Читать книгу Prince of the Blood - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 8

THE BOY CRIED OUT.

Borric and Erland watched from the window of their parents’ private chamber as Swordmaster Sheldon pressed his attack on young Prince Nicholas. The boy shouted again in eager excitement as he executed a clever parry and counterthrust. The Swordmaster retreated.

Borric scratched at his cheek as he observed, ‘The boy can scamper about, for certain.’ The angry bruise from the morning’s boxing practice was darkening.

Erland agreed. ‘He’s inherited Father’s skills with a blade. And he manages to do right well despite his bad leg.’

Borric and Erland both turned as the door opened and their mother entered. Anita waved her ladies in waiting to the far corner of the room, where they commenced to discuss quietly whichever current piece of gossip was judged most interesting. The Princess of Krondor came to stand between her sons and peered through the window as a joyous Nicholas was lured into an overbalanced extension and found himself suddenly disarmed.

‘No, Nicky! You should have seen it coming,’ shouted Erland, though the glass window prevented his words from reaching his younger brother.

Anita laughed. ‘He tries so hard.’

Borric shrugged as they turned away. ‘Still, he does well enough for a boy. Not much worse than when we were his age.’

Erland agreed. ‘The monkey.’

Suddenly his mother turned on him and slapped him hard across the face. Instantly, the women in the other corner of the room ceased their whispers and stared in wide-eyed amazement at their Princess. Borric looked at his brother whose astonishment matched his own. Not once in the nineteen years of their lives had their mother raised a hand to either boy. Erland was more stunned by the act than any pain from the slap. Anita’s green eyes revealed a mixture of anger and regret. ‘Never talk that way about your brother again.’ Her tone left no room for argument. ‘You have mocked him and caused him more pain than all the unkind whispers among the nobles together. He is a good boy and he loves you, and all you have for him is ridicule and torment. Your first day back in the palace and within five minutes of speaking with you he was in tears again.

‘Arutha was right. I’ve let you go unpunished for your trespasses too long.’ She turned as if to leave.

Borric, seeking to rescue his brother and himself from the embarrassment of the moment said, ‘Ah, Mother. You did send for us? Was there something else you wanted to discuss?’

Anita said, ‘I didn’t send for you.’

‘I did.’

The boys turned to see their father standing quietly at the small door that opened between his study and the family room, as Anita called his part of the royal apartment. The brothers glanced at one another and knew their father had been observing long enough to have witnessed the exchange between mother and sons.

After a long silence, Arutha said, ‘If you’ll excuse us, I would have a private word with our sons.’

Anita nodded and indicated to her ladies they should come with her. Quickly the room emptied, leaving Arutha with his sons. When the door was closed, Arutha said, ‘Are you all right?’

Erland made a display of stiff muscles and said, ‘Well, enough, Father, given the “instructions” we received this morning.’ He indicated his tender side was not further injured.

Arutha frowned and shook his head slightly. ‘I asked Jimmy not to tell me what he had in mind.’ He smiled a crooked smile. ‘I just requested he somehow impress upon you that there are serious consequences to not doing what is required of you.’

Erland nodded. Borric said, ‘Well, it is not entirely unexpected. You did order us directly home and we did stop to play a bit before coming to the palace.’

‘Play …’ Arutha said, his eyes searching his eldest son’s face. ‘I’m afraid there will be little time for play in the future.’

He motioned for the boys to approach and they came to him. He turned back into his study and they followed as he moved past his large writing table. Behind it was a special alcove, hidden by a clever locked stone, which he opened. He withdrew a parchment bearing the royal family crest and handed it to Borric. ‘Read the third paragraph.’

Borric read and his eyes widened. ‘This is sad news, indeed.’

Erland said, ‘What is it?’

‘A message from Lyam,’ Arutha said.

Borric handed it to his brother. ‘The royal chirurgeons and priests are certain the Queen will have no more children. There will not be a Royal Heir in Rillanon.’

Arutha moved to a door at the back of the royal chambers and said, ‘Come with me.’

He opened the door and moved up a flight of stairs. His sons followed quickly after, and soon all three stood on the top of an old tower, near the centre of the royal palace, overlooking the city of Krondor. Arutha spoke without looking to see if his sons had followed.

‘When I was about your age, I used to stand upon the parapets of the barbican of my father’s castle. I would look down over the town of Crydee and the harbour beyond. Such a small place, but so large in my memory.’

He glanced at Borric and Erland. ‘Your grandfather did much the same when he was a boy, or so our old swordmaster, Fannon, once told me.’ Arutha spent a moment lost in memory. ‘I was about your age when command of the garrison fell to me, boys.’ Both sons had heard tales of the Riftwar and their father’s part in it, but this wasn’t the same sort of old story they had heard swapped by their father and their uncle, Laurie, or Admiral Trask over dinner.

Arutha turned and sat in one of the merlons and said, ‘I never wanted to be Prince of Krondor, Borric.’ Erland moved to sit in the merlon next to his father, as he sensed that Arutha’s words were more for his older brother than himself. They had both heard often enough that their father had no wish to rule. ‘When I was a boy,’ Arutha continued, ‘I had no larger desire than to serve as a soldier, perhaps with the border lords.

‘It wasn’t until I met the old Baron Highcastle that I realized that boyhood dreams are often with us as adults. They are difficult to be shed of, and yet, to see things as they really are, we must lose that child’s eye view of things.’

He scanned the horizon. Their father had always been a direct man, given to direct speech and never at a loss for words to express himself. But he was obviously having difficulty saying what was on his mind. ‘Borric, when you were much younger, what did you think your life would be like now?’

Borric glanced over at Erland, then back at his father. A light breeze sprang up and his thick, ill-cut mane of reddish brown hair blew about his face. ‘I never gave it much thought. Father.’

Arutha sighed. ‘I think I have made a terrible mistake in the manner in which you were raised. When you were both very tiny you were very mischievous and upon one occasion you really upset me. It was a little thing, a spilled inkwell, but a long parchment was ruined and a scribe’s work for a day was lost. I swatted you upon the bottom, Borric.’ The elder brother grinned at the image. Arutha did not return the grin. ‘That day Anita made me promise that never again would I touch either one of you in anger. By doing so, I think I have coddled and ill-prepared you for the lives you are to lead.’

Erland couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. They’d been scolded often enough over the years, but rarely punished and, before this morning, never physically.

Arutha nodded. ‘You and I have little in common in the manner in which we were raised. Your uncle the King felt our father’s leather belt on more than one occasion when he was caught. I only took one beating as a boy. I quickly learned that when Father gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed without question.’ Arutha sighed, and in that sound both boys heard uncertainty from their father for the first time in their lives. ‘We all assumed Prince Randolph would be King someday. When he drowned, we assumed Lyam would have another son. Even as daughters arrived and the prospects for a Royal Heir in Rillanon lessened with the passing years, we still never considered that someday you—’ he put his finger on Borric’s chest ‘—would be ruler of this nation.’

He looked over at his other son and in an uncharacteristic gesture, reached out and placed his hand over Erland’s. ‘I am not given to speaking of strong feelings, but you are my sons and I love you both, though you try my patience to distraction.’

Both sons were suddenly uncomfortable with this atypical revelation. They loved their father but, like him, were discomforted by any attempt to express such feelings openly. ‘We understand,’ was all Borric could manage.

Looking Borric directly in the eyes, he said, ‘Do you? Do you really? Then understand that from this day forth you are no longer my sons alone, Borric. You are both now sons to the Kingdom. Each of you is a Royal. You are to be King someday, Borric. Wrap your mind around that fact, for it is so, and nothing this side of death will change that. And from this day on a father’s love of his son will no longer shield you from life’s harshness. To be a king is to hold men’s lives by a thread. A thoughtless gesture will end those lives as certainly as if you had chosen to tear the threads.’

To Erland, he said, ‘Twins pose a serious threat to peace in our Kingdom, for should old rivalries surface, you’ll find some claiming the birth order was reversed, some who will raise your cause without your consent, as an excuse to make war upon old foes.

‘You both have heard the story, of the First King Borric and how he was forced to slay his own brother, Jon the Pretender. And you have also heard, often enough, of how I stood with the King and our brother Martin in the hall of our ancestors, before the Congress of Lords, each of them with a just claim to the crown. By Martin’s signal act of nobility, Lyam wears his crown and no blood was shed.’ He held his thumb and forefinger a scant fraction of an inch apart. ‘Yet we were but this far from civil war that day.’

Borric said, ‘Father, why are you telling us this?’

Arutha stood, sighed, and put his hand upon his eldest son’s shoulder. ‘Because your boyhood is at an end, Borric. You are no longer the son of the Prince of Krondor. For I have decided that should I survive my brother, I will renounce my own claim upon the crown in favour of yours.’ Borric began to protest, but Arutha cut him off. ‘Lyam is a vigorous man. I may be an old one when he dies, if I don’t precede him. It is best if there is not a short rule between Lyam’s and your own. You will be the next King of the Isles.’

Glancing at Erland, he said, ‘And you will always stand in your brother’s shadow. You will forever be one step from the throne, yet never permitted to sit upon it. You will always be sought out for favour and position, but never your own; you will be seen as a stepping-stone to your brother. Can you accept such a fate?’

Erland shrugged. ‘It doesn’t seem too grave a fate, Father. I shall have estates and title, and responsibilities enough, I am certain.’

‘More, for you need stand with Borric in all things, even when you disagree with him in private. You will never have a public mind that you may call your own. It must be so. I cannot stress this enough. Never once in the future can you publicly oppose the King’s will.’ Moving a short way off, he turned and regarded them both. ‘You have never known anything but peace in our Kingdom. The raids along the border are trivial things.’

Erland said, ‘Not to those of us who fought those raiders! Men died, Father.’

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

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

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

Borric said, ‘I think I understand.’ His voice was subdued.

Erland only nodded.

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

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

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

Erland laughed. ‘Yes, to the heart of Great Kesh!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Locklear said, ‘That’s the truth.’

Erland inserted, ‘Not enough bloodshed!’

‘No broken arms! No gouged eyes!’ laughed Borric.

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

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

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

James said, ‘Locky, is it cold?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where’s Erland?’ asked Locklear.

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

‘Nursing your precious side, you mean,’ shot back Borric with a grin.

Erland shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

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

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

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

‘Who is he?’ said Borric.

‘And why was he trying to kill you, Uncle Jimmy?’ said Erland.

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

A guard approached. ‘My Lord, the man struck by the dart is dead. He died within seconds of his wounding.’

Borric forced himself to a nervous grin. ‘Why would anyone wish to kill me?’

Erland joined in the strained humour. ‘An angry husband?’

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

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

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

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

‘What are you doing?’ Borric asked.

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

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

‘He’s Keshian.’

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

The room was silent. Those who sat in the circle of chairs moved slightly, as discomfort over the attempt upon Borric manifested itself in the creaks of leather and wood, the rustle of cloth, and the clink of jewellery.

Duke Gardan rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s preposterous. What would Kesh gain in killing a member of your family? Does the Empress wish war?’

Erland chimed in. ‘She’s worked as hard as anyone to preserve the peace, or at least all the reports say that. Why would she want Borric dead? Who—’

Borric interrupted his brother. ‘Whoever wants war between the Kingdom and the Empire.’

Locklear nodded. ‘It’s such a shallow lie; so transparent an attempt that it is not believable.’

‘Yet …’ Arutha mused aloud, ‘what if that assassin was chosen to fail? A dupe. What if I am supposed to withhold my envoy, keep my sons at home with me?’

Gardan nodded. ‘Thereby insulting the Royal House of Kesh.’

James, who leaned against the wall behind Arutha said, ‘We’ve managed a fair job already by dispatching a member of the Empress’s house. He was a very distant cousin, true, but a cousin, nevertheless.’

Garden returned to rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture of frustration more than fatigue. ‘And what was I supposed to say to the Keshian Ambassador? “Oh, we’ve found this young fellow, who seems to be a member of your Royal House. We had no idea he was in Krondor. And we’re sorry to tell you he’s dead. Oh, by the way, he tried to murder Prince Borric.”’

Arutha leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a tent before his face, absently flexing in a gesture that all in the room had come to recognize over the years. He glanced at last at James.

‘We could dump the body,’ offered the young Baron.

Gardan said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

James stretched. ‘Take the body down to the bay and toss it in.’

Erland grinned. ‘Rough treatment for a member of the Royal House of Kesh, wouldn’t you say?’

Arutha said, ‘Why?’

James moved to sit on the edge of Arutha’s desk, as the Prince over the years had come to conduct very informal sessions with close advisors and family. ‘He’s not officially a guest in the city. We aren’t supposed to know he’s here. No one is supposed to know. The only Keshians who will know he’s here are those who know why he’s here. And I doubt any of them will inquire as to his well-being. He’s now the forgotten man, unless we call attention to his whereabouts.’

Drily, Borric added, ‘And his condition.’

‘We can claim he tried to kill Borric,’ James acknowledged, ‘but all we have is a Keshian corpse, a blowgun, and some poisoned darts.’

‘And a dead merchant,’ added Gardan.

‘Dead merchants are a frequent enough commodity on any given day in the Western Realm, my Lord Duke,’ observed James. ‘I say we strip him of his ring and toss him into the bay. Let the Keshians who sent him wonder for a while. Should anyone inquire, we might gain an opportunity to learn more of who’s behind him. At worst, we can show considerable distress at his demise, insisting that had we but known he was in the city we would have made every effort to ensure his safety, but if bored royal visitors slip into the city incognito, and insist on frequenting the seedier parts of the city …?’ He shrugged dramatically.

Arutha said nothing for a while, then gave one affirmative nod. James indicated with a jerk of his head that Locklear should use Royal Guardsmen for the job, and the other young Baron slipped through the door. After a short conference with Lieutenant William outside, Locklear returned to his seat.

Arutha sighed. Looking at James, he said, ‘Kesh. What else?’

James shrugged. ‘Hints, rumours. Their new Ambassador is … an odd choice. He’s what they call a “trueblood”, but not of the Royal House, the assassin would have been a more logical choice. The Ambassador is a purely political appointment. It’s rumoured that he may actually have stronger influence in Kesh’s court than many with royal blood. I can’t find any obvious reason why he should be given such an honour – save as a compromise, to appease different factions in court.’

Arutha nodded. ‘While none of this makes apparent sense, still, we must play according to the rules of such games.’ He was silent for a while, and no one spoke as the Prince gathered his thoughts. ‘Send word to our people in Kesh,’ he instructed James. Years earlier, he had allowed James to begin creating a network of agents, starting inside the Principality, and slowly spreading through the Western Realm. Now Prince Arutha had operatives in the Royal Courts of Kesh and Queg and close to the most powerful men in the Free Cities. ‘I want our agents hard at work before my sons arrive. If someone seeks to suck us into war with Kesh, striking at the King’s nephews would be a logical choice. You will accompany the Princes to Kesh. There is no one I trust more to swim through these murky waters.’

Baron Locklear said, ‘Highness?’

Looking at the other young Baron, Arutha said, ‘You will accompany Baron James, as Master of Ceremonies, Chief of Protocol, and the rest of that idiocy. The Imperial Court is dominated by women. We will at last find a use for that infamous Locklear charm. Instruct Captain Valdis he will act in your place as Knight-Marshal. And have Cousin William take over the Household Guard as acting Captain.’ Absently he added, ‘He’s overdue for promotion, anyway.’ Arutha drummed his fingers on the table as he reflected for a moment. ‘I want you,’ he said to James, ‘shed of any office and protocol on this journey. Your only title will be “tutor”. You must be free to come and go as you need.’ He stood and the others followed suit. He looked at the boys and said, ‘Supper tonight.’

The twins nodded their understanding and rose, assuming this meant they were dismissed. As Locklear and James followed suit, Arutha said, ‘James, abide a moment longer.’

The twins exchanged glances, but said nothing, and left the room with Locklear a step behind. When only Arutha, James, and Gardan remained, the Prince asked, ‘What sort of intelligence are we getting out of the city of Kesh?’

Ten years previously, Arutha had quietly asked James to begin creating an intelligence system, primarily as a means to counteract a very well established network of agents working for Kesh in the Western Realm of the Kingdom of the Isles. James had begun with his already established contacts in the Krondorian underworld. Within a year he had informants watching every ship and caravan in and out of the city as well as having identified a dozen likely recruits in the region in other cities and towns, from Land’s End up to Ylith.

A visit to Locklear’s father two years earlier had provided James with his best new agent on the border with Kesh. James had only been to Land’s End once, previously, as a boy, and used a very old acquaintance from that visit as his introduction around the city.

Bram had been the illegitimate son of the Baroness of Land’s End and his claim on the title had not been upheld by the crown, the title and estates being given to Locklear’s father. But as a reward for service done the crown, a bit of black murder which few besides James knew about, Bram, and his wife Lorri, had been set up as very wealthy farmers. By the time James reacquainted himself with them, they had established lucrative trading concerns down into Great Kesh, and finally, after years of work, James had positioned an agent in the Imperial palace.

James said, ‘I have someone as highly placed in the palace staff as possible without trying to recruit a trueblood.’ Both Arutha and Gardan knew that trying to recruit any trueblood Keshian into service for a foreign power would likely prove impossible. ‘The difficulty is sifting through rumour and gossip looking for useful information.

‘Here’s what we know,’ James continued, knowing both men had read every report he had prepared. ‘There are factions within the trueblood community with differing loyalties to the various claimants to the throne. The Empress has a daughter who is widowed, and who would normally be next in line, but for reasons we don’t yet understand is not openly acknowledged. She has a younger brother who is very popular with the military leaders. The Empress also has a granddaughter, who is very young, but who – if married to the right leader – would create even more division among the factions.’

‘Civil war,’ said Gardan. ‘If the Empress doesn’t clean up the question of succession before she dies, Kesh could be shattered.’

Arutha nodded. ‘The Confederation is always looking for an excuse to rebel, and nothing would suit them better than the Royal House of Kesh being torn apart.’

James said, ‘I’m still waiting for copies of the last year’s communications between our ambassador and your brother, Highness.’

Arutha nodded. One of his frustrations was that while he had a great deal of autonomy in dealing with the Western Realm, the Kingdom was still ruled from Rillanon, a city thousands of miles away. And while Kesh often sent envoys and ambassadors to the Western Realm as a concession to necessity, Arutha had no formal reciprocation. And for reasons not clear after years ruling Krondor, he still had trouble getting copies of the communications between the Isle’s ambassador in Kesh and the King. ‘You’ll have to wait longer, I’m afraid. By the time you return from Kesh, I expect you’ll be more informed than Lord Dougrey.’ The Kingdom’s ambassador to Kesh was a minor Earl with a talent for entertaining and a distinct lack of other gifts. ‘For he has been recalled by the King, so when you get there, you’ll have to rely on your agent in the palace, and your own wits.’

James sighed. ‘Well, at least that rids us of the problem of how to keep the ambassador busy and out from under foot.’

Arutha said, ‘We have two possibilities to consider. Either, someone wants to keep the Empire together, and what better way to avoid a civil war than by plunging the Empire into a major war with a neighbour?’

James finished. ‘Or, someone wants to use a war with the Isles or the threat of a war to pull the Empire apart.’

Gardan said, ‘And the list of those who would delight in seeing Kesh collapse is not short.’

Arutha stood. ‘I’m sending you into another mess, Jimmy. But this one has consequences as dire as any before if mistakes are made. I would not bother to inform you of the obvious, save this time you’re labouring with a grave handicap.’

James smiled. ‘Borric and Erland will be kept on a short leash.’

‘Don’t let them start a war, please?’ Then without another word, he departed, the Duke following after.

James had come to understand Arutha’s moods as well as any outside his family. A mind as complex and deep as the Prince’s was like a chess master’s; Arutha was planning every conceivable outcome as many moves in advance as possible.

James left the room and found Locklear and the twins waiting for him outside the door. ‘We leave early in the morning,’ James informed them.

Borric said, ‘We’re not due to leave for another three days.’

James said, ‘Officially. If your Keshian friend has compatriots about, I would prefer they not know our plans.’ He glanced at Locklear. ‘We’ll slip out of the palace before dawn, and gather at a tavern. Horses and supplies will be waiting for us. A small mounted troop, twenty guards, dressed as mercenaries. Couriers leave in an hour by fast horses. Arutha’s sending word to Shamata we’re going to need fresh mounts and stores enough for two hundred escorts.’

Locklear said, ‘We’ll be arriving in Shamata at the same time as any message and two hundred—’

James cut him off. ‘We’re not going to Shamata. We want any Keshian agents who might be paying attention to think we’ll travel in state to Shamata. But we’re not going to Shamata. We’re going to Stardock.’