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

Borric gave him an exasperated look. ‘You’d doubt my word?’

‘Doubt your word? Sonny, we’ve just met. And what would you think if you were me and this was being proposed to you by someone who’s called “Madman”?’ He looked significantly down at his empty cup.

Borric signalled for another round. ‘All right, I’ll pay you half on account before we leave and the rest when we get there.’

Ghuda still wasn’t convinced. ‘And what about the boy? No one will consider him a likely guard.’

Borric turned to look at Suli who was now clearly wobbling from the influence of three ales. ‘He can pass work. We’ll hire him on to the caravan as a cook’s monkey.’

Suli just nodded, bleary-eyed. ‘Cook.’

‘But can you handle a blade, Madman?’ asked Ghuda, seriously.

Borric said matter-of-factly, ‘Better than any man I’ve met.’

Ghuda’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a boast!’

Borric grinned. ‘I’m still alive, aren’t I?’

Ghuda stared at Borric a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ah, that’s good.’ Killing what was left of his ale, Ghuda pulled out his two long dirks, and reversed the one in his left hand, handing it to Borric. ‘Show me what you’ve got. Madman.’

Suddenly Borric was twisting and parrying a vicious lunge, barely able to avoid a potentially killing stroke. He didn’t hesitate as he struck the mercenary as hard a blow to the head as he could with his left hand. As Ghuda shook his head to clear it, Borric lunged, and the mercenary was falling away from the point, striking a table with his back.

The barman shouted, ‘Here you two! Stop breaking up my shop!’

Ghuda sidled along the table, as Borric measured him. ‘We can stop any time you’re convinced,’ said the Prince, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders hunched, the point of the dirk aimed at Ghuda.

The mercenary grinned, his manner playful. ‘I’m convinced.’

Borric flipped the dirk, catching the blade between thumb and forefinger, and handed it back to Ghuda. The mercenary took it and said, ‘Well, we’d better find a weapons dealer and get you set up. You may know how to handle a weapon, but it does you little good if you don’t have one.’

Borric put his hand down the front of his baggy tunic and pulled out his purse. He took out a pair of copper coins and handed them to the furious barkeep. ‘Suli, let’s be off—’ He discovered the boy slumped at the foot of the bar, snoring loudly.

Ghuda shook his head. ‘Can’t say as I trust anyone who can’t hold his drink.’

Borric laughed as he pulled the drunken boy to his feet. Shaking him severely, he said, ‘Suli, we have to go.’

Through bleary eyes, the boy said, ‘Master, why is the room spinning?’

Ghuda grabbed his helm and said, ‘I will wait for you outside. Madman. You tend the boy.’ The mercenary exited the shop and stood next door examining some copper jewellery while the sounds of a boy being very sick emerged from the ale shop.

Three hours later, two men and a very pale boy passed through the eastern city gate, and entered the caravansary. The large field, surrounded on three sides by tents and sheds, was located just to the east of the city, less than a quarter mile from the gates of Farafra. Close to three hundred wagons of varying sizes were spread around the meadow. Dust filled the air as horses, oxen and camels moved from one place to another.

Suli hefted the large sack he carried, full of various items Ghuda had insisted they buy. Borric had followed the mercenary’s lead in the matter, save when it came to his own armour. Borric now wore an old but serviceable jacket of leather, with leggings and bracers. He couldn’t find a light helm, so rather than one he didn’t care for, he chose a leather band with a cloth headcover, to keep his lengthening hair back and perspiration out of his eyes. The covering also protected the back of his neck from the harsh Keshian sun. A longsword hung from his left hip, and a dirk from his right. He’d have preferred a rapier, but they were rarer in Farafra than in Krondor and beyond his means. The day’s shopping had eaten away at his meagre supply of coins and he was aware that he was still a long way from the city of Kesh.

As they moved along past the corrals where horses were kept, they came to the main concourse, a series of wagons arrayed in two lines. Strolling along between them were a full score of armed men, as well as merchants seeking transport for their goods.

Moving down the concourse, the three were called to by a man atop each wagon. ‘Bound for Kimri. I need guards for Kimri!’ At the next, a man shouted to them, ‘Ghuda! I need guards for Teleman!’ The third called, ‘Top price paid. We’re leaving tomorrow for Hansulé!’

Halfway down the concourse, they found a caravan bound for the city of Kesh. The caravan master looked them over and said, ‘I know you by name, Ghuda Bulé. I can use you and your friend, but I don’t want the boy.’

Borric was about to speak, but Ghuda cut him off. ‘I don’t go anywhere without my Good Luck Cook.’

The stout caravan master looked down upon Suli, perspiration beading upon his hairless head as he said, ‘Good Luck Cook?’

Ghuda nodded, as if it was something so obvious he needn’t comment upon it. ‘Yes.’

‘What, O Master of Ten Thousand Lice, is a Good Luck Cook?’

‘When I was guard on Taymus Rioden’s caravan from Querel to Ashunta, seven years back, we were raided by bandits. Struck as if by lightning. Had no time to even get out a prayer to the Death Goddess.’ He made a good luck sign, as did the caravan master. ‘But I survived as did my Good Luck Cook. Not another man did. I have always had my Good Luck Cook with me since.’

‘As that boy can be no more than twelve summers, Father of Prevaricators, he must have been precocious indeed to have been a caravan cook seven years ago.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t him,’ said Ghuda, shaking his head as if that should be obvious. ‘Different cook. You see, I was down in the gully with my britches around my ankles with the worst case of runs in my life when the bandits struck. Couldn’t even get up to fight. They just never found me.’

‘And how did the cook survive?’

‘He was squatting a few feet away.’

‘And what happened to him?’ asked the caravan master, squinting down at Ghuda with interest.

‘I killed the bastard for almost poisoning me.’

The caravan master couldn’t help himself but laugh. When he was through, Ghuda said, ‘The boy’ll cause you no trouble. He can help the cook around the campfire at night and you needn’t pay him. Just let him eat a full meal every day until we reach Kesh.’

‘Done!’ said the master, spitting in his hand and extending it. Ghuda spit in his and they shook. ‘I can always use a good liar around the fire at night. Make the journey pass quickly.’ To Suli he said, ‘Go find my cook, boy.’ He hiked his finger over his shoulder to where a cook wagon could be seen amidst a dozen freight wagons. ‘Tell him you’re to be his new cook’s monkey.’

Suli looked to Borric, who nodded he should go. As Suli left, the caravan master said, ‘I am Janos Sabér, trader from Kesh. We leave at first light tomorrow.’

Ghuda unslung the small bundle he carried over his shoulder. ‘We’ll sleep under your wagons tonight.’

‘Good. Now, leave me, as I need four more guards before nightfall.’

Borric and Ghuda wandered from the spot, and found some shade under a widely spreading tree. Ghuda took his helm off and ran his hand over his sweaty face. ‘Might as well rest now, Madman. Tomorrow it gets really miserable.’

‘Miserable?’ asked Borric.

‘Yes, Madman. Today we’re merely hot and bored. Tomorrow we will be thirsty, dirty, tired, hot, and bored.’

Borric crossed his arms on his chest and tried to rest. He knew that it had been drilled into him since boyhood that a soldier steals rest whenever the opportunity appears. But his mind raced. How was Erland faring and what was transpiring in Kesh? By his estimate, Erland and the others should be in Kesh by now. Was Erland safe? Did they count Borric dead, or merely missing?

Sighing aloud, he settled down. Soon he was dozing in the afternoon heat, the noise of the busy caravansary becoming lulling in its own fashion.

• CHAPTER ELEVEN • (#ulink_89b2a65e-f83c-5121-a97a-43b27168e81c)

Hunting (#ulink_89b2a65e-f83c-5121-a97a-43b27168e81c)

THE LION STOOD MOTIONLESS.