the wood, the boy heard a man shouting. ‘… Fools! If we had known ahead of time, we could have been prepared.’

A second, calmer voice answered. ‘It was chance. No one knew what that idiot Reese meant when he brought word from Lafe that a princely caravan with few guards was ripe for the taking.’

‘Not “princely”,’ said the first voice, anger barely contained. ‘“Princes’ caravan.” That’s what he meant.’

‘And the prisoner who escaped tonight was the Prince?’

‘Borric. Or the Goddess of Luck is having more sport with us than I care to imagine. He was the only red-headed slave we took.’

The calmer voice said, ‘Lord Fire will be displeased that he lives. With Borric thought dead, our master’s mission is completed, but should a living prince of the Isles make his way home …’

The angry voice said, ‘Then you must ensure that he does not, and for good measure, that his brother dies, as well.’

Suli attempted to peek through the crack of the door and saw nothing, then he looked through the keyhole. He could only see a man’s back and part of a man’s hand resting upon a desk. Then the man at the desk leaned forward, and Suli recognized the face of the Governor of Durbin. His was the angry voice. ‘No one outside this room can know the escaped slave is Prince Borric. He must not be allowed to identify himself to anyone. Circulate the rumour he killed a guard while escaping, and order that the slave be killed the instant he is caught.’

The man with the calm voice moved, blocking Suli’s view. The beggar stood back, fearing the door was about to be opened, but the voice said, ‘The slavers will not like a kill-on-sight order. They will want a public execution, preferably death by exposure in the cage, to warn others against attempting to escape.’

The Governor said, ‘I will placate the guild. But the fugitive must not be allowed to speak. Should any discover we had a hand in this—’ He left the thought unfinished. ‘I want Lafe and Reese silenced, as well.’

Suli moved away from the door. Borric, he thought to himself. Then his new master was … Prince Borric, of the House of conDoin, son of the Prince of Krondor!

Never before had the boy known fear as he knew this minute. This was a game of dragons and tigers and he had stumbled into the middle of it. Tears ran down his face as he hurried to the attic, barely keeping his wits about him enough to close the door silently when he passed through into the storage room.

Using the Quegan statue, he boosted himself back into the attic and carefully put the trap back. He then scampered to where the dozing Prince lay. Softly, he whispered in his ear, ‘Borric?’

The young man was instantly awake, and said, ‘What?’

With tears running down his face, Suli whispered, ‘Oh, my magnificent lord. Have mercy. They know who you are and they are searching for you in force. They seek to kill you before others discover your identity.’

Borric blinked and gripped the boy by the shoulders. ‘Who knows about me?’

‘The Governor and another. I could not see who. This wing connects to where the Governor holds counsel with others. They speak of the slave with red hair who escaped this night, and they speak of the Prince of the Isles. You are both.’

Borric swore softly. ‘This changes nothing.’

‘It changes everything, gentle master,’ cried the boy. ‘They will not stop searching for you after a day, but will hunt you down for as long as they must. And they will kill me for what I know, too.’

Borric let go of the frightened boy and swallowed his own fear. ‘Then we’ll just have to be more clever than they are, won’t we?’

The question sounded hollow in his own ears, for if the truth were to be known, he had no idea what he would do next.