Читать книгу Prince of the Blood - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 6

THE INN WAS QUIET.

Walls darkened by years of fireplace soot drank in the lantern light, reflecting dim illumination. The dying fire in the hearth offered scant warmth and, from the demeanour of those who chose to sit before it, less cheer. In contrast to the mood of most establishments of its ilk, this inn was nearly sombre. In murky corners, men spoke in hushed tones, discussing things best not overheard by the uninvolved. A grunt of agreement to a whispered proposal, or a bitter laugh from a woman of negotiable virtue, were the only sounds to intrude upon the silence. The majority of the denizens of the inn, called The Sleeping Dockman, were closely watching the game.

The game was pokiir; common to the Empire of Great Kesh to the south and now replacing lin-lan and pashawa as the gambler’s choice in the inns and taverns of the Western Realm of the Kingdom. One player held his five cards before him, his eyes narrowed in concentration. An off-duty soldier, he kept alert for any sign of trouble in the room, and trouble was rapidly approaching. He made a display of studying his cards, while discreetly inspecting the five men who played at the table with him.

The first two on his left were rough men. Both were sunburned and the hands holding their cards were heavily callused; faded linen shirts and cotton trousers hung loosely on lank but muscular frames. Neither wore boots or even sandals, barefoot despite the cool night air, a certain sign they were sailors waiting for a new berth. Usually such men quickly lost their pay and were bound again for sea, but from the way they had bet all night, the soldier was certain they were working for the man who sat to the soldier’s right.

That man sat patiently, waiting to see if the soldier would match his bet or fold his cards, forfeiting his chance to buy up to three new cards. The soldier had seen his sort many times before; a rich merchant’s son, or a younger son of a minor noble, with too much time on his hands and too little sense. He was fashionably attired in the latest rage among the young men of Krondor, a short pair of breeches tucked into hose, allowing the pants legs above the calf to balloon out. A simple white shirt was embroidered with pearls and semiprecious stones, and the jacket was the new cutaway design, a rather garish yellow, with white and silver brocade at the wrists and collar. He was a typical dandy. And – from the look of the Rodezian slamanca hanging from the loose baldric across his shoulder – a dangerous man. It was a sword used only by a master or someone seeking a quick death. In the hands of an expert it was a fearsome weapon; in the hands of the inexperienced it was suicide.

The man had probably lost large sums of money before and now sought to recoup his previous losses by cheating at cards. One or the other of the sailors would win an occasional hand, but the soldier was certain this was planned to keep suspicion from falling upon the young dandy. The soldier sighed, as if troubled by what choice to make. The other two players waited patiently for him to make his play.

They were twin brothers, over six feet tall and fit in appearance. Both came to the table armed with rapiers: the choice of experts or fools. Since Prince Arutha had come to the throne of Krondor twenty years before, rapiers had become the choice of men who wore weapons as a consideration of fashion rather than survival. But these two didn’t look the type to sport weapons as decorative baubles. They were dressed as common mercenaries, just in from caravan duty from the look of them. Dust still clung to their tunic and leather vest, while their red-brown hair was lightly matted. Both needed a shave. Yet while their clothing was common and dirty, there was nothing that looked neglected about their armour or arms; they might not pause to bathe after weeks on a caravan, but they would take an hour to oil their leather and polish their steel. They looked genuine in their part, save for a feeling of vague familiarity which caused the soldier slight discomfort: both spoke with none of the rough speech common to mercenaries, but rather with the educated crispness of those used to spending their days in court, not fighting bandits. And they were young, little more than boys.

The brothers had commenced the game with glee, ordering tankard after tankard of ale, letting losses delight them as much as wins, but now that the stakes of the game were rising, they had become sombre. They glanced at each other from time to time, and the soldier was certain they shared silent communication the way twins often did.

The soldier shook his head. ‘Not me.’ He threw down his cards, one of them flipping completely over for an instant before it came to rest upon the table. ‘I’ve got duty in an hour; I’d best be back to the barracks.’

What he really knew was that trouble was imminent and if he were still around when it arrived, he’d never make muster. And the duty sergeant was a man not given to receiving excuses kindly.

Now the dandy’s eyes turned to the first of the two brothers. ‘Play?’

As the soldier reached the door of the inn, he took note of two men standing quietly in the corner. They stood in great cloaks, faces obscured slightly by the shadows of their hoods, despite the inn being warm. Both made a show of quietly watching the game, but they were taking in every detail of the inn. They also looked familiar to the soldier, but he couldn’t place them. And there was something about the way they stood, as if ready to leap to action, that reaffirmed the soldier’s determination to reach the city barracks early. He opened the door to the inn and stepped through, closing it behind.

The man closest to the door turned to his companion, his face only partially illuminated by the light from the lantern above. ‘You’d better get outside. It’s about to break loose.’

His companion nodded. In the twenty years they’d been friends, he had learned never to second guess his companion’s ability to sense trouble in the city. He quickly stepped through the door after the soldier.

At the table, the betting reached the first of the two brothers. He made a face, as if perplexed by the play of the cards. The dandy said, ‘Are you staying or folding?’

‘Well,’ answered the young man, ‘this is something of a poser.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Erland, I would have sworn an oath to Astalon the Judge that I saw a Blue Lady flip when that soldier tossed in his hand.’

‘Why,’ answered his twin with a twisted smile, ‘does that pose a problem, Borric?’

‘Because I also have a Blue Lady in my hand.’

Men began to back away from the table as the tone of conversation shifted. Discussion of what cards one held was not the norm. ‘I still see no problem,’ observed Erland, ‘as there are two Blue Ladies in the deck.’

With a malicious grin, Borric said, ‘But you see, our friend over here,’ he indicated the dandy, ‘also has a Blue Lady tucked just not quite far enough back in his sleeve.’

Instantly the room erupted into motion as men put as much distance as possible between the combatants and themselves. Borric leaped from his seat, gripping the edge of the table and overturning it, forcing the dandy and his two henchmen back. Erland had his rapier and a long dirk out as the dandy drew his slamanca.

One of the two sailors lost his footing and fell forward. As he tried to rise, he found his chin met by the toe of Borric’s boot. He collapsed into a heap at the young mercenary’s feet. The dandy leaped forward, executing a vicious cut at Erland’s head. Erland deftly parried with his dirk and returned a vicious thrust his opponent barely dodged.

Both men knew they faced an opponent worthy of wariness. The innkeeper was circling the room, armed with a large cudgel, threatening anyone who sought to enlarge the fray. As he neared the door, the man in the hood stepped out with startling speed and gripped his wrist. He spoke briefly, and the innkeeper’s face drained of colour. The proprietor briskly nodded once and quickly slipped out the door.

Borric disposed of the second sailor with little trouble and turned to discover Erland in a close struggle with the dandy. ‘Erland! Could you use a hand?’

Erland shouted, ‘I think not. Besides, you always say I need the practice.’

‘True,’ answered his brother with a grin. ‘But don’t let him kill you. I’d have to avenge you.’

The dandy tried a combination attack, a high, low, then high series of chops, and Erland was forced to back away. In the night the sound of whistles could be heard.

‘Erland,’ said Borric.

The hard-pressed younger twin said, ‘What?’ as he dodged another masterfully executed combination attack.

‘The watch is coming. You’d better kill him quickly.’

‘I’m trying,’ said Erland, ‘but this fellow isn’t being very cooperative.’ As he spoke, his boot heel struck a pool of spilled ale and he lost his footing. Suddenly he was falling backward, his defence gone.

Borric was moving as the dandy lunged at his brother. Erland twisted upon the floor, but the dandy’s sword struck his side. Hot pain erupted along his ribs. And at the same instant the man had opened his left side to a counter thrust. Sitting upon the floor, Erland thrust upward with his rapier, catching the man in the stomach. The dandy stiffened and gasped as a red stain began to spread upon his yellow tunic. Then Borric struck him from behind, using the hilt of his sword to render the man unconscious.

From outside the sound of rushing men could be heard, and Borric said, ‘We’d best get clear of this mess,’ as he gave his brother a hand up. ‘Father’s going to be upset enough with us as it is without brawling.’

Wincing from his injury, Erland interrupted, ‘You didn’t have to hit him. I think I would have killed him in another moment.’

‘Or he you. And I’d not want to face Father had I let that happen. Besides, you really wouldn’t have killed him; you just don’t have the instinct. You’d have tried to disarm him or something equally noble—’ Borric observed, catching his breath in a gasp, ‘—and stupid. Now, let’s see about getting out of here.’

Erland gripped his wounded side as they headed toward the door. Several town toughs, seeing blood upon Erland’s side, moved to block the twin’s exit. Borric and Erland both levelled their sword points at the band of men. Borric said, ‘Keep your guard up a moment,’ picked up a chair, and threw it through the large bay window facing the boulevard. Glass and leading showered the street, and before the tinkle of shards upon stone had stopped, both brothers were leaping through what remained of the window. Erland stumbled and Borric had to grip his arm to keep him from falling.

As they straightened, they took in the fact that they were looking at horses. Two of the more bold thugs jumped through the window after the twins, and Borric smashed one in the side of the head with his sword hilt, while the other man pulled up short as three crossbows were levelled at him. Arrayed before the door was the small company of ten burly and heavily armed town watchmen commonly known as the Riot Squad. But what had the half-dozen denizens of the Sleeping Dockman standing in open-mouth amazement, was the sight of the thirty horsemen behind the Riot Squad. They wore the tabards of Krondor and the badge of the Prince of Krondor’s own Royal Household Guards. From within the inn someone overcame his stupefication and shouted, ‘Royal Guardsmen!’ and a general evacuation through the rear door of the tavern began, while the gaping faces at the window vanished.

The two brothers regarded the mounted men, all armed and ready in case trouble came. At their head rode a man well known to the two young mercenaries.

‘Ah … good evening, my lord,’ said Borric, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The leader of the Riot Squad, seeing no one else in sight, moved to take custody of the two young men.

The leader of the Royal Guard waved him off. ‘This doesn’t concern you, Watchman. You and your men may go.’ The watch commander bowed slightly and led his men back to their barracks in the heart of the Poor Quarter.

Erland winced a bit as he said, ‘Baron Locklear, what a pleasure.’

Baron Locklear, Knight-Marshal of Krondor, smiled an unamused smile. ‘I’m certain.’ Despite his rank, he looked barely a year or two older than the boys, though he was nearly sixteen years their senior. He had curly blond hair and large blue eyes, which were presently narrowed as he watched the twins in obvious disapproval.

Borric said, ‘And I expect that means that Baron James—’

Locklear pointed. ‘Is standing behind you.’

Both brothers turned to see the man in the great cloak framed in the doorway. He threw back his hood to reveal a face still somewhat youthful despite his thirty-seven years of age, his curly brown hair slightly dusted with grey. It was a face the brothers knew as well as any, for he had been one of their teachers since boyhood, and more, one of their closest friends. He regarded the two brothers with ill-disguised disapproval and said, ‘Your father ordered you directly home. I had reports of your whereabouts from the time you left Highcastle until you passed through the city gates … two days ago!’

The twins tried to hide their pleasure at being able to lose their royal escorts, but they failed. ‘Ignore for a moment the fact your father and mother had a formal court convened to welcome you home. Forget they stood waiting for three hours! Never mind your father’s insisting that Baron Locklear and I comb the entire city for two days seeking you out.’ He studied the two young men, ‘But I trust you’ll remember all those little details when your father has words with you after court tomorrow.’

Two horses were brought forward and a soldier deferentially held out the reins to each brother. Seeing the blood along Erland’s side, a Lieutenant of the Guard moved his horse nearby and said in mock sympathy, ‘Does His Highness require help?’

Erland negotiated the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle without aid. In irritated tones, he answered, ‘Only when I see Father, Cousin Willy, and I don’t think you can do much for me then.’

Lieutenant William nodded and in unsympathetic tones, he whispered, ‘He did say come home at once, Erland.’

Erland nodded in resignation. ‘We just wanted to relax for a day or two before—’

William couldn’t resist laughing at his cousins’ predicament. He had often seen them bring disaster down upon themselves and he never could understand their appetite for such punishment. He said, ‘Maybe you could run for the border. I could get very stupid following you.’

Erland shook his head. ‘I think I’ll wish I had taken your offer, after tomorrow morning’s court.’

William laughed again. ‘Come along, this dressing down won’t be much worse than a dozen you’ve already had.’

Baron James, Chancellor of Krondor and first assistant to the Duke of Krondor, quickly mounted his own horse. ‘To the palace,’ he ordered, and the company turned to escort the twin princes, Borric and Erland, to the palace.

Arutha, Prince of Krondor, Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm, and Royal Heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat quietly attentive to the business of the court being conducted before him. A slender man in his youth, he had not gained the bulk commonly associated with middle age, but rather had become harder, more angular in features, losing what little softening effects youth had given his lanky appearance. His hair was still dark, though enough grey had come with the twenty years of ruling Krondor and the West to speckle it. His reflexes had slowed only slightly over the years, and he was still counted one of the finest swordsmen in the Kingdom, though he rarely had reason to exercise his skill with the rapier. His dark brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, a gaze that seemed to miss nothing, in the opinion of many who served the Prince. Thoughtful, even brooding at times, Arutha was a brilliant military leader. He had rightfully won his reputation during the nine years of the Riftwar which had ended the year before the twins’ birth after taking command of the garrison at Crydee, his family’s castle, when only a few months older than his sons were now.

He was counted a hard but fair ruler, quick to dispense justice when the crime warranted, though often given to acts of leniency at the request of his wife, the Princess Anita. And that relationship more than anything typified the adminstration of the Western Realm: hard, logical, even-handed justice, tempered with mercy. While few openly sang Arutha’s praises, he was well respected and honoured, and his wife was beloved by her subjects.

Anita sat quietly upon her throne, her green eyes looking off into space. Her royal manner masked her concern for her sons from all but those who knew her most intimately. That her husband had ordered the boys brought to the great hall for morning court, rather than to their parents’ private quarters last night, showed more than anything else his displeasure. Anita forced herself to be attentive to the speech being given by a member of the Guild of Weavers; it was her duty also to show those coming before her husband’s court the consideration of listening to every petition or request. The other members of the royal family were not normally required at morning court, but since the twins had returned from their service upon the border at Highcastle, it had become a family gathering.

Princess Elena stood at her mother’s side. She looked a fair compromise between her parents, having red-brown hair and fair skin from her mother but her father’s dark and intelligent eyes. Those who knew the royal family well often observed that if Borric and Erland resembled their uncle, the King, then Elena resembled her aunt, the Baroness Carline of Salador. And Arutha had observed on more than one occasion she had Carline’s renowned temper.

Prince Nicholas, Arutha and Anita’s youngest child, had avoided the need to stand next to his sister, by hiding from his father’s sight. He stood behind his mother’s throne, beyond his father’s gaze, on the first step off the dais. The door to the royal apartments was hidden from the eyes of those in the hall, down three steps, where, in years past, all four children had played the game of huddling on the first step, listening to their father conduct court, enjoying the delicious feeling of eavesdropping. Nicky waited for the arrival of his two brothers.

Anita glanced about with that sudden sense mothers have that one of their children is somewhere he shouldn’t be. She spied Nicholas waiting down by the door, and motioned him to stand close. Nicky had idolized Borric and Erland, despite them having little time for the boy and constantly teasing him. They just couldn’t find much in common with their youngest sibling, since he was twelve years younger.

Prince Nicholas hobbled up the three broad steps and moved to his mother’s side and, as it had every day since his birth, Anita’s heart broke. The boy had a deformed foot, and neither surgeon’s ministrations nor priest’s spell had any effect, save to enable him to walk. Unwilling to hold up the deformed baby to public scrutiny, Arutha had ignored custom and refused to show the boy at the Presentation, the holiday in honour of a royal child’s first public appearance, a tradition that may have died with Nicholas’s birth.

Nicky turned when he heard the door open, and Erland peered through. The youngest Prince grinned at his brothers as they gingerly slipped through the door. Nicky scrambled down the three steps with his canted gait to intercept them, and gave each a hug. Erland visibly winced and Borric bestowed an absent pat on the shoulder.

Nicky followed the twins as they slowly mounted the stairs behind the thrones, coming to stand behind their sister. She glanced over her shoulder long enough to stick out her tongue and cross her eyes, causing all three brothers to force themselves not to laugh. They knew no one else in court could see her fleeting pantomime. The twins had a long history of tormenting their little sister, who gave back as good as she got. She would think nothing of embarrassing them in the King’s own court.

Arutha, sensing some exchange between his children, glanced over and gifted his four offspring with a quick frown, enough to silence any potential mirth. His gaze lingered on his elder sons and showed his anger in full measure, though only those close to him would recognize it as such. Then his attention was back upon the matter before the court. A minor noble was being advanced into a new office, and while the four royal children might not find it worthy of much dignity, the man would count this among one of the high points of his life. Arutha had tried to impress such awareness upon them over the years but continuously failed.

Overseeing the Prince’s court was Lord Gardan, Duke of Krondor. The old soldier had served with Arutha, and his father before him, thirty years and more. His dark skin stood in stark contrast to his beard, almost white in colour, but he still had the alert eyes of one whose mind had lost none of its edge and a ready smile for the royal children. A commoner by birth, Gardan had risen on his ability, and despite an often expressed desire to retire and return to his home in Far Crydee, he had remained in Arutha’s service, first as Sergeant in the garrison at Crydee, then Captain of the Prince’s Royal Household, then Knight-Marshal of Krondor. When the previous Duke of Krondor, Lord Volney, had died unexpectedly after seven years’ loyal service in his office, Arutha had awarded the office to Gardan. Despite the old soldier’s protestations of not being suited to the nobility, he had proven an able administrator as well as a gifted soldier.

Gardan finished intoning the man’s new rank and privileges and Arutha preferred a terribly oversized parchment with ribbons and seals embossed upon it.

The man took his award of office and retired to the crowd, to the hushed congratulations of others in court.

Gardan nodded to the Master of Ceremonies, Jerome by name, and the thin man brought himself to his full height. Once a boyhood rival of Baron James, the office suited Jerome’s self-important nature. He was, by all accounts, a thorough bore and his preoccupation with trivia made him a natural for the post. His love of detail manifested itself in the exquisite stitching of his cloak of office and the pointed chin beard he spent hours in trimming. In pompous tones, he spoke: ‘If it pleases Your Highness, His Excellency, Lord Torum Sie, Ambassador from the Royal court of Great Kesh.’

The Ambassador, who had been standing off to one side, conferring with his advisors, approached the dais and bowed. By his attire, it was clear he was of the true Keshian people, for his head was shaved. His scarlet coat was cut away, revealing a pair of yellow pantaloons and white slippers. His chest was bare in the Keshian fashion, a large golden torque of office decorating his neck. Each item of clothing was delicately finished in almost imperceptible needlework, with tiny jewels and pearls decorating each seam. The effect was as if he was bathed in shimmering sparkles as he moved. He was easily the most splendid figure in court.

‘Highness,’ he said, his speech tinged by a slight singsong accent. ‘Our Mistress, Lakeisha, She Who Is Kesh, inquires as to the health of Their Highnesses.’

‘Convey our warmest regards to the Empress,’ responded Arutha, ‘and tell her we are well.’

‘With pleasure,’ the Ambassador answered. ‘Now, I must beg of His Highness an answer to the invitation sent by my mistress. The seventy-fifth anniversary of Her Magnificence’s birth is an event of unsurpassed joy to the Empire. We will host a Jubilee that will be celebrated for two months. Will Your Highnesses be joining us?’

Already the King had sent his apologies, as had the ruler of every neighbouring sovereignty from Queg to the Easter Kingdoms. While there had been peace between the Empire and her neighbours for an unusually long time – eleven years since the last major border clash – no ruler was foolish enough to come within the borders of the most feared nation upon Midkemia. Those rejections were considered proper. The invitation to the Prince and Princess of Krondor was another matter.

The Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles was almost a nation unto itself, with the responsibility for rulership given to the Prince of Krondor. Only the broadest policy came from the King’s court in Rillanon. And it was Arutha, as often as not, who had been the one to deal with Kesh’s Ambassadors, for the majority of potential conflict between Kesh and the Kingdom was along the Western Realm’s southern border.

Arutha looked at his wife, and then the Ambassador. ‘We regret that the press of official duty prevents us from undertaking so long a journey, Your Excellency.’

The Ambassador’s expression didn’t change, but a slight hardening around the eyes indicated the Keshian considered the rejection close to an insult. ‘That is regrettable, Highness. My mistress did so consider your presence vital – a gesture of friendship and goodwill.’

The odd comment was not lost upon Arutha. He nodded. ‘Still, we would consider ourselves remiss in our friendship and goodwill to our neighbours in the south if we did not send one who could represent the Royal House of the Isles.’ The Ambassador’s eyes at once fixed upon the twins. ‘Prince Borric, Heir Presumptive to the Throne of the Isles, shall be our representative at the Empress’s Jubilee, my lord.’ Borric, suddenly the focus of scrutiny, found himself standing more erect, and felt an unexpected need to tug at his tunic. ‘And his brother, Prince Erland, will accompany him.’

Borric and Erland exchanged startled glances. ‘Kesh!’ Erland whispered, astonishment barely contained.

The Keshian Ambassador inclined his head toward the Princes a moment in appreciation. ‘A fitting gesture of respect and friendship, Highness. My mistress will be pleased.’

Arutha’s gaze swept the room, and for an instant fixed upon a man at the rear of the room, then continued on. As the Keshian Ambassador withdrew, Arutha rose from his throne and said, ‘We have much business before us this day; court will resume tomorrow at the tenth hour of the watch.’ He offered his hand to his wife, who took it as she stood. Escorting the Princess from the dais, he whispered to Borric, ‘You and your brother: in my chambers in five minutes.’ All four royal children bowed formally as their father and mother passed, then fell into procession behind them.

Borric glanced at Erland and found his own curiosity mirrored in the face of his twin. The twins waited until they were out of the hall and Erland turned and grabbed Elena, spinning her roughly around in a bear hug. Borric gave her a solid whack on the backside, despite the softening effect of the folds of fabric of her gown. ‘Beasts!’ she exclaimed. Then she hugged each in turn. ‘I hate to say this, but I am glad to see you back. Things have been dreadfully dull since you left.’

Borric grinned. ‘Not as I hear it, little sister.’

Erland put his arm around his brother’s neck and whispered in mock conspiracy, ‘It has come to my attention that two of the Prince’s squires were caught brawling a month ago, and the reason seems to be which would escort our sister to the Festival of Banapis.’

Elena fixed both brothers with a narrow gaze. ‘I had nothing to do with those idiots brawling.’ Then she brightened. ‘Besides, I spent the day with Baron Lowery’s son, Thorn.’

Both brothers laughed. ‘Which is also what we heard,’ said Borric. ‘Your reputation is reaching even to the Border Barons, little sister! And you not yet sixteen!’

Elena hiked up her skirts and swept past her brothers. ‘Well, I’m almost the age Mother was when she first met Father, and speaking of Father, if you don’t get to his study, he’ll roast your livers for breakfast.’ She reached a point a dozen paces away, swirled in a flurry of silks, and again stuck her tongue out at her brothers.

Both laughed, then Erland noticed Nicky standing close by. ‘Well, then, what have we here?’

Borric made a show of glancing around, above Nicky’s head. ‘What do you mean? I see nothing.’

Nicky’s expression turned to one of distress. ‘Borric!’ he said, almost whining.

Borric glanced down. ‘Why, it’s …’ He turned to his brother. ‘What is it?’

Erland slowly walked around Nicky. ‘I’m not sure. It’s too small to be a goblin, yet too big to be a monkey – save perhaps a very tall monkey.’

‘Not broad enough in the shoulders to be a dwarf, and too finely tailored to be a beggar boy—’

Nicky’s face clouded over. Tears began to form in his eyes. ‘You promised!’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. He looked up at his brothers as they stood grinning down at him, then with tears upon his cheeks he kicked Borric in the shins, turned, and fled, his half-limping, rolling gait not slowing him as he scampered down the hall, the sound of his sobs following after.

Borric rubbed at the barked shin. ‘Ow. The boy can kick.’ He looked at Erland. ‘Promised?’

Erland rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Not to tease him anymore.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘He’s sure to run to Mother and she’ll speak to Father and—’

Borric winced. ‘And we’ll get another round of lectures.’

Then as one they said, ‘Father!’ and hurried toward Arutha’s private quarters. The guard stationed at the door, seeing the approaching brothers, opened the doors for them.

Once inside, the twins found their father seated in his favourite chair, an old thing of wood and leather, but which he preferred to any of the dozen others in the large conference hall. Standing slightly to his left were Barons James and Locklear. Arutha said, ‘Come in, you two.’

The twins came to stand before their father, Erland moving with a slight awkwardness, as his injured side had stiffened overnight. ‘Something wrong?’ asked Arutha.

Both sons smiled weakly. Their father missed little. Borric said, ‘He tried a beat and counter-lunge when he should have parried in six. The fellow got inside his guard.’

Arutha’s voice was cold. ‘Brawling again. I should have expected it, as Baron James obviously did.’ To James he said, ‘Anyone killed?’

James said, ‘No, but it was a bit close with the son of one of the city’s more influential shippers.’

Arutha’s anger surfaced as he slowly rose from his chair. A man able to hold emotions in check, the sight of such a display was rare, and for those who knew him well, unwelcome. He came to stand before the twins and for a moment appeared on the verge of striking them. He stared into the eyes of each. He bit off each word as he sought to regain control. ‘What can you two possibly have been thinking of?’

Erland said, ‘It was self-defence, Father. The man was trying to skewer me.’

Borric chimed in, ‘The man was cheating. He had an extra Blue Lady up his sleeve.’

Arutha almost spat as he said, ‘I don’t care if he had an extra deck up his sleeve. You aren’t common soldiers, damn it! You are my sons!’

Arutha walked around them, as if inspecting horses or reviewing his guard. Both boys endured the close perusal, knowing their father’s mood brooked no insolence.

At last he threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation and said, ‘These aren’t my sons.’ He walked past the twins to stand next to the two Barons. ‘They’ve got to be Lyam’s,’ he said, invoking the King’s name. Arutha’s brother had been known for his temper and brawling as a youth. ‘Somehow Anita married me, but bore the King’s ruffian brats.’ James could only nod in agreement. ‘It must be some divine plan I don’t understand.’

Returning his attention to his boys, he said, ‘If your grandfather still lived, he’d have you over a barrel, a leather strap in his hand, no matter your size or age. You’ve acted like children, once again, and should be treated like children.’

His voice rose as he walked back before them, ‘I sent orders for you two to come home at once! But do you obey? No! Instead of coming straight away to the palace, you vanish into the Poor Quarter. Two days later, Baron James finds you brawling in a tavern.’ He paused, then in a near shout, he exclaimed, ‘You could have been killed!’

Borric began to quip, ‘Only if that parry—’

‘Enough!’ cried Arutha, his temper frayed beyond his ability to control it. He gripped Borric’s tunic and pulled his son forward, off-balance. ‘You will not end this with a joke and smile! You have defied me for the last time.’ He punctuated this with a shove that sent Borric half-stumbling into his brother. Arutha’s manner showed he had no patience for the flippancies from his son he usually ignored. ‘I didn’t call you back because the court missed your peculiar sort of chaos. I think that another year or two on the border might have settled you down a bit, but I have no alternative. You have princely duties and you are needed now!’

Borric and Erland exchanged glances. Arutha’s moods were old business to them, and they had endured his anger – which was usually justified – before, but this time something serious was occurring. Borric said, ‘We’re sorry, Father. We didn’t realize it was a matter of duty that called us home.’

‘Because you are not expected to realize anything, you are expected to obey!’ shot back their father. Obviously out of patience with the entire exchange, he said, ‘I am done with you for now. I must compose myself for the business of dealing in private with the Keshian Ambassador this afternoon. Baron James will continue this conversation on my behalf!’ At the door, he paused, and said to James, ‘Whatever you need do, do! But I want these miscreants impressed with the gravity of things when I speak to them this afternoon.’ He closed the door without waiting for a response.

James and Locklear moved to either side of the young Princes, and James said, ‘If Your Highnesses would be so kind as to follow us.’

Borric and Erland both glanced at their life-long tutors and ‘uncles’ and then at each other. Both had an inkling of what was to come. Their father had never laid strap nor hand upon any of his children, to the profound relief of his wife, but that still didn’t prevent regular bouts of ‘fighting practice,’ when the boys were unruly, which was most of the time.

Waiting outside, Lieutenant William quietly fell into step with the twins and the Barons as they moved down the hall. He hurried to open the door, which led to Prince Arutha’s gymnasium, a large room where the royal family could practise their skills with sword, dagger, or hand-to-hand combat.

Baron James led the procession down the hall. At the door to the gymnasium, William again moved to open the door, for while he was second cousin to the twins, he was still merely a soldier in the company of nobles. Borric entered the room first, followed by Erland and James, with Locklear and William behind.

Inside the room, Borric nimbly turned and walked backwards, his hands raised in a boxer’s pose, as he said, ‘We’re a lot older and bigger, now, Uncle Jimmy. And you’re not going to sucker punch me behind the ear like you did last time.’

Erland leaned to the left, clutching his side in exaggeration and suddenly developed a limp. ‘And faster, too. Uncle Locky.’ Without warning, he threw an elbow at Locklear’s head. The Baron, a seasoned soldier of almost twenty years, dodged aside, allowing Erland to overbalance. He then turned him in a circle by hauling on one arm, and pushed him into the centre of the gymnasium with the sole of his boot.

The two Barons stood away as both brothers stood poised for a fight, fists upraised. With a wry grin, James raised his hands palms out and said, ‘Oh, you’re too young and fast for us, all right.’ The tone of sarcasm was not lost on the boys. ‘But as we have to be clear headed over the next few days, we thought we’d forego the pleasure of seeing how far you’ve come in the last two years.’ He hiked his thumb behind him, indicating a far corner. ‘Personally, that is.’

Two soldiers, stripped to breeches only, stood in the corner. Each had massive arms crossed over impressively muscled chests. Baron James waved for them to approach. As they did, the boys glanced at one another.

The two men moved with the fluid motion of a thoroughbred war horse, supple, but with power waiting. Each looked as if he was carved from stone, and Borric whispered, ‘They’re not human!’ Erland grinned, for both men had large jaws, suggesting the protruding mandible of mountain trolls.

‘These gentlemen are from your Uncle Lyam’s garrison,’ said Locklear. ‘We had a demonstration of the Royal Fist-Boxing Champions last week and asked them to stay with us a few extra days.’ The two men began to move away from each other, circling the boys in opposite directions.

Jimmy said, ‘The blond-haired fellow is Sergeant Obregon, from the Rodez garrison—’

Locklear injected, ‘He’s champion of all men under two hundred pounds. Ah, Erland should be your student, Obregon; his side is injured. Be gentle with him.’

‘—and the other,’ continued Jimmy, ‘is Sergeant Palmer, from Bas-Tyra.’

Borric’s eyes narrowed as he studied the approaching soldier. ‘Let me guess: he’s the champion of all men over two hundred pounds.’

‘Yes,’ said Baron James, with an evil smile.

Instantly, Borric’s field of vision was filled by an oncoming fist. He quickly tried to move away from it, but abruptly discovered another had found the side of his head. Then he was considering who painted the frescos on the ceiling of the room his father had converted to a gymnasium. He really should ask someone.

Shaking his head as he slowly sat up, he could hear James saying, ‘Your Father wanted us to impress upon you the importance of what you face tomorrow.’

‘And what might that be,’ said Borric, allowing Sergeant Palmer to help him to his feet. But the Sergeant didn’t release Borric’s right hand, but rather held it tightly as he brought his own right hand hard up into Borric’s stomach. Lieutenant William visibly winced as Borric’s breath exploded from his lungs and his eyes crossed as he sank to the floor once more. Erland began warily moving away from the other fist-boxer, who now was stalking him across the floor.

‘If it has escaped your notice, your uncle the King has sired only daughters since young Prince Randolph died.’

Borric waved off the offered hand of Sergeant Palmer and said, ‘Thanks. I’ll get up by myself.’ As he came to one knee, he said, ‘I hardly dwell on the fact of our cousin’s death, but I’m aware of it.’ Then as he started to stand, he drove a vicious blow into Sergeant Palmer’s stomach.

The older, harder fighter stood rock steady, forced himself to take a breath, then smiled in appreciation and said, ‘That was a good one. Highness.’

Borric’s eyes rolled heavenward. ‘Thank you.’ Then another fist filled his vision and once more he considered the wonderful craftsmanship displayed upon the ceiling. Why hadn’t he ever taken the opportunity to notice it before? he mused to himself.

Erland attempted to keep distance between himself and the approaching Sergeant Obregon. Suddenly, the young man was not backing up, but striking out with a flurry of blows. The Sergeant, rather than back away, raised his arms before his face and let the younger man strike his arms and shoulders. ‘Our uncle’s lack of an heir is a fact not unknown to us, Uncle Jimmy,’ observed Erland as his own arms began to tire while he futilely pounded upon the muscular sergeant. Abruptly, the Sergeant stepped inside Erland’s reach, and drove another blow into the youngster’s side. Erland’s face drained of colour and his eyes crossed, then unfocused.

Seeing the reaction. Sergeant Obregon said, ‘Pardon, Highness, I’d meant to strike the uninjured side.’

Erland’s voice was a bare whisper as he gasped, ‘How very kind of you.’

Borric shook his head to clear his thoughts, then quickly rolled backwards and came to his feet, ready to fight. ‘So then, there’s a point to this iteration on our family’s lack of a Royal Prince?’

‘Actually, so,’ agreed James. ‘With no male issue, the Prince of Krondor still is Heir.’

Erland’s voice returned in a strangled gasp. ‘The Prince of Krondor is always Royal Heir.’

‘And your father is Prince of Krondor,’ interjected Locklear.

With a clever feint with his left, Borric drove his right into the jaw of Sergeant Palmer and momentarily staggered the older man. Another blow to the body and the boxer was retreating. Borric grew confident and stepped in to deliver a finishing blow, and abruptly the world turned upside down.

Borric’s vision turned yellow then red for a long while, and while he hung in space, the floor came up to strike him in the back of the head. Then blackness crowded in at the edge of his vision and he saw a ring of faces looking down a deep well at him. They seemed friendly faces, and he thought he might know who they were, but he didn’t feel any need to worry on it, as he was so very comfortable sinking into the cool, dark of the well. Staring past the faces, he absently wondered if any of them might know who the artists of the frescos above might be.

As his eyes rolled up into his head, William upended a small bucket over Borric’s face. The elder twin came back to consciousness sputtering and spitting water.

Baron James was upon one knee and helped the Prince sit upright. ‘Are you still with me?’

Borric shook his head and his eyes focused. ‘I think so,’ he managed to gasp.

‘Good. For if your father is still Heir to the throne, you royal infant,’ he slapped Borric on the back of the head to emphasize what came next, ‘then you are still Heir Presumptive.’

Borric turned to study James’s face. The point of James’s message was still lost on the young Prince. ‘So?’

‘So, ninny, as it is unlikely that our good King – your uncle – will father any sons at this stage in his life, given the Queen’s age, should Arutha survive him, he will become King.’ Reaching out to aid Borric to his feet, he added, ‘And as the Goddess of Luck would have it,’ he slapped Borric playfully on the side of the face, ‘you almost certainly will outlive your father, which means that someday, you shall be King.’

‘May heaven forefend,’ interjected Locklear.

Borric looked around the room. The two Sergeants had stepped back, as the pretence of a boxing lesson was forgotten. ‘King?’

‘Yes, you stone-crowned dolt,’ said Locklear. ‘If we’re still alive, we’ll have to kneel before you and pretend you know what you’re doing.’

‘So,’ continued James, ‘your father has decided that it’s time for you to stop behaving like the spoiled child of a rich cattle merchant and start acting like a future King of the Isles.’

Erland came to stand beside his brother, leaning upon him slightly. ‘So why not just simply—’ he winced as he moved the wrong way, straining his re-injured side ‘—tell us what’s going on?’

James said, ‘I convinced your father the lesson needed to be … emphasized.’ He studied the two Princes. ‘You’ve been educated, taught by the best instructors your father could employ. You speak … what … six, seven languages? You can calculate like engineers at a siege. You can discourse on the teachings of the ancients. You have music and painting skills, and you know the etiquette of the court. You are skilled swordsmen and,’ he glanced at the two boxers, ‘you are somewhat gifted students of fisticuffs.’ He stepped away. ‘But during the nineteen years since your birth you’ve never given any indication that you’re anything other than spoiled, self-indulgent children. Not Princes of the realm!’ His voice rose and his tone turned angry. ‘And when we’re done with you, you’ll be performing the role of a Crown Prince instead of a spoiled child.’

Borric stood crestfallen. ‘Spoiled child?’

Erland grinned at his brother’s discomfort. ‘Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? Borric shall have to mend his ways, and you and Father will be happy.’

James’s wicked grin turned on Erland. ‘As will you, my lovely! For if this child of a foolish and capricious nature should go and get his throat cut by the angry husband of a Keshian court lady, it’s you who’ll wear the conDoin crown in Rillanon someday. And should he not, you’ll still be heir until the unlikely event of your brother becoming a father. Even then, you’ll most likely end up a duke somewhere.’ Letting his voice drop a bit, he said, ‘So both of you must begin to learn your office.’

Borric said, ‘Yes, I know. First thing tomorrow. Come, let’s get some rest.’ Borric looked down and discovered a restraining hand upon his chest.

‘Not so fast,’ said James. ‘You haven’t finished your lesson.’

‘Ah, Uncle Jimmy—’ began Erland.

‘You’ve made your point,’ said Borric, simmering anger in his voice.

‘I think not,’ answered the Baron. ‘You’re still a pair of rude sods.’ Turning to the two Sergeants, he said, ‘If you please, continue.’

Baron James signalled for Locklear to accompany him as he quickly left the two young Princes readying themselves for a professionally administered beating. As the two nobles left the court, James motioned to Lieutenant William. ‘When they’ve had enough, get them to their quarters. Let them rest and see they eat, then ensure that they are up and ready to see His Highness by midafternoon.’

William saluted and turned to watch as both Princes tumbled to the canvas mat again. He shook his head. This wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.