The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer

James also sat, trying to relax. He saw Gamina move to Erland’s side, as if to comfort him. ‘Well, we have faced difficulties in the past. This is what we were trained for, to make choices.’

Locklear said, ‘I think we should consider returning to Krondor.’

James said, ‘If we do, and Arutha orders Erland back to the Jubilee, we risk insulting the Empress by arriving late.’

‘The festival will last more than two months,’ Locklear pointed out. ‘We would be there before it’s over.’

‘I still would rather have us there at the beginning.’ He glanced around at the black night. ‘Out there something’s going on. I can’t help feeling that.’ He put a finger on Locklear’s chest. ‘It’s just too much a coincidence that we were the ones raided.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Locky in part, ‘but if we were the target for a raid, then those behind it were those who attempted to assassinate Borric in Krondor.’

‘Whoever they are.’ James was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘It makes no apparent sense. Why would they wish to kill the boy?’

‘To start a war between our Kingdom and the Empire.’

‘No, that’s obvious. I mean why would anyone wish war?’ The question was rhetorical.

Locklear shrugged, choosing to answer it anyway. ‘Why does anyone ever wish to start one? We must discover who within the Empire will profit most from a destabilized northern border, and that is our likely culprit.’

James nodded. He stared out into the gloom, away from the firelight, and said softly, ‘We will not be able to do that in Krondor.’

Locklear agreed. ‘Yes, and doing insult to the Empress coupled with Borric’s disappearance may have the desired effect. Arutha has the coolest head on his shoulders that I’ve ever encountered, but he’s also a man whose lost a son – and more, the Heir to the throne of the Isles – and if ever his judgment gets cloudy, it’s when the lives of those he loves are at risk.’

James nodded, remembering how he behaved when on the quest for Silverthorn, when Princess Anita lay at death’s threshold. ‘Still, he’s a lot older now than then, and—’ James didn’t finish.

Gamina’s thoughts came to him. I can give him no comfort husband. Do what you can for him.

Turning to find Erland alone, facing out into the desert night, as Gamina returned to the campfire, James motioned to Locklear to give the two of them some privacy. He stood and crossed to stand beside him. In quiet tones he said, ‘You must come to terms with this, Erland. Your grief must quickly be abandoned and you must accept the change in circumstances fate has forced upon you.’

Erland blinked in confusion, as one suddenly thrust into the light. ‘What?’

James turned and stood before him. With firm hand upon the younger man’s shoulder, he said, ‘I know you, as I know myself. I’ve spent as much time with you and Borric as any man living, and I understand you both. You will hold to this thing like a terrier with a rat, worrying it and shaking it, and trying to make it not true, but it is true.

‘You are now Heir. You will be our next King. And you will carry the fate of your homeland with you when we ride to Kesh.’ James gently squeezed Erland’s shoulder. ‘This night you must grieve, and you will battle that grief from now until we reach the City of Kesh, but the moment you step before the Empress Lakeisha you must be Heir to the Throne of the Isles. You can not be a grieving brother or an impulsive and angry child. You must become the man your father expects you to be.’

Erland seemed not to hear him.

James tightened his grip on the young man’s shoulder. ‘You have no choice, Erland. The fate of nations depends on you.’ James turned and walked back to the campfire.

The Prince said nothing as he returned his gaze to the west, to the distant slaver caravan somewhere out there under the shroud of darkness. After an hour standing motionless, he turned and walked back to where the others were waiting. Nothing was said as Erland sat and took a plate of food offered to him by a soldier. He quietly ate and became lost in his own dark and painful thoughts. For he knew that James was correct, and that he must come to grips with his loss, for tomorrow they would resume their trek southward, into the heart of Great Kesh.

• CHAPTER SEVEN • (#ulink_85d6a965-1240-5737-8726-3d7768f30341)

Captive (#ulink_85d6a965-1240-5737-8726-3d7768f30341)

BORRIC AWOKE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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