Читать книгу The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 18

THE BOY SHOOK HIS head no.

‘Yes,’ repeated Borric.

Suli again shook his head. He had been almost speechless since returning to the attic. In a hoarse whisper, he said, ‘If I go back they shall kill me, my Prince.’

Borric leaned forward and firmly took the boy’s shoulders. He attempted to fill his voice with as much menace as possible while whispering. ‘And if you don’t, I will kill you!’ From the terror that shone from the boy’s eyes, he must have succeeded.

The debate was over the boy’s refusal to return to his listening post near the Governor’s chambers to discover more of what was said there. Borric had told him that the more information they possessed, the better their chances of survival. The theory seemed lost upon the terrified boy.

Discovering that the prisoner who escaped was a royal prince from a neighbouring kingdom was a shock, enough of a shock to push the boy to the brink of hysteria. Then by the time the boy had returned to the attic, it had sunk in that every power in the city of Durbin was being turned toward finding that Prince, with one thought in mind, to kill him! That had him teetering over the edge of hysteria. Then it hit him that whoever was found in the company of said Prince would be disposed of at the same time, to ensure his silence, and the boy found himself hanging out over the brink of hysteria, his feet churning in air as he clung with all his might to what remained of his wits. He sat silently crying, only his fear of discovery keeping him from wailing like a scalded cat.

Borric at last saw the child was beyond reason. Shaking his head in disgust, he said, ‘Very well. You remain here and I’ll go. Which way was it?’

The prospect of this large warrior knocking over statues and banging into furniture in the dark and making enough noise to wake the city hit the boy like cold water. It was an even more fearful choice than risking capture one more time. Shivering, the boy swallowed his fear and said, ‘No, my good master, I’ll go.’ He took a moment to collect himself, then said, ‘Stay quiet, and I will go listen to what is said.’

Once he had made the choice, the boy acted without hesitation, and moved back to the trapdoor. He levered it up and slipped through silently. Borric thought that despite everything, the boy showed a particular type of courage, doing what had to be done regardless of how frightened he was.

Time passed slowly for Borric and after what seemed an hour, he began to worry. What if the boy had been caught? What if instead of a round-faced little beggar coming through that trap, an armed warrior or assassin climbed into the attic?

Borric picked up the dull kitchen knife and held it tightly. It was scant comfort.

More minutes passed, and Borric was left alone with the sound of his own heartbeat. Someone wanted him dead. He had known that since the football match in Krondor. Someone named ‘Lord Fire.’ A silly name, but one designed to hide the identity of the author of that order to kill the son of the Prince of Krondor. The Governor of Durbin was part of the plot, as was a man in a black cloak. Probably a messenger from this Lord Fire. Borric’s head ached from stress, fatigue, hunger, and the after-effects of his journey across the desert. But he forced himself to concentrate. For the Governor of even a pest-hole city like Durbin to be involved in such a plot meant two things: the author of the plan to plunge the Empire into war with the Kingdom was placed highly enough to influence many people of rank, and the plot was far flung, as there were few places within the Empire farther away from the capital city as Durbin.

The trap opened and Borric tensed, bringing his knife to the ready. ‘Master!’ a familiar voice whispered. Suli had returned. Even in the dark, Borric could sense his excitement.

‘What?’

The boy hunkered down close to Borric, so he could whisper the news. ‘Much consternation in the city from your escape. The auction is closed tomorrow! This is an unprecedented thing. All wagons and pack trains from the city are to be searched. Any man with red hair is to be arrested at once, gagged so he may not speak, and brought to the palace for identification.’

‘They really want to ensure no one knows I’m here.’

Borric could almost sense the boy’s grin as he said, ‘Difficult, master. With so much alarm in the city, sooner or later someone will discover the cause. The Captains of the Coast have agreed to sweep the sea lanes between the reefs and Queg, from here to Krondor, to find the runaway slave. And every building in the city is to be investigated, the search is underway even as we speak! I do not understand this thing.’

Borric shrugged. ‘I don’t know either. How they could get so many people to agree to this sort of business without telling them what they were after …’ Borric moved toward a tiny gap in the support beam of the roof, where he could peek into the courtyard. ‘It’s another five, six hours to dawn. We might as well get some rest.’

‘Master!’ hissed the boy. ‘How can you rest? We must flee!’

Borric said softly, ‘Fleeing is what they expect. They are looking for a man who is fleeing. Alone. A red-haired man.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the boy.

‘So we wait here, steal a little food from the kitchen, and wait for the search to wind down. In a household as big as this, we should be able to pass unnoticed for a few days.’

Sitting back on his haunches, the boy let out a long sigh. It was clear Suli wasn’t pleased to hear this, but having nothing more intelligent to offer, he remained silent.

Borric awoke with a gulp of breath, his heart pounding in his chest. It was still dark. No, he corrected himself as he spied a bit of light entering through the crack at the roof line, it’s still dark in this attic.

He had been dreaming, of a time when he and his brother had been playing in the palace as children, using the so-called secret passages that were used by servants to move unseen between the different suites. The boys had split up and Borric had become lost. He had waited a long, lonely time before his Uncle Jimmy had come looking for him. Borric smiled as he remembered. Erland had been the more upset of the two.

Moving to peer through the tiny crack at the sliver of courtyard he could see, Borric had little doubt it was much the same now. ‘Erland must think me dead,’ he muttered to himself.

Then he realized he was alone. The boy, Suli, was gone!

Borric patted around in the dark for the knife and found it where he left it. Feeling only slightly better for the presence of the indifferent weapon, he wondered what the boy could be up to. Perhaps he figured to bargain his own life in exchange for knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain red-haired slave?

Borric felt close to panic. If the boy had indeed tried to bargain for his own safety, both were as good as dead. Forcing himself to calmness, he again peered through the little crack. It was nearly sunrise, and already the Governor’s household was busy, with servants hurrying between the outbuildings, the kitchen, and the main house. Still, there was nothing to suggest other than the normal morning’s activities. No armed men were in sight, no shouting voices could be heard.

Borric sat back and thought. The boy might not be terribly educated, but he was not stupid. No doubt he knew his own life was forfeit if anyone learned of his involvement with the escaped slave. He most likely was hiding in another part of town, or perhaps even on a ship heading out of the city, working as a common seaman.

Always a hearty eater, Borric felt his stomach knot. He had never truly been hungry before in his life, and he didn’t care for the feeling. He had been too miserable while travelling to Durbin to dwell much on his hunger; it was merely one among many afflictions. But now with his sunburn turned to a deep reddish tan and his strength almost returned in full, he was very aware of his empty stomach. He wondered if he could slip out into the early morning bustle, and decided against trying. Red-headed slaves over six feet tall were certainly not common in this city and he would probably be caught before he got within a hundred paces of the kitchen. As if fate conspired to torment him, a familiar odour came wafting in on the morning breeze. The kitchen cooked bacon and ham for the Governor’s household. Borric’s mouth began to water, and he sat for a miserable minute, thinking of breakfast cakes and honey, boiled eggs, fruit with cream, hot slabs of ham, steaming fresh bread, pots of coffee.

‘No good can come from this,’ he scolded himself, forcing himself back from the crack. Hunkering down in the dark, he attempted to discipline his mind away from the torment of hunger. All he need do was wait for night to fall and then he could steal into the kitchen and nick some food. Yes, that’s all he need do. Wait.

Borric discovered, that like hunger, waiting was not to his liking. He would lay back for a time, then cross over to the crack in the roof, peer through, and wonder how much time had passed. Once he even dozed for a while, and was disappointed to discover that – judging from the nearly unchanged shadow angles – only minutes had passed when he had hoped for hours. He returned to his place of resting, a section of attic where the floor seemed a little less uncomfortable than the rest of the floor, more likely due to his imagination than any real difference. He waited and he was hungry. No, he corrected himself. He was ravenous.

More time passed and again he dozed. Then to break the routine, he practised some stretching exercises a Hadati warrior had once taught him and Erland, designed to keep muscles loose and toned at times when there was no room for sword practice or the other rigors common to warcraft. He moved one way then another, balancing tension and relaxation. To his astonishment, he discovered that not only did the exercises take his mind off of his stomach, they made him feel better and calmer.

For the better part of four hours, Borric sat near the crack, observing the comings and goings of those in the Governor’s courtyard. Several times, soldiers running messages hurried through Borric’s field of vision. He considered: if he could stay hidden here long enough – assuming he could steal food and not get caught – in a few more days they would assume he had somehow slipped out of their grasp. At that time he might be able to sneak aboard an outbound ship.

Then what? He thought upon that prickly issue. It would do little good to return home, even if he should find a way. Father would only send fast riders south to Kesh with warnings to Erland to be cautious. No doubt he could be no more cautious than he already was. With Borric’s disappearance, Uncle Jimmy was sure to assume the worst and count Borric dead. It would take a gifted assassin to win past Earl James’s notice. As a boy, Jimmy had rightly been counted something of a legend in the city. When years younger than Borric’s present age, he was already a master thief and counted an adult by the Mockers. No mean feat that, Borric thought.

‘No,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I must get to Erland as quickly as possible. Too much time will be lost if I return home first.’ Then he wondered if perhaps he should attempt to reach Stardock. The magicians could do astonishing things and perhaps could provide him with a faster way yet to reach Kesh. But Jimmy had mentioned Pug was leaving the day after they departed, so he was already gone. And the two Keshian magicians he left in charge were not men who appeared to Borric as likely candidates for generous help. There was something decidedly off-putting about both of them. And they were Keshian. Who knows how far this Lord Fire’s plotting reaches? Borric considered.

Looking up from his musing, he realized that night was falling. The evening meal was being prepared in the kitchen and the smell of meat roasting over a spit was nearly enough to make him mad. In a few hours, he told himself. Just relax and let the time pass. It won’t be long. In just a few more hours, the servants will be in their own beds. Then it will be time to steal out and—

Abruptly the trap moved and Borric’s heart raced as he readied the knife to defend himself. The trap raised up and a slight figure pulled himself into the trap. Suli Abul said, ‘Master?’

Borric almost laughed from relief. ‘Here.’

The boy scurried over and said, ‘I feared you might have been found, though I suspected you were wise enough to stay here and await my return.’

Borric said, ‘Where did you go?’

Suli was carrying a sack that Borric could barely make out in the gloom. ‘I stole out before dawn, master, and as you were sleeping soundly I chose not to disturb you. Since then I have been many places.’ He opened the bag and brought forth a loaf of bread. Borric tore off a hunk and ate without having to be asked twice. Then the boy handed over a block of cheese and a small skin of wine.

Through his full mouth, Borric asked, ‘Where did you get this?’

The boy sighed, as if being back in the attic was a relief. ‘I have had a most perilous day, my kind master. I fled with the idea of perhaps leaving you, then considered what fate has offered. Should I be caught, I will be sold for a slave because of my incompetent theft. If I am linked with your escape, I will be dead. So, what are the risks? By hiding until you are caught and hoping you will not speak the name of Suli Abul before they kill you, I wager a death sentence against the possibility of regaining the life I had before these recent turns of events, which upon consideration is not a very grand thing. Or I can risk that poor life and return to help my young master against the day you return to your father, to reward your faithful servant.’

Borric laughed. ‘And what reward shall you have if we get safely back to Krondor?’

With a solemnity that almost made Borric laugh again, the boy said, ‘I wish to become your servant, master. I wish to be known as the Prince’s body servant.’

Borric said, ‘But what about gold? Or perhaps a trade?’

The boy shrugged. ‘What do I know of trade, master? I would be a poor merchant, and perhaps be ruined within a year. And gold? I would only spend it. But to be the servant of a great man is to be close to greatness in a way. Do you not see?’

Borric’s laughter died in his throat before it was voiced. He realized that to this boy of the street, the position of a great man’s servant was the highest attainment he could imagine. Borric thought about the countless and nameless bodies that had surrounded him all his life, the servants who had brought this young son of the Royal House his clothing in the morning, who washed his back, who prepared his meals, each day. He doubted he knew more than one or two by name and perhaps only a dozen by sight. They were … part of the landscape, no more significant than a chair or a table. Borric shook his head, and sighed.

‘What is it, master?’

Borric said, ‘I don’t know if I can promise you a position that close to me, personally, but I will guarantee that you’ll have a place in my household and that you will rise as high as your talents will take you. Is that fair enough?’

The boy bowed with solemn formality. ‘My master is most generous.’

Then the boy pulled some sausage from the sack. ‘I knew you would be a generous, kind master, so I returned with many things.’

‘Hold a moment, Suli. Where did you get all this?’

The boy said, ‘In one of the rooms below, a woman’s sleeping chamber from its look, I found a comb with turquoise set within silver, left behind by a thoughtless maid when the quarters were last vacated. I sold this to a man in the bazaar. I took the coins he gave me and purchased many things. Not to worry. I moved along and purchased each item from a different merchant, ensuring no one knew what business I was upon. Here.’ He handed Borric a shirt.

It was nothing fancy but obviously a significant improvement over the rough homespun the slavers had given him. Then the boy passed over a pair of cotton trousers, the kind worn by sailors throughout the Bitter Sea. ‘I could not find boots, master, that I could purchase, yet have enough left for food.’

Borric smiled at the boy. ‘You did well. I can go without the boots. If we’re to pass as sailors, bare feet will not bring us any notice. But we’ll have to sneak to the harbour at night and hope no one sees this red hair of mine under a lamp.’

‘I have taken care of that, master.’ The boy handed over a vial of some liquid and a comb. ‘I have this from a man who sells such to the older whores down by the waterfront. He claims it will not wash out nor run with water. It is called oil of Macasar.’

Borric opened the vial and his nose was assaulted by a pungent, oily odour. ‘It better work. The smell will have people marking me.’

‘That will pass, according to the merchant.’

‘You’d better put it in my hair. I wouldn’t want to pour it over half my head. There’s barely enough light for you to see what you’re doing.’

The boy moved behind him and ungently rubbed the vial’s contents into the Prince’s hair. He then combed it through, many times over, spreading it as evenly as possible. ‘With your sunburn, Highness, you will look every inch the Durbin sailor.’

‘And what of you?’ asked Borric.

‘I have trousers and a shirt in the bag, too, my master. Suli Abul is known for his beggar’s robe. It is large enough for me to hide limbs when I play at being deformed.’

Borric laughed as the boy continued to work on his hair. He sighed in relief as he thought, Just maybe we do have a chance to get out of this trap.

Just before dawn, a sailor and his younger brother ventured into the streets near the Governor’s estate. As Borric had surmised, there was little activity near the Governor’s home, as it was logical to assume the fugitive was unlikely to be anywhere near the heart of Durbin authority. Which is why they made back toward the slave pens. If the Governor’s house was an unlikely place for the fugitives to hide, the slave quarters were even less likely. Borric was not entirely comfortable being in a rich part of town, as the presence of two obviously shabby figures near the residences of the wealthy and powerful was in and of itself sufficient to bring unwanted scrutiny upon them.

When they were but a block from the slave quarters, Borric halted. Upon the wall of a storage shed was a newly hung broadside. Painted by skilled craftsmen, it proclaimed in red letters a reward. Suli said, ‘Master, what does it say?’

Borric read aloud. ‘“Murder most foul!” is what it says. It says that I killed the wife of the Governor.’ Borric’s face went pale. ‘Gods and demons!’ He quickly read the entire broadside, then said, ‘They say a Kingdom-born house slave raped and killed his mistress, then fled into the city. They’ve put a reward of one thousand golden ecu on me.’ Borric couldn’t believe his eyes.

The boy’s eyes widened. ‘A thousand? That is a fortune.’

Borric tried to calculate the worth. It came out to roughly five thousand Kingdom Sovereigns, or the income from a small estate for a year, a staggering sum indeed for the capture, dead or alive, of a runaway slave, but one who had murdered the city’s foremost lady of society. Borric shook his head in pained realization. ‘The swine murdered his own wife to give the guards a reason to kill me on sight,’ he whispered.

Suli shrugged. ‘It is no surprise when you understand that the Governor has a mistress who demands more and more from him. To put aside his first wife and marry his mistress – after the appropriate period of mourning, of course – will ease two sources of concern for him: keeping his mistress and Lord Fire happy. And while astoundingly beautiful, the mistress would do well to consider the future of one who marries a man who killed his first wife to make her his second. When she becomes older and less fair of face.’

Borric looked around. ‘We better keep moving. The city will be at full speed within the hour.’

Suli seemed unable to stifle his incessant chatter, except under the most dire circumstances. Borric didn’t attempt to shut him up, deciding the garrulous lad would look less suspicious than one who was sullenly glancing in all directions. ‘Now, master, we know how the Governor convinced the Three to help apprehend you. The Three and the Imperial Governor have little love amongst them, but they have less love for slaves who murder their lawful lords.’

Borric could only agree. But he found the Governor’s means to achieve that reaction chilling. Even if he hadn’t loved the woman, he had lived with her for some number of years. Wasn’t there any compassion in him? wondered Borric.

Rounding a corner, they saw the side of the slave pens. Because the auction had been cancelled, the pens were especially crowded. Borric turned his face toward Suli and moved steadily, but not so hurried as to attract attention. To any guards who might be looking, he was simply a sailor speaking to a boy.

A pair of guards walked around a corner and approached them. Instantly, Suli said, ‘No. You said I would have a full share this voyage. I am grown now. I do the work of a man! It was not my fault the nets fouled. It was Rasta’s fault. He was drunk. You always liked him better and take his side.’

Borric hesitated only an instant, then replied in as gruff a voice as he could muster, ‘I said I would consider it. Be silent or I’ll leave you behind, little brother or not! See how you like another month working in Mother’s kitchen while I’m gone.’ The guards gave the pair a quick glance, then continued on.

Borric resisted the temptation of looking to see if the guards were paying attention. He would know quickly enough if they became suspicious. Then Borric turned another corner and collided with a man. For a brief instant the stranger looked into his eyes with a threatening mutter, his alcohol-laden breath in Borric’s face, then the man’s expression turned from drunken irritation to murderous hatred. ‘You!’ said Salaya, reaching for the large dagger in the belt of his robe.

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 bottom-most 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 travelled 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 just 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 thing 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 harbour?’

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 harbour, 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 centreboard; 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 harbour. 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 bow line. 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 underway, 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 moving steadily toward the harbour 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 harbour 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 was 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 harbour mouth. The boy looked both terrified and exhilarated. He had been babbling most of the way through the harbour, obviously his means of dealing with his fear, but as they had exited the harbour 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 harbour 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 needs 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 exceptionally brave, or stupid, sailor.

Borric signalled 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 colour 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 harbour 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 harbour 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 manoeuvre 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 favoured by pirates working the shoals of the southern coast. Faster than the pinnace in a light wind, they were manoeuvrable 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 upwind. 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, as 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 the eye of the wind was the only way, he was faster 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.

He remembered the first time he had brought a sailboat – a small twelve-foot dingy with a sail – directly in the wind when he first learned to sail, and found the boat sailing backwards! His tutor had tried to hide his mirth, but Erland had been openly mocking about it until a week later he fell to the same fate. Keeping close to a headwind and keeping forward motion was something a trained crew could manage, but here he had only himself and one inexperienced boy.

Borric let the pursuing craft get near enough to make out the crew, nearly thirty unsavoury-looking thugs, all armed with sword and pike. If there are archers on the boat, he thought to himself, we’ll never make it alive.

Then he surprised the crew of the sloop and Suli both, by jibbing his boat directly toward the larger craft. Suli cried out and threw his arms before his face, expecting a collision, but rather than the crack of splitting timbers, the only sound above the sounds of the sea were the loud oaths from the sailors on the sloop, taken by surprise. The sloop’s helmsman reacted as Borric hoped he would, turning his wheel hard over. The sloop’s captain’s curses filled the air. The helmsman was now steering away from the boat they wanted to come alongside and grapple, and he started to turn the wheel back. But the damage had been done.

Borric’s pinnace stood still, head directly into the wind, and Borric shouted, ‘Raise that centreboard!’ Suli did as he was instructed, and the boat was left trembling in the teeth of the wind, then started moving slightly backwards. Unlike the dingy of his youth, this boat would not move sternward obediently, but would want to spin. The trick was to control the turn. Like a dancer spinning on her heels, then sliding across the dance floor, the boat stopped for an instant, started to move backwards, then moved sideways until full into the wind, where it heeled over a moment, then swung away from the sloop, coming quickly around. The sound of the canvas snapping taut echoed across the waters as the pinnace seemed to jump away, running before the wind. ‘Drop the board!’ Borric shouted to Suli and he obeyed. Astonished-looking sailors stood at the rail of the sloop with their mouths open. Then one made so bold as to attempt to leap across the narrow gap between. He fell only a few feet short of the stern of Borric’s craft.

Borric yelled, ‘Suli! Come here!’

The boy scampered to take the tiller from Borric, while the Prince raced to the mast. The instant he was sure they were on a running broad reach again, he hauled the spinnaker aloft. He hoped it would give the pinnace just enough extra speed to stay away from the sloop.

The captain of the sloop, swearing mightily, ordered his men to come about. Quickly, the nimble boat turned and gave chase. Borric divided his attention fore and aft, watching to see if the larger boat was overtaking them, and then looking to see they stayed clear of dangerous shoals.

Suli sat with eyes wide with terror, listening as Borric shouted, ‘A little more to starboard!’

The boy yelled, ‘What, master?’ He stared at the Prince in confusion, not understanding the nautical term.

Borric yelled back, ‘More to the right!’ Borric turned his attention back to the dangers ahead. He shouted to Suli, directing him first to come a little right, then left, then right again, as they steered a maddening course through the shoals.

Borric glanced back and saw the larger boat had closed some distance, and he cursed. Even with the spinnaker, they were not moving fast enough. He yelled, ‘Turn toward shore!’

The boy reacted instantly, turning so hard Borric almost lost his footing. Borric looked for rocks, rocks just below the surface of the water that they could avoid but that would bring their pursuer to a nasty halt.

As they moved closer to shore, the boat’s up and downward movement became more pronounced, as the ground swells moved toward the breaker line. The sound of surf could now be heard clearly. Borric pointed with one hand. ‘There! Steer there!’

Praying to the Goddess of Luck, Borric said, ‘Let us hit that on the crest!’

As if the Laughing Lady had heard him, Borric felt the boat on the rise as they passed over the spot he had marked. Even so, as they started to feel the boat come down, a groaning, tearing sound of the bottom scraping rock could be heard and a teeth-jarring vibration came up through the hull of the boat. The centreboard seemed to pop upward as if by its own volition, then fell back into place.

Suli’s face turned ashen as he crouched, holding on to the tiller as if it were his only connection to life. Borric shouted, ‘Come left!’ and the boy yanked upon the tiller. Again the sound of wood scraping over rock filled their ears, but the boat settled down into a trough and rose without further difficulty.

Borric glanced back and saw the sloop heeling over as the captain gave orders to his frantic crew to turn away from shoals too lethal even for his shallow craft. Borric gave a low whistle of relief.

Turning his mind to what to do next, he signalled Suli to head slightly away from the coast, picking up speed as they moved out of the tide’s pull and into a better angle away from the wind. The freshening breeze moved the boat along, and Borric could see the sloop fall farther behind with every minute as the captain had to stay outside the reef that now lay between the two boats.

Borric lowered the makeshift spinnaker and took the tiller from Suli. The boy grinned at him with an expression that was half-delight, half-terror. Perspiration soaked the lad’s tunic and Borric found himself wiping his drenched brow.

Borric pointed the boat slightly upwind and could see the sloop’s sail falling off even farther as the reef ran off toward the northwest. He laughed. Even with the headsail jib the sloop’s crew was running out, it was too late. By the time they rounded the reef, the pinnace would be so far ahead they could be anywhere upon the sea. It would be nightfall before the distance could be made up, and Borric planned on being far away by nightfall.

The next two hours passed uneventfully, until Suli left his place at the bow and came toward Borric. Borric noticed water splashing under the boy’s feet.

Borric looked down and saw water was gathering in the bilge. ‘Start bailing!’ he yelled.

‘What, master?’

Realizing the boy didn’t understand that term either, he said, ‘Get the bucket from the locker and start scooping up the water and pouring it out!’

The boy turned, got the bucket, and began bailing out the water. For an hour or so it seemed the boy kept even with the incoming water, but after another hour of the exhausting work, the water had gathered about his ankles. Borric ordered him to switch places and took over. After another hour, it was clear that even when bailing at a furious rate, it would prove an eventually hopeless undertaking. Sooner or later the boat was going to sink. The only question seemed to be when and where.

Borric glanced to the south and saw that not only had the coastline been running southwest, away from them, but their course was northwest, toward the Straits of Darkness. By his reckoning, they were now as far away from the coastline as they could get, slightly northeast of Ranom, where the coastline would turn northward. Borric had to make a quick choice, either head for the south shore, or hope that between Suli and himself they could keep the boat afloat long enough to reach the coast somewhere south of LiMeth. As he was about equal distance between either part of the shoreline, he decided his best choice was to keep as much speed as possible and hold his present course.

As the sun sped westward, Borric and Suli alternated bailing out the boat and keeping it pointed toward LiMeth. Near sundown, a scattering of clouds appeared in the north and the wind turned, now blowing into their faces. The pinnace was decent enough travelling into the eye of the wind, but Borric doubted they would survive long enough to reach land if it started to rain. As he considered this, the first drops hit him in the face, and less than an hour later, the rain began to fall in earnest.

As the sun rose, a ship was upon them. Borric had seen its approach for the last quarter hour, as it suddenly had appeared out of the predawn gloom. Both the Prince and Suli, exhausted from a night’s bailing to keep afloat, could barely move. Yet Borric mustered what little reserve of energy he possessed and stood up.

They had taken down the sail at sundown, decided it was better to drift in the dark and have both of them bail for periods, than to sail blindly in the gloom. The sound of breakers would alert them to any chance of coming too close to shore. The only problem was that Borric didn’t have any idea of how the currents in this part of the Bitter Sea ran.

The ship was a small three-masted merchantman, square-rigged with a lateen sail on the back. It could have come from any nation on the Bitter Sea, so it could be their salvation or their doom.

When the ship was close enough for him to be heard, Borric called out, ‘What ship?’

The Captain of the vessel came to the rail as he ordered the helm put over, bringing the ship to a slow pace as it passed Borric’s sinking pinnace, wallowing in the chop. ‘The Good Traveller, out of Bordon.’

‘Where are you bound?’

‘Bound for Farafra,’ came the reply.

Borric’s heart began to beat again. It was a Free Cities trader bound for an Empire city on the Dragon Sea. ‘Have you berths for two?’

The Captain looked down at the ragged pair and their rapidly wallowing boat and said, ‘Have you the price of passage?’

Borric did not wish to part with the coins he had taken from Salaya, as he knew they would need them later. He said, ‘No, but we can work.’

‘I’ve all the hands I need,’ called back the Captain.

Borric knew by stories that the Captain would not likely leave them to drown – sailor’s superstition forbade it – but he could exact a price of an indenture for several cruises; seamen were an inconstant lot and keeping a steady crew was difficult. The Captain was bargaining. Borric pulled out the rusty fishing knife and brandished it. ‘Then I order you to strike your colours; you are all my prisoners.’

The Captain stared in wide-eyed disbelief, then began to laugh. Soon every sailor on the ship was laughing uproariously. After a moment of genuine amusement, the Captain called out, ‘Bring the madman and the boy aboard. Then make for the Straits!’