RAYMOND E. FEIST
The King’s Buccaneer

Book Two of Krondor’s Sons

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1992

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 1992

Cover Illustration © Nik Keevil

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780586203224

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007385393

Version: 2017-07-28

Dedication

For Ethan and Barbara

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

Prologue: Meeting

Chapter One: Decision

Chapter Two: Voyage

Chapter Three: Crydee

Chapter Four: Squire

Chapter Five: Instruction

Chapter Six: Raid

Chapter Seven: Choices

Chapter Eight: Accident

Chapter Nine: Freeport

Chapter Ten: Discoveries

Chapter Eleven: Pursuit

Chapter Twelve: Disaster

Chapter Thirteen: Ascent

Chapter Fourteen: Bandits

Chapter Fifteen: Discovery

Chapter Sixteen: River

Chapter Seventeen: City

Chapter Eighteen: Secrets

Chapter Nineteen: Explorations

Chapter Twenty: Plans

Chapter Twenty-One: Escape

Chapter Twenty-Two: Ambush

Chapter Twenty-Three: Sea Chase

Chapter Twenty-Four: Battle

Chapter Twenty-Five: Wedding

Keep Reading

Continue the Adventure …

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Maps

• PROLOGUE •
Meeting

GHUDA STRETCHED.

Through the door behind him came a woman’s voice: ‘Get away from there!’

The former mercenary guard sat back in his chair on the porch of his inn, settling his feet upon the hitching rail. In the background the usual evening serenade was commencing. While rich travelers stayed at the large hostels in the city or at palatial inns along the silvery beaches, the Inn of the Dented Helm, owned by Ghuda Bulé, catered to a rougher clientele: wagon drivers, mercenaries, farmers bringing crops into the city, and rural soldiers.

‘Do I have to summon the city guards!’ cried the woman from inside the common room.

A large man, Ghuda had found enough hard work keeping up the inn that he hadn’t run to fat and he still kept his weapons finely honed; more times than he cared to recall, he had been forced to toss one or another customer through the door.

Evenings, just before dining, were his favorite time of the day. Sitting in his chair, he could see the sun set over the bay of Elarial, the brilliant glare of the day dimming to a gentler blush that colored the white buildings soft oranges and golds. It was one of the few pleasures he managed to reserve for himself in an otherwise demanding life. A loud crash sounded from within the building, and Ghuda resisted the urge to investigate. His woman would let him know when he was needed to intervene.

‘Get out of here! Take that fighting outside!’

Ghuda took out a dirk, one of the two he habitually wore on his belt, and absently began to polish it. The sound of broken crockery echoed from within the inn. A girl’s shriek followed quickly after, then the sounds of fists striking bodies joined in.

Ghuda looked at the sunset as he polished his blade. At almost sixty years old, his face was an aging map of leather – showing years of caravan guard duty, fighting, too much bad weather, bad food, and bad wine – dominated by an oft-broken nose. Most of his hair was gone on top, leaving him with a shoulder-length grey fringe that began halfway between crown and ears. Never one to be called handsome, he still had something about him, a calm, open directness, that caused people to trust and like him.

He let his gaze wander across the bay, silver and rose highlights from the sunset sparkling atop emerald waters, as seabirds squawked and dove for their supper. The heat of the day had gone, leaving a soft cool breeze off the bay, faint with the tang of sea salt, and for a moment he wondered if life could be better for one of his low station. Then he squinted against the glare of the sun as it touched the horizon, for out of the west came a figure purposefully marching down the road toward the little inn.

At first it was nothing more than a black speck against the glare of the setting sun, but soon it took on detail. Something about the figure set off an itch in the back of Ghuda’s brain, and he fixed his gaze upon the stranger as he came clearly into view. A slender, bandy-legged man wearing a dusty and torn blue robe, tied above one shoulder, approached. He was an Isalani, a citizen of Isalan, one of the nations to the south within the Empire of Great Kesh. He carried an old black rucksack over one shoulder and used a long staff as a walking stick.

When the man was close enough for his features to be clearly identified, Ghuda said a silent prayer: ‘Gods, not him.’

A wailing cry of anger came from within the building as Ghuda stood up. The man reached the porch and unshouldered his bag. A ring of fuzz surrounded an otherwise bald head; a face resembling a vulture looked solemn as he regarded Ghuda, then broke into a wide smile. His black eyes were narrow slits as he grinned at Ghuda. He opened the dusty old bag. In a familiar, gravelly tone he said, ‘Want an orange?’ He reached into the bag and withdrew two large oranges.

Ghuda caught the fruit that was tossed to him and said, ‘Nakor, what in the Seven Lower Hells brings you here?’

Nakor the Isalani, occasional card sharp and con man, wizard in some sense of the word, and undoubted lunatic in Ghuda’s estimation, was a onetime companion of the former mercenary. Nine years before, they had met and traveled with a young vagabond who’d convinced Ghuda – Nakor needed no persuading – to travel on a journey to the City of Kesh, a descent into the heart of murder, politics, and attempted treason. The vagabond had turned out to be Prince Borric, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, and Ghuda had emerged from that encounter with enough gold to travel and find this inn, the previous owner’s widow, and the most glorious sunsets he had ever seen. He wished never again to experience anything like that journey in this life. Now, with sinking heart, he knew that wish was likely to be a vain one.

The bandy-legged little man said, ‘I came to get you.’

Ghuda sat back down in his chair as an ale cup came sailing through the door. Nakor nimbly dodged it and said, ‘Some good fight you have there. Wagon drivers?’

Ghuda shook his head. ‘No guests tonight. That’s just my woman’s seven kids tearing up the common room, as usual.’

Nakor dropped his rucksack and sat down upon the hitching rail and said, ‘Well, give me something to eat, then we’ll go.’

Returning to sharpening his dirk, Ghuda said, ‘Go where?’

‘Krondor.’

Ghuda shut his eyes a moment. The only person they both knew in Krondor was Prince Borric. ‘This is not a perfect existence, by any measure, Nakor, but I’m contented to remain here. Now go away.’

The little man bit into his orange, pulled off a large piece of peel, and spat it out. He bit deeply into the orange and slurped loudly as he did. Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he said, ‘Contented with that?’ He pointed into the darkened doorway, through which the wail of a child carried over the general shouts and breakage.

Ghuda said, ‘Well, it’s a hard life, sometimes, but rarely is anyone trying to kill me; I know where I’m sleeping every night, and I eat well and bathe regularly. My woman’s affectionate, and the children—’ Another child’s loud shriek was punctuated by the sound of an indignant infant’s wailing cry. Looking at Nakor, Ghuda asked, ‘I’m going to regret asking this, but why do we need to go to Krondor?’

‘Got to see a man,’ Nakor said as he sat back on the hitching rail, hooking one foot behind a post to keep his balance.

‘One thing about you, Nakor, you never bore a man to death with unnecessary details. What man?’

‘Don’t know. But we’ll find out when we get there.’

Ghuda signed. ‘Last time I saw you, you were riding north out of the City of Kesh, heading for that island of magicians, Stardock. You were wearing a great cape and blue robe of magnificent weave, the horse was a black desert stallion worth a year’s wages, and you had a purse full of the Empress’s gold.

Nakor shrugged. ‘The horse ate bad grass, got colic, and died.’ He fingered the dirty, torn blue robe he wore. ‘The great cape kept catching in things, so I threw it away. The robe is the one I still wear. The sleeves were too long, so I tore them off. The thing dragged on the ground and I kept tripping on the hem, so I cut it with my dagger.’

Ghuda regarded his former companion’s ragged appearance and said, ‘You could have afforded a tailor.’

‘Too busy.’ He glanced at the turquoise sky, shot through with pink and grey clouds, and said, ‘I spent all the money and I got bored with Stardock. Decided to go to Krondor.’

Ghuda felt control leaving as he said, ‘Last time I consulted a map, Stardock to Krondor by way of Elarial was considered the long way around.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘I needed to find you. So I went back to Kesh. You said you might go to Jandowae, so there I went. Then they said you’d gone to Faráfra, so there I went. I then followed you to Draconi, Caralyan, then here.’

‘You seem singularly determined to find me.’

Nakor leaned forward, and his voice changed; Ghuda had heard him take this tone before and knew that what he was saying was significant. ‘Great things, Ghuda. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know. Just say that sometimes I see things.

‘You need to come with me. We are going places few men of Kesh have ever gone. Now, get your sword and your pack and come with me. A caravan leaves for Durbin tomorrow. I have gotten you a job as a guard; they remember Ghuda Bulé. From Durbin we can find a ship to Krondor. We need to be there soon.’

Ghuda said, ‘Why should I listen to you?’

Nakor grinned and his voice was again the half-mocking, half-mirthful sound that was the Isalani’s hallmark. ‘Because you’re bored, true?’

Ghuda listened to his youngest stepchild wailing at some outrage done by one of her six siblings and said, ‘Well, it’s not as if things around here were eventful …’ Hearing another shriek, he added, ‘Or really peaceful.’

‘Come. Tell the woman good-bye and let us go.’

Ghuda stood with a mixed feeling of resignation and anticipation. Turning to the smaller man, he said, ‘Best go to the caravanserai and wait for me. I have to explain some things to my woman.’

Nakor said, ‘You got married?’

Ghuda said, ‘We never seemed to quite get around to it.’

Nakor grinned. ‘Then give her some gold – if you have any left – and tell her you’ll be back, then leave. She’ll have another man in that chair and in her bed within the month.’

Ghuda stood by the door a moment, regarding the light from the vanished sun as it faded from sight and said, ‘I will miss the sunsets, Nakor.’

The Isalani continued to grin as he jumped down from the hitching rail, picked up his bag, and shouldered it. ‘There are sunsets above other oceans, Ghuda. Mighty sights and great wonders to behold.’ Without another word, he turned toward the road down to the city of Elarial and started walking.

Ghuda Bulé entered the common room of the inn he had called home for nearly seven years and wondered if he would ever pass this way again.

• CHAPTER ONE •
Decision

THE LOOKOUT POINTED.

‘Boat dead ahead!’

Amos Trask, Admiral of the Prince’s fleet of the Kingdom Navy, shouted, ‘What?’

The harbor pilot who stood beside the Admiral, guiding the Prince of Krondor’s flagship, the Royal Dragon, toward the palace docks, shouted to his assistant at the bow, ‘Wave them off!’

The assistant pilot, a sour-looking young man, shouted back, ‘They fly the royal ensign!’

Amos Trask unceremoniously pushed past the pilot. Still a barrel-chested, bull-necked man at past sixty years of age, he hurried toward the bow with the sure step of a man who’d spent most of his life at sea. After sailing Prince Arutha’s flagship in and out of Krondor for nearly twenty years, he could dock her blindfolded, but custom required the presence of the harbor pilot. Amos disliked turning over command of his ship to anyone, least of all an officious and not very personable member of the Royal Harbormaster’s staff. Amos suspected that the second requirement for a position in that office was an objectionable personality. The first seemed to be marriage to one of the Harbormaster’s numerous sisters or daughters.

Amos reached the bow and looked ahead. His dark eyes narrowed as he observed the scene unfolding below. As the ship glided toward the quay, a small sailing boat, no more than fifteen feet in length, attempted to dart into the opening ahead of it. Clumsily tied to the top of the mast was a pennant, a small version of the Prince of Krondor’s naval ensign. Two young men frantically worked the sails and tiller, one attempting to hold as strong a line to the dock as possible while the other furled a jib. Both laughed at the impromptu race.

‘Nicholas!’ shouted Amos, as the boy lowering the jib waved at him. ‘You idiot! We’re cutting your wind! Turn about!’ The boy at the helm turned to look at Amos and threw him an impudent grin. ‘I should have known,’ said Amos to the assistant pilot. To the grinning boy, Amos shouted, ‘Harry! You lunatic!’ Glancing back, seeing the last of the sails reefed, Amos observed, ‘We’re coasting to the docks, we don’t have room to turn if we wanted to, and we certainly can’t stop.’

All ships coming into Krondor dropped anchor in the middle of the harbor, waiting for longboats to tow them to the docks. Amos was the only man with rank enough to intimidate the harbor pilot into allowing him to drop sail at the proper moment and coast into the docks. He took pride in always reaching the proper place for the land lines to be thrown out and in having never crashed the docks or required a tow. He had coasted into this slip a hundred times in twenty years, but never before with a pair of insane boys playing games in front of the ship. Looking forward at the small boat, which was now slowing even more rapidly, Amos said, ‘Tell me, Lawrence, how does it feel to be the man on the bow when you drown the Prince of Krondor’s youngest son?’

Color drained from the assistant pilot’s face as he turned toward the small boat. In a high-pitched voice he began shrieking at the boys to get out of the way.

Turning his back on the scene below, Amos shook his head as he leaned back against the railing. He ran his hand over his nearly bald pate, the grey hair around it – once dark and curly – now tied back behind his head in a sailor’s knot. After a moment attempting to ignore what they were doing, Amos gave in. He turned around, leaning forward and to the right so he could see past the bowsprit. Below, Nicholas was leaning into the oar, one leg braced firmly against the base of the mast, the oar firmly planted against the bow of the ship. He looked terrified. Amos could hear Nicholas shout, ‘Harry! You’d better turn to port!’

Amos nodded in silent agreement, for if Harry pulled hard to port, the small sailboat would swing wide of the lumbering ship, getting banged around, perhaps swamped, but at least the boys would be alive. If they drifted suddenly to starboard, the boat would quickly be ground between the ship’s hull and the approaching pilings of the dock.

Lawrence, the assistant pilot, said, ‘The Prince is fending us off.’

‘Ha!’ Amos shook his head. ‘Letting us push them into the dock, you mean.’ Cupping his hands around his mouth, Amos shouted, ‘Harry! Hard aport!’

The young squire only yelled a maniacal war whoop in answer as he struggled with the tiller, to keep the boat centered upon the ship’s bow.

‘Like balancing a ball on a sword point.’ Amos sighed. He could tell by the speed of the ship and its location that it was time to ready the lines. He turned his back on the boys once more.

From below came the sounds of Harry whooping and yelling in exultation as the fast-moving ship pushed the small boat along. Lawrence said, ‘The Prince is holding the boat in front. He’s struggling, but he’s doing it.’

Amos called, ‘Ready bowlines! Ready stern lines!’ Sailors near the bow and stern readied lines to throw to dockmen waiting below.

‘Admiral!’ said Lawrence in excited tones.

Amos closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Admiral! They’ve lost control! They’re veering to starboard!’

Amos said, ‘I said I didn’t want to hear it.’ He turned toward the assistant pilot, who stood with a panic-stricken expression on his face as the sounds of the small boat being crushed between the ship and the dock grated on their ears. The cracking of wood and tearing of planks were accompanied by shouts from the men on the dock.

The assistant pilot said, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

An unfriendly smile split Amos’s silver and grey beard as he said, ‘I’ll testify to that at your trial. Now order the lines, or you’ll smash us against the wharf.’ Seeing the remark didn’t register on the shocked man, Amos shouted, ‘Secure the bowlines!’

A second later the pilot called for the stern lines to be secured, and these were tossed to those waiting below. The ship had lost almost all its forward movement and, when the lines went taut, stopped altogether. Amos shouted, ‘Secure all lines! Run out the gangplank!’

Turning toward the dock, he peered down into the churning water between the ship and the dock. Seeing bubbles amid the floating wood, line, and sail, he yelled to the dock gang, ‘Lower a rope there to those two idiots swimming beneath the dock before they drown!’

By the time Amos was off the ship, the two wet youngsters had climbed up to the dock. Amos came to where they stood and regarded the soaked pair.

Nicholas, youngest son of the Prince of Krondor, stood with his weight shifted slightly to the right. His left boot had a raised heel to compensate for the deformed foot he’d possessed since birth. Otherwise Nicholas was a well-made, slender boy of seventeen. He resembled his father, having angular features and dark hair, but he lacked Prince Arutha’s intensity, though he rivaled him in quickness. He had his mother’s quiet nature and gentle manner, which somehow made his eyes look different from his father’s, though they were the same dark brown. At the moment he looked thoroughly embarrassed.

His companion was another matter. Henry, known to the court as Harry because his father, the Earl of Ludland, was also named Henry, grinned as if he hadn’t been the butt of the joke. The same age as Nicholas, he was a half-head taller, had curly red hair and a ruddy face, and was considered handsome by most of the younger court ladies. He was a playful youngster who often let his adventuresome nature get the better of him, and from time to time his sense of fun took him beyond the limits of good judgment. Most of the time, Nicholas traveled beyond that border with him. Harry ran a hand through his wet hair and laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Amos.

‘Sorry about the boat, Admiral,’ answered the Squire, ‘but if you could have seen the assistant pilot’s face …’

Amos frowned at the two youngsters, then couldn’t hold in his own laughter. ‘I did. It was a sight to behold.’ He threw wide his arms and Nicholas gave him a rough hug.

‘Glad you’re back, Amos. Sorry you missed the Midsummer’s Feast.’

Pushing the Prince away with exaggerated distaste, Amos said, ‘Bah! You’re all wet. Now I’m going to have to go change before I meet with your father.’

The three began walking toward the wharf next to the palace. ‘What news?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Things are quiet. Trading ships from the Far Coast, Kesh, and Queg, and the usual traffic from the Free Cities. It’s been a peaceful year.’

Harry said, ‘We were hoping for some rousing tales of adventure.’ His tone was slightly mocking.

Amos playfully smacked him in the back of the head with the flat of his hand. ‘I’ll give you adventure, you maniac. What did you think you were doing?’

Harry rubbed at the back of his head and attempted an aggrieved expression. ‘We had right-of-way.’

‘Right-of-way!’ said Amos, halting in disbelief. ‘In the open harbor, perhaps, with ample room to turn, but “right-of-way” doesn’t halt a three-masted warship bearing down on you with no place to turn and no way to stop.’ He shook his head as he resumed walking toward the palace. ‘Right-of-way indeed.’ Looking at Nicholas, he said, ‘What were you doing out on the bay this time of day? I thought you had studies.’

‘Prelate Graham is in conference with Father,’ answered Nicholas. ‘So we went fishing.’

‘Catch anything?’

Harry grinned. ‘The biggest fish you’ve ever seen, Admiral.’

‘Now that it’s back in the bay, it’s the biggest, you mean,’ answered Amos with a laugh.

Nicholas said, ‘We didn’t catch anything worth talking about.’

Amos said, ‘Well, run along and change into something less damp. I’m going to refresh myself, then call upon your father.’

‘Will you be at dinner?’ asked the young Prince.

‘I expect.’

‘Good; Grandmother is in Krondor.’

Amos brightened at that news. ‘Then I will most certainly be there.’

Nicholas gave Amos a crooked half-smile that was the image of his father’s and said, ‘I doubt anyone thinks it coincidence that she chose to visit Mother just in time to be here for your return.’

Amos only grinned. ‘It’s my boundless charm.’ With a playful slap to the heads of both boys, he said, ‘Now go! I must report to Duke Geoffrey, then I’m off to my quarters to change into something more fitting for dinner with … your father.’ He winked at Nicholas and strode off, whistling a nameless tune.

Nicholas and Harry hurried along, stockings squishing in their boots, toward the Prince’s quarters. Harry had a small room near Nicholas’s, as he was officially Prince Nicholas’s Squire.

The Prince’s palace in Krondor rested hard against the bay, having in ancient times been the defensive bastion of the Kingdom on the Bitter Sea. The royal docks were separated from the rest of the harbor by an area of open shoreline that was contained within the walls of the palace. Nicholas and Harry cut across the open expanse of beach and approached the palace from the water.

The palace rose majestically atop a hill, outlined against the afternoon sky, a sprawling series of apartments and halls grafted around the original keep, which still served as the heart of the complex. Dwarfed by several other towers and spires added over the last few centuries, the old keep still commanded the eye, a brooding reminder of days gone by, when the world was a far more dangerous place.

Nicholas and Harry pushed open an old metal gate, which provided access to the harbor for those who worked in the kitchen. The pungency of the harbor, with its smells of fish, brine, and tar, gave way to more appetizing aromas as they neared the kitchen. The boys hurried down past the washhouse and the bakehouse, through a small vegetable garden, and down a low flight of stone stairs, moving among servants’ huts.

They approached the servants’ entrance to the royal family’s private apartments, not wishing a chance encounter with any of Prince Arutha’s staff or, more to the point, with the Prince himself.

Reaching the doors used by the serving staff closest to their own rooms, Nicholas opened it just as a pair of the palace serving girls approached from within carrying bundles of linens bound for the washhouse behind the palace. He stood aside, though his rank gave him precedence, out of respect for their heavy loads. Harry gave both the girls, only a few years older than himself, his version of a rakish grin. One giggled and the other fixed him with a look appropriate to finding a rodent in the larder.

As the young women hurried off, conscious of their impact on the two adolescent boys, Harry grinned and said, ‘She wants me.’

Nicholas gave him a hard push that sent him stumbling through the door, saying, ‘Just about as much as I want the belly flux. Keep dreaming.’

Hurrying up the stairs to the family’s quarters, Harry said, ‘No, she does. She hides it, but I can tell.’

Nicholas said, ‘Harry the lady’s man. Lock up your daughters, Krondor.’

After the bright afternoon sunlight, the hallway was positively gloomy. At the end of the hall, they turned up stairs that took them out of the servants’ area to the apartments of the royal family. At the top of the stairs, they opened the door and peeked through. Seeing no one of rank, the two boys hurried to their respective doors, located halfway down the hall from the servants’ door. Between this door and his own a mirror hung, and, catching his own reflection, Nicholas said, ‘It’s a good thing Father didn’t see us.’

Nicholas entered his own quarters, a large pair of rooms, with enormous closets and a private garderobe, so he didn’t have to leave the room to relieve himself. He quickly stripped off his wet clothing and dried himself. He turned and caught sight of himself in a large mirror, a luxury of immense value, as it was fashioned from silvered glass imported from Kesh. His body – that of a boy on the way to becoming a man – showed a broadening chest and shoulders; he had a man’s growth of body hair, as well as a need to shave daily. But his face was still a boy’s, lacking the set of features that only time can give.

As he finished drying, he looked at his left foot as he had every day of his life. A ball of flesh, with tiny protuberances that should have been toes, extended from the base of an otherwise well-formed left leg. The foot had been the object of medicine and magic since his birth, but had resisted all attempts at healing. No less sensitive to touch and sensation as the right foot, it nevertheless was difficult for Nicholas to command; the muscles were connected incorrectly to bones the wrong size to perform the tasks nature intended. Like most people with a lifetime affliction, Nicholas had compensated to the point of rarely being aware of it. He walked with only a slight limp. He was an excellent swordsman, perhaps the equal of his father, who was counted the best in the Western Realm. The Palace Swordmaster judged him as already a better swordsman than his two elder brothers were at his age. He could dance, as required by his office – son of the ruler of the Western Realm – but the one thing that he could not compensate for was a terrible feeling that he was somehow less than he should be.

Nicholas was a soft-spoken, reflective youngster who preferred the quiet solitude of his father’s library to the more boisterous activities of most boys his age. He was an excellent swimmer, a fine horseman, and a fair archer in addition to being skilled at swordplay, but all his life he had felt deficient. A vague sense of failure, and a haunting guilt, seemed to fill him unexpectedly, and often he would find his mind seized by dark brooding. With company, he was often merry and enjoyed a joke as well as the next boy, but if left alone, Nicholas found his mind seized by worry. That had been one reason Harry had come to Krondor.

As he dressed, Nicholas shook his head in amusement. His companion for the last year, Squire Harry had provided an abrupt change to Nicholas’s solitary ways, forever dragging the Prince off on some foolish enterprise or another. Life for Nicholas had become far more exciting since the arrival of the middle son of the Earl of Ludland. Given his rank and two competitive brothers, Harry was combative and expected to be obeyed, barely observing the difference in rank between himself and Nicholas. Only a pointed order would remind Harry that Nicholas wasn’t a younger brother to command. Given Harry’s domineering ways, the Prince’s court was probably the only place his father could have sent him to have his nature tempered before he became a regular tyrant.

Nicholas brushed out his wet, neck-length hair, cut in imitation of his father’s. Alternately drying it with a towel, then brushing it, he got it to some semblance of respectability. He envied Harry his red curls, hugging his head. A quick toweling and a brush, then off he went.

Nicholas judged himself as presentable as he was likely to make himself under the circumstances, and left his room. He entered the hall to discover Harry already dressed and ready, attempting to delay another serving woman, this one several years his senior, as she was bound upon some errand or another.

Harry was dressed in the green and brown garb of a palace squire, which in theory made him part of the Royal Steward’s staff, but within weeks of his arrival he had been singled out to be Nicholas’s companion. Nicholas’s two older brothers, Borric and Erland, had been sent to the King’s court at Rillanon five years before, to prepare for the day Borric would inherit the crown of the Isles from his uncle. King Lyam’s only son had drowned fifteen years earlier, and Arutha and the King had decided that should Arutha survive his older brother, Borric would rule. Nicholas’s sister, Elena, was recently married to the eldest son of the Duke of Ran, leaving the palace fairly empty of companions of suitable rank for the young Prince before Harry was sent into service by his father.

Clearing his throat loudly, Nicholas commanded Harry’s attention long enough for the serving woman to make her getaway. She gave the Prince a courteous bow coupled with a grateful smile as she hurried off.

Nicholas watched her flee and said, ‘Harry, you’ve got to stop using your position to annoy the serving women.’

‘She wasn’t annoyed—’ began Harry.

‘That wasn’t an opinion,’ said Nicholas sternly.

He rarely used his rank to command Harry about anything, but on those rare occasions he did, Harry knew better than to argue – especially when his tone sounded like Prince Arutha’s, a sure sign that Nicholas wasn’t joking. The Squire shrugged. ‘Well, we have an hour to supper. What shall we do?’

‘Spend the time working on our story, I should think.’

Harry said, ‘What story?’

‘To give to Papa to explain why my boat is now floating across half the harbor.’

Harry looked at Nicholas with a confident smile and said, ‘I’ll think of something.’

‘You didn’t see it?’ said the Prince of Krondor as he regarded his youngest son and the Squire from Ludland. ‘How could you miss the biggest warship in the Drondorian fleet when it was less than a hundred feet away!’ Arutha, Prince of Krondor, brother to the King of the Isles, and second most powerful man in the Kingdom, regarded the two boys with a narrow, disapproving gaze they had both come to know well. A gaunt man, Arutha was a quiet, forceful leader who rarely showed his emotions, but to those close to him, old friends and family, the subtle changes in his mood were easy enough to read. And right now he wasn’t amused.

Nicholas turned to his partner in crime. Whispering, he said, ‘Good story, Harry,’ in dry tones. ‘You obviously spent a lot to time thinking about it.’

Arutha turned to his wife, his disapproval giving way to resignation. Princess Anita fixed her son with a scolding look that was mitigated by amusement. She was upset with the boys for acting foolishly, but Harry’s blatantly artless pose of innocence was entertaining. Though she was past forty years of age, there was still a girlish quality about her laughter, which she fought hard to keep reined in. Her red hair was streaked with grey, and her freckled face was lined from years of service to her nation, but her eyes were clear and bright as she regarded her youngest child with affection.

The evening’s meal was a casual one, with few court functionaries in attendance. Arutha preferred to keep his court informal when possible, quietly enduring pomp only when necessary. The long table in the family’s apartment in the palace could comfortably hold a half-dozen more people than dined tonight. While the great hall of Krondor housed most of the Western Realm’s battle trophies and banners of state, the family’s dining hall was devoid of such reminders of wars, being decorated with portraits of past rulers and landscapes of unusual beauty.

Arutha sat at the head of the table, with Anita at his right hand. Geoffrey, the Duke of Krondor and Arutha’s chief administrator, sat in his usual chair on Arutha’s left. Geoffrey was a quiet, kind man, well liked by the staff, and an able administrator. He had served for ten years in the King’s court before coming to Krondor eight years previously.

Next to him sat Prelate Graham, a bishop of the Order of Dala, Shield of the Weak, one of Arutha’s current advisers. A gentle but firm teacher, the Prelate had ensured that Nicholas, like his brothers before him, would become a man of broad education, knowing as much about art and literature, music and drama, as he did about economics, history, and warcraft. He sat beside Nicholas and Harry, and showed by his expression that he did not find the excuse remotely amusing. While the boys had been excused his tutelage while he attended the Prince’s council, he had expected them to be studying, not crashing their boat into warships in the harbor.

Opposite the boys sat Anita’s mother and Amos Trask. The Admiral and Princess Alicia had enjoyed a playful relationship for years, which court gossip claimed was far more intimate than simply flirtation. Still a handsome woman of a like age to Amos’s, Alicia positively glowed from his attention. Anita’s resemblance to her mother was clear to see, although Alicia’s once red hair was now grey and her features revealed life’s passage. But when Amos told a quiet joke to make her blush, her sparkling eyes and embarrassed laughter made her seem girlish again.

Amos squeezed Alicia’s hand while he whispered something to her, probably off-color, and the Dowager Princess laughed behind her napkin. Anita smiled at the sight, for she remembered how dreadfully her mother had missed her father after his death, and what a welcome addition to Arutha’s court Amos had become after the Riftwar. Anita was always pleased to see her mother smile, and no one could make her laugh like Amos.

To the Admiral’s left sat Arutha’s military deputy, William, Knight-Marshal of Krondor, a cousin to the royal family. Cousin Willie, as everyone in the family called him, winked at the two boys. He had been serving in the palace for twenty years, and over that span of time had seen Nicholas’s other brothers, Borric and Erland, discover every possible way to incur their father’s anger. Nicholas was new to causing his father to lose his temper. William reached for a slice of bread and said, ‘Brilliant strategy, Squire. No unnecessary details to remember.’

Nicholas attempted to look properly chastised, but failed. He quickly cut a piece of lamb and stuffed it in his mouth to keep from laughing. He glanced at Harry, who was hiding his amusement behind a cup of wine.

Arutha said, ‘We’ll have to think up a suitable punishment for you two. Something to impress the value of both the boat and your own necks on you.’

Harry threw Nicholas a quick grin from behind the wine cup; both boys knew that they stood half a chance of Arutha’s forgetting any serious punishment if the press of court business was heavy, as it often was.

The Prince’s court was the second busiest in the Kingdom, and only by a little after the King’s. Effectively a separate realm, the West was governed from Krondor, with only broad policy coming from King Lyam’s court. In the course of one day, Arutha might have to see two dozen important nobles, merchants, and envoys, and read a half-dozen important documents, as well as approve every regional decision involving the Principality.

A boy in the purple and yellow livery of a palace page entered the room and came to the elbow of the Royal Master of Ceremony, Baron Jerome. He whispered to the baron, who in turn came to Arutha. ‘Sire, two men are at the main entrance of the palace, asking to see you.’

Arutha knew that they would have to be something unusual for the guard sergeant to pass them along to the Royal Steward, and for the steward to disturb the Prince. ‘Who are they?’ asked Arutha.

‘They claim to be friends of Prince Borric’s.’

Arutha’s eyebrows went up slightly. ‘Friends of Borric’s?’ He glanced at his wife, then asked, ‘Do they have names?’

The Master of Ceremony said, ‘They gave the names Ghuda Bulé and Nakor the Isalani.’ Jermone, an officious man to whom dignity and pomp were more essential than air and water, managed to convey a volume of disapproval as he added, ‘They’re Keshian, Sire.’

Arutha was still trying to piece together some semblance of understanding when Nicholas said, ‘Father! Those are two who helped Borric when he was captured by slavers in Kesh! You remember him telling us about them.’

Arutha blinked and recollection came to him. ‘Of course.’ He told Jerome, ‘Show them in at once.’

Jerome motioned for the page to carry word to the entrance of the palace, and Harry turned to Nicholas. ‘Slave traders?’

Nicholas said, ‘It’s a long story, but my brother was an envoy to Kesh, about nine years ago. He was captured by raiders who didn’t know he was from the royal house of the Isles. He escaped and made his way to the Empress’s court and saved her life. These are two men who helped him along the way.’

Everyone was staring at the door expectantly when the page entered, followed by a pair of ragged and dirty men. The taller was a fighter by his dress: old, battered leather armor and a dented helm, a bastard-sword slung over his back, and two long dirks, one at each hip. His companion was a bandy-legged fellow, with a surprisingly childlike expression of delight at the new sights around him, and an appealing grin, although he could be described as nothing so much as homely.

They came to the head of the table and both bowed, the warrior stiffly and self-consciously, the shorter man in a haphazard, absent-minded fashion.

Arutha stood and said, ‘Welcome.’

Nakor kept looking at every detail of the room, lost in thought, so after a long moment Ghuda said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Your Highness, but he’ – he jerked a thumb at Nakor – ‘insisted.’ His speech was accented, and he spoke slowly.

Arutha said, ‘That’s all right.’

Nakor at last turned his attention to Arutha and studied him a moment before he said, ‘Your son Borric doesn’t look like you.’

Arutha’s eyes widened in amazement at the direct statement and lack of an honorific, but he nodded. Then the Isalani regarded the Princess and he again grinned, a wide slash of crooked teeth that made him look even more comical than before. He said, ‘You are his mother, though. He looks like you. You are very pretty, Princess.’

Anita laughed, and glanced at her husband, then said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

With a wave of his hand, he said, ‘Call me Nakor. I was once Nakor the Blue Rider, but my horse died.’ He glanced around the room, fixing his gaze on Nicholas. His face lost its grin as he studied the boy. He stared at Nicholas to the point of awkwardness, then grinned again. ‘This one looks like you!’

Arutha was at a loss for words, but at last managed to say, ‘May I ask what brings you here? You are welcome, for you did a great service to my son and the Kingdom, but … it’s been nine years.’

Ghuda said, ‘I wish I could tell you, Sire. I’ve been traveling with this lunatic for over a month, and the best I can get from him is that we need to come here and see you, then leave on another journey.’ Nakor was off in his own world again, seemingly entranced by the glitter of the chandeliers and the dancing lights reflecting off the large glass window behind the Prince’s chair. Ghuda endured another moment of painful silence, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Highness. We never should have bothered you.’

Arutha could see the old fighter’s obvious discomfort. ‘No, it’s I who am sorry.’ Noticing the ragged, dirty attire, he added, ‘Please. You must rest. I’ll have rooms made ready, and you may bathe and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll have fresh clothing provided. Then, in the morning, maybe I can aid you in whatever mission you find yourself upon.’

Ghuda gave an awkward salute, not quite sure of the response; then Arutha said, ‘Have you eaten?’ Ghuda glanced at the heavily laden table and Arutha said, ‘Sit down, over there.’ He motioned for them to take the chairs next to Knight-Marshal William.

Nakor snapped out of his reverie at the mention of food and unceremoniously hurried to the indicated chair. He waited until the servants had his place set with food and wine, and fell to like a man starved.

Ghuda attempted to display as many manners as possible, but it was clear he was uncomfortable in the presence of royalty. Amos said something in a strange language, and the Isalani laughed. In the King’s Tongue he said, ‘Your accent is terrible. But the joke is funny.’

Amos laughed in turn. He said to the others, ‘I thought I spoke the language of Isalan pretty well.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s been near thirty years since I was last in Shing Lai; I guess I’ve lost the knack,’ and turned his attention back to the Princess of Krondor’s mother.

Arutha sat down. He became lost in his own thoughts. Something about the appearance of these two, the old tired fighter and the comic character his sons had told him of, brought him a feeling of discomfort, as if the room were suddenly colder. A premonition? He tried to shrug it off, but could not. He motioned for the servants to remove his plate, for he had lost his appetite.

After dinner, Arutha walked along the balcony that overlooked the harbor. Behind closed doors, servants bustled readying the rooms of the royal family’s apartments. Amos Trask left the building and came to where Arutha stood staring out at the lights near the harbor.

‘You asked to see me, Arutha?’

Arutha turned and said, ‘Yes. I need your advice.’

‘Ask.’

‘What’s wrong with Nicholas?’

Amos’s expression showed he didn’t understand the question. ‘I don’t take your meaning.’

‘He’s not like other boys his age.’

‘The foot?’

‘I don’t think so. There’s something in him …’

‘That’s cautious,’ finished Amos.

‘Yes. It’s why I’m disinclined to really punish him and Harry for their prank today. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen or heard of Nicholas taking a risk.’

Amos signed as he leaned upon the low wall. ‘I haven’t given this a lot of thought, Arutha. Nicky’s a good enough lad – not full of pranks and troublemaking as his brothers were.’

‘Borric and Erland were such a pair of rogues that I welcomed Nicholas’s reserve. But now it’s become indecision and overcautiousness. And that is dangerous in a ruler.’

Amos said, ‘You and I have been through a lot, Arutha. I’ve known you – what, twenty-five years? You worry the most about those you love. Nicky’s a good lad, and he’ll be a good man.’

‘I don’t know,’ came the surprising answer. ‘I know he hasn’t a mean or petty bone in him, but one can err on the side of caution as well as rashness, and Nicholas is always cautious. He’s going to be important to us.’

‘Another marriage?’

Arutha nodded. ‘This goes no further than here, Amos. The Emperor Diiagái has let it be known that closer ties to the Kingdom are now a possibility. Borric’s marriage to the Princess Yasmine was a step in that direction, but the desert people are a tributary race in Kesh. Diiagái thinks it time for a marriage to a Princess of the true blood.’

Amos shook his head. ‘State marriages are nasty business.’

Arutha said, ‘Kesh has always been the biggest threat to the Kingdom – except for the Riftwar – and we need to treat with her gently. If the Emperor of Kesh has a niece or cousin of the true blood he wishes to marry to the brother of the future King of the Isles, we had better be very secure in our borders before we say no.’

‘Nicky’s not the only candidate, is he?’

‘No, there’s Carline’s two sons, but Nicholas might be the best – if I thought he was able.’

Amos was silent awhile. ‘He’s still young.’

Arutha nodded. ‘Younger than his years. I blame myself—’

‘You always do,’ interrupted Amos, with a barking laugh.

‘—for being too protective. The deformed foot … his gentle nature …’

Amos nodded and again fell silent. Then he said, ‘So season him.’

Arutha said, ‘How? Send him to the Border Lords as I did his brothers?’

‘That’s a little too much seasoning, I think,’ said Amos, stroking his beard. ‘No, I was thinking you might do well to send him to Martin’s court for a while.’

Arutha said nothing, but from his expression Amos could tell the idea had struck home. ‘Crydee,’ said Arutha softly. ‘That would be a different sort of home for him.’

‘You and Lyam turned out well enough, and Martin’ll see the boy stay safe without coddling him. Around here no one dares raise a hand or even their voice to the “crippled son of the Prince.”’ Arutha’s eyes flashed at that term, but he said nothing. ‘Send Martin instructions, and he won’t let Nicky use his bad foot as an excuse for anything. Prince Marcus is about his and Harry’s age, so if you send that troublemaker along, there’ll be two companions of noble rank who are a little rougher than Nicky’s been used to. He might be able to command them, but he won’t cow them. The Far Coast is nothing like Highcastle or Ironpass, but it’s not so civilized that Nicky can’t be hardened a bit.’

Arutha said, ‘I’ll have to convince Anita.’

‘She’ll understand, Arutha,’ said Amos with a chuckle. ‘I don’t think you’ll have to do much. As much as she wants to protect the boy, she’ll see the need.’

‘Boy. Do you realize I was only three years older than Nicholas when I took command of my father’s garrison?’

‘I was there. I remember.’ Putting his hand upon Arutha’s shoulder, he said, ‘But you were never young, Arutha.’

Arutha was forced to laugh at that. ‘You’re right. I was a serious sort.’

‘Still are.’

Amos turned to leave, and Arutha said, ‘Are you going to marry Anita’s mother?’

Amos turned in surprise. Then he put his fists upon his hips and grinned. ‘Now, who have you been talking to?’

Arutha said, ‘Anita, and she’s been talking to Alicia. The palace has been thick with gossip about you two for years now: the Admiral and the Dowager Princess. You’ve got the rank and the honors. If you need another title, I can arrange it with Lyam.’

Amos held up his hand. ‘No, rank has nothing to do with it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve lived a dangerous life, Arutha. And every time I board a ship, there’s no guarantee I’d be back. I can be a mean man, and no more than when I’m at sea. There was always the chance I’d get myself killed out there.’

‘You thinking of retirement?’

Amos nodded. ‘Since I was about twelve I’ve lived on ships, save that bit of scuffling around I did with you and Guy du Bas-Tyra during the Riftwar. If I’m to wed, I’ll stay at home with my lady, thank you.’

‘When?’

Amos said, ‘I don’t know. It’s a difficult choice; you’ve seen some of what the sea can do.’ Both remembered their first voyage together, as they braved the Straits of Darkness in the winter many years ago. Arutha had been changed by the journey, for not only had he faced death on the sea and survived, he had come to Krondor and met his beloved Anita. Amos continued, ‘To leave the sea is difficult. Perhaps one last voyage.’

Arutha said, ‘Martin’s requested some aid in preparing the nw garrison at Barran, up the coast from Crydee. The Royal Eagle is in the harbor, ready to sail with enough weapons and stores to outfit two hundred men and horses for a year. Why don’t you captain it? You can carry Nicholas to Crydee, continue up the coast to the new garrison, then visit with Martin and Briana awhile before you head back.’

Amos smiled. ‘A last voyage, back to where my cursed luck began.’

‘Cursed luck?’ asked Arutha.

‘To meet you, Arutha. Since we’ve met, you insist on ruining my fun every way you can.’

It was an old joke between them. ‘You’ve done well enough for an unrepentant pirate.’

Amos shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve done the best I could.’

Arutha said, ‘Go pay court to your lady. I will join mine shortly.’

Amos clapped Arutha upon the back once, then turned and left. When he was gone, Arutha continued to watch the distant lights of the harbor, lost in thoughts and memories.

Arutha’s reminiscences were interrupted by an unexpected presence at his side. He turned to find the odd little Isalani standing next to him, regarding the city below.

Nakor said, ‘I needed to spend a moment with you.’ Arutha said, ‘How did you get past the guards in the hall?’

Nakor shrugged. ‘It was easy’ was all he said. Then he stared out over the water, as if seeing something distant. ‘You’re sending your son on a voyage.’

Arutha turned sideways, eyes fixed upon the Isalani. ‘What are you: seer, prophet, or wizard?’

Nakor shrugged. ‘I’m a gambler.’ He produced a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere and said, ‘That’s how I get money most times.’ He twisted his wrist and the deck vanished. ‘But sometimes I see things.’ He fell silent for a moment, then said, ‘Years ago, when I met Borric, I felt drawn to him, so that when he befriended me, I stayed with him.’

He paused and, without asking leave, jumped atop the stones of the low wall, folding his legs under him. Looking down at the Prince, he said, ‘Many things can’t be explained, Prince. Why I know things and can do things – what I call my tricks. But I trust my gifts.

‘I am here to keep your son alive.’

Arutha shook his head, a small motion of denial. ‘Alive?’

‘He moves toward danger.’

‘What danger.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

Arutha said, ‘What if I keep him here?’

‘You cannot.’ Nakor shook his head. ‘No, that’s wrong. You must not.’

‘Why?’

Nakor sighed and his smile faded. ‘A long time ago I met your friend James. He said things about you and your life and what he had done to gain your favor. He tells of a man who’s seen things.’

Arutha’s sigh echoed Nakor’s. ‘I’ve seen dead men rise and kill, and I’ve seen alien magic; I have known men born on other worlds. I’ve spoken to dragons and seen impossible visions become flesh.’

Nakor said, ‘Then trust me. You’ve made a choice. Abide by it. But let me and Ghuda go with your son.’

‘Why Ghuda?’

‘To keep me alive,’ said Nakor, and the grin returned.

‘Borric said you were a wizard.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘It serves my purpose at times to let others think such. Your friend Pug knew there was no magic’

‘You know Pug?’

‘No. But he was famous before I met Borric. He has done many wondrous things. And for a time I lived at Stardock.’

Arutha’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve not seen him for a dozen years, and word came to us that he had removed to Sorcerer’s Isle, wishing no contact with his old friends. I’ve honored that request.’

Nakor leaped from the wall. ‘Time to ignore it. We will need to see him. Tell your captain we will have to stop there on our way west.’

‘You know where I’m sending Nicholas?’

Nakor shook his head no. ‘I only know that when I saw Ghuda again, after so many years, he was sitting watching the sunset. I knew then that we would eventually journey west, toward the sunset.’ Nakor yawned. ‘I’m going to bed now, Prince.’

Arutha only nodded as the strange little man let himself back into the hallway that led to the balcony. The Prince of Krondor stood silently for a long time, leaning against the wall as he pondered what had been said. Nakor’s words echoed through his mind as he attempted to sort out the conversation.

One thing he knew, as he knew his own heartbeat: of all those whom he loved, Nicholas was the least able to care for himself should he travel in harm’s way. It was many hours before Arutha at last went to his bed.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Voyage

THE PALACE WAS IN AN UPROAR.

Arutha had spent a quiet morning with his wife, and by the time they were finished with breakfast, she had agreed that a year or two with Martin might be the right thing for Nicholas. She had lived at Crydee as Arutha’s guest during the last year of the Riftwar and had come to think fondly of that modest town on the Far Coast. Rough by Krondorian standards though it might be, it was the place where she had come to know her beloved Arutha, with all his dark moods and worries as well as the lighter sides of his nature. She understood Arutha’s concerns over Nicholas, and his fear that the boy could find himself in over his head with the fate of others in the balance; she also knew that Arutha would view such an occurrence as a failure on his part. She relented – though she would miss her youngest child – because she understood this was for Arutha as much as for Nicholas. Out of deference to her, Arutha had protected Nicholas from many of the harsher realities of the world he lived in. His telling argument was the simple statement that Nicholas stood third in line of succession to the crown, behind his brothers, and nothing so far in his life had prepared him for that awesome charge should ill chance unexpectedly bring the crown to him, as it had to his uncle Lyam.

Anita had also sensed something behind his words, more than simple anxiety over a youngster leaving home for the first time, but she could not tell what it was. But most of all, Anita understood that her husband ached to be able to take control, to provide guidance, protection, and support for Nicholas, and that to let him go was perhaps harder for Arutha than it was for her.

Within an hour of Arutha’s telling Nicholas and Harry they were bound for Crydee with Amos, the thousand and one details of making ready for the voyage sent the household into a near state of panic. Yet with practice born of a thousand state occasions, the Royal Steward and his host of squires, pages, and servants rose to the occasion, and Arutha knew that when the ship left the following day, everything the Prince and his companion needed would be aboard.

The Royal Eagle lay ready to carry the arms and stores needed by the new garrison that Duke Martin was establishing. Amos was assuming command, and they would leave for Crydee on the early morning tide. The decision to leave so abruptly was made both because Arutha did not want time to second-guess his choice, and to take advantage of the favorable weather. The infamous Straits of Darkness would be navigable for the next few months, but fall would be upon Amos by the time he left for his return voyage. Once heavy weather set in, the straits between the Bitter Sea and the Endless Sea were too dangerous to attempt except in the most extreme need.

Amos walked down the long hall that led from the guest quarters. In the years he had lived in Krondor, he had never bothered to secure private lodgings outside the palace, as had most of the Prince’s staff. He was the only member of the Prince’s circle of advisers and commanders who was unmarried and did not require a place apart from court demands for a family. As he was at sea nearly three-quarters of the time, anyway, the days he stayed in the palace were few in any event.

But now he was wrestling with the notion of how his life would change after this voyage. He stood a moment, hesitating, then knocked upon the door. A servant quickly answered and, seeing the Admiral without, pulled the door wide. Amos entered and found Alicia sitting upon a divan before a wide glass doorway that gave upon her private balcony, opened to admit the morning breeze. She rose and smiled as he crossed to her.

He took her hand and kissed her cheek. While the servants knew well he had spent the night in this very apartment, they observed the pretense of not knowing in the name of court protocol. Amos had snuck out of the rooms before dawn and had returned to his own quarters. He had changed and journeyed to the harbor for a quick inspection of the Royal Eagle.

‘Amos,’ said the Dowager Princess. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until this evening.’

Amos was at a loss for words, which surprised Alicia. She had understood something was on his mind last night, for while he had been ardent, he had also been somewhat distracted. Several times he had appeared to be on the brink of saying something, only to switch into some inconsequential question or statement.

He glanced around, and when it was clear they were alone, he sat heavily beside her. Taking her hands in his own, he said, ‘Alicia, my darling, I’ve given the matter some thought—’

‘What matter?’ she interrupted.

‘Let me finish,’ he said. ‘If I don’t get this out, I’m likely to lose my nerve, hoist sail, and leave.’

She tried not to smile, for he seemed very serious. But she had a good idea of what was next.

‘I’m getting on in age—’

‘You’re still a youngster,’ she said playfully.

‘Dammit, woman, this is difficult enough without your trying to flatter me!’ His tone was more exasperation than anger, so she was not offended. Her eyes betrayed a merry glint while she kept a straight face.

‘I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, Alicia, and some I’ve confessed to you. Others I’d just as soon forget.’ He paused, searching for words. ‘So, if you’re not of a mind to, I’ll understand and take no offense.’

‘Mind to what, Amos?’

Amos almost blushed as he blurted, ‘Marry.’

Alicia laughed and squeezed his hands tightly. She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Silly man. Whom else would I marry? It’s you I’m in love with.’

Amos grinned. ‘Well then, that’s it, isn’t it?’ He threw his arms around her and held her close. ‘You’re not going to regret this, are you?’

‘Amos, at my age I’ve had my share of regrets, I can assure you. I married Erland because he was the King’s brother and my father was the Duke of Timons, not because I felt anything for him. I came to love my husband, for he was a kind and lovable man, but I was never in love with him. When he died, I assumed that love would be something I would watch in others younger than I. Then you showed up.’ He sat back, and she gripped his chin in her hand, playfully shaking his head as she would a child’s. Then her hand went to his cheek and she caressed it. ‘No, I haven’t enough time left for making poor choices. For all your rough edges, you’ve a quick mind and a generous heart, and whatever you did in the past is in the past. You’ve been the only grandfather my grandchildren have known – though they know better than to say it to your face – but that’s how they feel. No, this is no mistake.’ She leaned into his arms and again he held her tight. Amos sighed in contentment.

Alicia felt tears of happiness gather in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Amos had never been comfortable with open displays of emotion. Their relationship had been intimate for years now, but she had understood Amos’s reticence in making a proposal, for she knew him a man not given to close attachments. That he cared for Arutha and his family was clear, yet there was always a part of Amos that was distant. She knew that he held back, and nothing she could do would force him to give freely. Age had lent her a wisdom many younger women would not have understood. She had not wished to drive Amos off by asking him to choose between his love for her and his love for the sea.

Amos reluctantly released his hold on her. ‘Well, much as I would love to stay awhile, I have been given a mission by your daughter’s husband.’

‘You’re leaving again? But you only just got here.’ There was genuine disappointment in her voice.

‘Yes, true. But Nicholas is to go to Martin’s court for a year or two of seasoning, and some stores must be taken to the new garrison at Barran on the northwest coast.’ He looked into her green eyes and said, ‘It’s my last voyage, love. I’ll not be gone long, and then you’ll find how quickly you grow tired of having me underfoot all the time.’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘Hardly. You’ll find much to keep you busy on my estates. We’ll have lands to tend, tenants to supervise, and I doubt Arutha will let you stay away from court more than a month at a time. He values your insights and opinions.’

They talked for a while, and then Amos said, ‘We have much to do. I must ensure the ship is ready, and you and Anita will no doubt wish to get about the business of a wedding.’

They parted and Amos walked away from her apartment, feeling both elation and an unusual desire to keep sailing west once he dropped Nicholas off. He loved Alicia like no other woman he had met in this life, but the prospect of marriage was more than a little frightening to the old bachelor.

He almost knocked over Ghuda Bulé as he rounded a corner. The grey-haired mercenary backed away, bowing awkwardly. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

Amos paused. Switching to the Keshian language, he said, ‘No excuse needed …’

‘Ghuda Bulé, sir.’

‘Ghuda,’ finished Amos. ‘My mind was other places and I wasn’t watching my way.’

Ghuda’s eyes narrowed and he said, ‘Forgive me, sir, but I think I know you.’

Amos rubbed his chin. ‘I’ve been to Kesh a time or two.’

Ghuda smiled an ironic smile. ‘I was a caravan guard, mostly; there’s little of Kesh I haven’t seen.’

Amos said, ‘Well, it would have been a port, for I’ve never been farther inland in Kesh than I needed to be. Perhaps in Durbin.’

Ghuda shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ He glanced around. ‘My companion has vanished, as he does from time to time, so I thought I’d gawk a bit.’ He shook his head. ‘I was in the Empress’s palace in the City of Kesh some years ago, when I traveled with your Prince’s son.’ He glanced at the high vaulted windows that looked out over the landward side of the city. ‘Very different here, yet worth a look.’

Amos grinned. ‘Well, get your fill of gawking, then. We leave at first light to catch the tide.’

Ghuda’s eyes narrowed. ‘We leave?’

Amos’s grin widened. ‘I’m Admiral Trask. Arutha told me you two would be traveling with us.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Ghuda.

‘Ha!’ barked Amos. ‘Obviously that strange friend of yours hasn’t told you. You and he are coming with us, to Crydee.’

Ghuda turned about slowly, talking to himself as much to Amos. ‘Of course he didn’t tell me. He never tells me anything.’

Amos clapped him on the back in a friendly manner. ‘Well, I’m not sure why, but you’re welcome. You’ll have to share a cabin with the little man, but you seem used to his company. I’ll see you in the courtyard before dawn tomorrow.’

‘Of course we’ll be there.’ After Amos left, Ghuda shook his head. In a sour tone he muttered, ‘Why are we going to Crydee, Ghuda? I haven’t the vaguest idea, Ghuda. Shall we go find Nakor, Ghuda? Certainly Ghuda. Then shall we strangle him, Ghuda?’ With a single nod of his head, he answered himself, ‘With great delight, Ghuda.’

Nicholas hurried along the soldiers’ marshaling yard, where an afternoon drill was under way. He was looking for Harry.

The young Squire was where Nicholas expected to find him, watching the team from Krondor getting ready for a football match with the visiting team from Ylith. The sport, played by Prince of Krondor rules – codified some twenty years earlier by Arutha – had become the national sport in the Western Realm, and now city champions challenged one another regularly. Years before, an enterprising merchant had erected a field and stands near the palace. Over the years he had improved it and expanded it, until it was now a stadium that could easily accommodate forty thousand spectators. It was expected to be full next Sixthday when the match was played. The visiting Ylithmen, the North Precinct Golds, were playing Krondor’s champions, the Millers and Bakers Association Stonemen.

Nicholas arrived to see an attack drill, in which five Stonemen descended upon the goalkeeper and three defenders and, with three deft passes, scored a goal. Harry turned and said, ‘I hate to miss the match.’

Nicholas said, ‘Me too, but think of it: a sea voyage!’

Harry regarded his friend and saw an excitement in Nicholas he had never seen before. ‘You really want to go, don’t you?’

‘Don’t you?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Crydee sounds like a pretty sleepy place. I wonder what the girls are like.’ He grinned at the last and Nicholas grimaced in return. Nicholas was as shy of girls as Harry was shameless. Still, he enjoyed being around Harry when he flirted with the younger girls in the court and the servants’ daughters, because he thought he might learn something – as long as the Squire wasn’t bullying them, as he had the day before. At times Harry could be charming, but at other times he got too rough for Nicholas’s taste.

Nicholas said, ‘You may miss getting put in your place by the local girls, but I feel like I’m getting out of a cage.’

Harry’s usual bantering manner vanished. ‘It’s not that bad?’

Turning away from the practice, Nicholas walked back toward the palace, Harry falling in at his side. ‘I have always been the youngest, the weakest, the … cripple.’

Harry’s eyebrows went up. ‘Some cripple. I’ve got more bruises and cuts from sword practice with you than everyone else combined, and I don’t think I’ve touched you more than twice in a year.’

Nicholas’s crooked smile made him look like his father as he said, ‘You’ve scored a point or two.’

Harry shrugged. ‘See. I’m not bad, but you’re exceptional. How could you be considered a cripple?’

‘Do you have the Festival of Presentation in Ludland?’

Harry said, ‘No, it’s only for the royal family, right?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. It used to be that every noble child was presented to the people thirty days after birth, so that all could see the child was born without flaw.

‘It fell out of practice in the Eastern Realm a long time ago, but it was practiced widely in the West. My brothers were presented, as was my sister – all the children of the royal family, until me.’

Harry nodded. ‘All right, so your father didn’t wish to show you off to the people. What about it?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘It’s not what you are, sometimes; it’s how people treat you. I’ve always been treated as if there was something wrong with me. It makes it hard.’

‘And you think things will be different in Crydee?’ said Harry as they left the precinct of the stadium and reached the gate to the palace.

Two guards saluted the Prince as he passed, and Nicholas said, ‘I don’t know my uncle Martin well, but I like him. I think I may have a different life in Crydee.’

Harry sighed as they entered the palace. ‘I hope it’s not too different,’ he observed as a particularly pretty maid hurried past. He watched her until she vanished through a side door. ‘There are so many possibilities here, Nicky.’

Nicholas shook his head in resignation.

The rowers pulled and the longboat backed away, as heavy lines ran out to the stern of the ship. Upon the docks Arutha, Anita, and a host of court functionaries stood, bidding Prince Nicholas good-bye. Anita had a glimmer in her eyes, yet she held back her tears. Nicholas was her baby, but she had seen three other children leave home before, and that kept her in balance. Still, she kept a tight hold on her husband’s arm. Something in his manner made her uneasy.

Nicholas and Harry stood near the bow, waving to those upon the docks. Amos stood behind them, his eyes fixed upon his beloved Alicia. Nicholas looked from his grandmother to Amos and said, ‘Well, should I begin to call you “Grandfather”?’

Amos gave Nicholas a baleful look. ‘You do and you’ll swim to Crydee. And when we clear the harbor, you’ll call me “Captain”. As I told your father over twenty years ago, Prince or not, upon a ship none is master save the captain. Here I’m high priest and king, and don’t you forget it.’

Nicholas grinned at Harry, not quite ready to believe that Amos could turn into some sort of raging tyrant once they were at sea.

The harbor crew continued to tow the large ship clear of the royal quay, then cast off. Amos shot a glance at the harbor pilot and shouted, ‘Take the wheel, master pilot!’ To the crew he shouted, ‘Set all topsails! Make ready mainsails and topgallants!’

When the first three sails were deployed, the ship seemed to come to life. Nicholas and Harry felt the movement beneath their feet. The ship heeled slightly to the right as the pilot brought it about. Amos left the boys to their own devices and made his way to the stern.

Slowly the ship moved through the harbor, majestically passing dozens of lesser craft. Nicholas watched every detail as the crew sprang to answer the pilot’s commands. Two smaller coastal cutters were entering the harbor mouth as they approached. Seeing the ensign of the royal house of Krondor atop the mainmast, they dipped their own Kingdom flag in salute. Nicholas waved to them.

Harry said, ‘Not very dignified, Your Highness.’

Nicholas threw an elbow into Harry’s ribs, laughing. ‘Who cares?’

The ship turned into the wind near the harbor mouth, bringing it to a virtual halt. A small rowboat came alongside and the pilot and his assistant hurried down into it, turning command of the ship over to Amos.

Once the pilot’s boat was clear, Amos turned to his first mate, a man named Rhodes, and shouted, ‘Trim topsails. Set mainsails and topgallants!’

Nicholas involuntarily gripped the rail, for the ship seemed to leap forward as the wind filled the sails. In the brisk morning breeze the ship sped through the water. The sun began to burn through the early morning haze and the sky turned a vivid blue. Above, sea gulls flew after the ship, waiting for the day’s garbage to be tossed over the side.

Nicholas pointed down at the bow wake, and Harry looked over to see dolphins racing the ship. Both boys laughed at the sight.

Amos watched the landmarks of the harbor fall away behind, then he consulted the position of the sun above the harbor. Turning to the first mate, he said, ‘Due west, Mr Rhodes. We make for Sorcerer’s Isle.’

For six days they tacked against the prevailing westerly winds, until the lookout called, ‘Land ho!’

‘Where away?’ shouted Amos.

‘Two points off the starboard bow, Captain! An island!’

Amos nodded. ‘Look for the headlands, Mr Rhodes. There’s a cove to the southwest that we can lie in. Pass word that we’ll only be laying over for a day or so. No one is to leave the ship without permission.’

Rhodes, a laconic man, said, ‘No one’s going to wish to set foot on Sorcerer’s Isle without a direct order, Captain.’

Amos nodded. He knew who lived there now, but old superstitions died hard. For years the abode of Macros the Black, the island was reputed to be the home of demons and other dark spirits. Pug, a magician related to Arutha by adoption whom Amos had met on a number of occasions, had come to live on this island almost nine years before, and for his own reasons made few welcome there. Without thought, Amos said, ‘Pass the word to be alert.’

Looking around, Amos realized that there was no need. Every man on the ship had his eyes fixed upon the spot of land that was growing larger with every passing minute. Amos felt a little stirring of anticipation, for while he knew Pug had requested no visitors, he doubted he would attack a ship flying the Krondorian royal ensign.

Nakor and Ghuda had come up on deck, and the little man rushed to the bow, where Nicholas and Harry were already stationed. Nicholas grinned at the strange little man. He had taken a liking to Nakor, who had proved an entertaining companion on an otherwise dull voyage.

‘Now you’ll see some things,’ said Nakor.

Ghuda said, ‘Look, a castle.’

Upon a promontory, the outlines of a castle could be seen as they drew closer. As they neared, they began to discern details. It was built of black stones, and set upon a rocky finger of land that was separated from the rest of the island by a narrow fissure through which the surf pounded. Across the gap a drawbridge extended, but even with it down, there was little about the place that looked hospitable. A single window, high up in a tower, flashed an ominous blue light.

The ship swung to the south of the rocks that lined the cliff base below the castle, and soon they approached a small inlet. The boys, Ghuda, and Nakor heard Amos call out, ‘Reef all sails! Drop anchor.’

Within minutes the ship had stopped, and Amos came forward. ‘Well, who’s going ashore besides these two?’ he asked, indicating Nakor and Ghuda.

Nicholas said, ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking, Amos – er, Captain.’

Amos seemed to squint with one eye at the boy as he said, ‘Well, then it seems your father was even less forthcoming with you than with me. All he said was I was to heave to at Sorcerer’s Isle for a bit, so you could visit your cousin Pug. I thought you’d know all about this.’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen him since I was very young; I hardly know the man.’

Nakor said, ‘You come.’ He pointed at Harry. ‘You too.’ To Amos he said, ‘You I don’t know about. I think you come also, but I’m not sure. Ghuda comes with me.’

Amos stroked his beard. ‘Arutha said to do as you asked, Nakor, so I’ll tag along.’

‘Good,’ said the little man with a grin. ‘Let’s go. Pug is waiting.’

Harry said, ‘He knows we’re here?’

Ghuda shook his head. ‘No, he’s fast asleep and hasn’t noticed this great ship approaching for the last half day.’

Harry had the decency to blush as Nicholas laughed. Amos turned to his crew, many of whom hung in the rigging, watching the flashing lights of the distant castle, and shouted, ‘Lower a boat!’

The boat ground into the sand and two sailors jumped out and pulled it ashore. Nicholas and Harry climbed out and waded through the ankle-deep water as Nakor, Ghuda, and Amos followed.

Nakor immediately headed for a path that led up to a ridge overlooking the cove. Amos called, ‘Where are you going?’

Nakor kept walking as he turned and said, ‘That way,’ pointing up to the top of the path.

Ghuda looked at the others, shrugged, and began to follow. The boys hesitated an instant, then also started walking up the path.

Amos shook his head and turned to the sailors. ‘Return to the ship. Tell Mr Rhodes to keep a sharp eye out; we’ll signal from here when we want the boat to pick us up.’

The two sailors saluted and pushed the boat back, while the two who were still sitting in it unshipped a pair of oars and started pulling against the breakers. The two at the bow leaped into the boat and soon there were four sailors pulling hard to get back to the relative safety of their ship.

Amos trudged after the other four to find them waiting at the top of the path. Another path diverted from the one that led to the castle, and Nakor started walking down that one.

Amos said, ‘The castle’s over that way, Keshian.’

‘Isalani,’ answered Nakor. ‘Keshians are tall, dark people who run around without most of their clothing. And Pug is this way.’

Ghuda said, ‘Best not to argue with him, Admiral,’ as he followed. The others fell into step and followed Nakor down into a small defile, then upward to another ridge. From the top of the second ridge they could see down into a small vale. It was overgrown with brush and thick with ancient trees. The path seemed to vanish at the edge of the woods at the base of the hill.

Ghuda said, ‘Where are you taking us?’

Nakor almost skipped as he walked, tapping his walking stick on the path. ‘This way. It’s not far.’

The boys hurried along, almost running, and soon were beside the Isalani. ‘Nakor,’ said Nicholas, ‘how do you know Pug is here?’

Nakor shrugged. ‘It’s a trick.’

As they reached the edge of the forest, they encountered daunting-looking undergrowth and trees set so close together that passage seemed impossible. ‘Where now?’ asked Harry.

Nakor grinned. ‘Look.’ He pointed at the path with his staff. ‘Look here. Don’t look up.’

He started walking slowly, turning around so he was moving backward, dragging the point of his staff upon the ground. The boys followed after, keeping their eyes fixed upon the tip of the staff as it stirred dust in the pathway. They moved slowly, and after a moment Nicholas realized that they should now be stuck in heavy undergrowth but in fact the pathway was still clear. ‘Don’t look up,’ said Nakor.

Gloom surrounded them, but they could clearly see the path where the staff touched it. Then suddenly there was light, and Nakor said, ‘You can look now.’

Instead of a heavy forest, they stood before a large rambling estate, with a few well-tended fruit trees around the edges. On the other side of the estate, sheep grazed, and a half-dozen horses ambled across a large meadow. Nicholas looked back and saw Amos and Ghuda glancing about as if lost. Nakor said, ‘They were too slow. I’ll go get them.’

From behind, a voice said, ‘There’s no need.’

Nicholas turned and saw a man in a black robe, slightly shorter than himself, looking at the three with a quizzical expression. The Prince’s eyes widened, for the man could not possibly have been there a moment before. The man moved his hand, and suddenly Amos and Ghuda were staring with eyes wide. ‘I’ve removed the illusion,’ said the man.

Nakor said, ‘I told you: it was a trick.’

The man looked over the two boys and Nakor, then studied Amos and Ghuda as they approached. After a moment his bearded face relaxed and years seem to fall away as he said, ‘Captain Trask! I had no idea.’

Amos strode up to him and stuck out his hand. ‘Pug, it’s good to see you once more.’ As they shook, Amos remarked, ‘You look no different than you did after the Battle of Sethanon!’

There was some humor in Pug’s voice as he said, ‘I’ve been told that. Who are your companions?’

Amos motioned for Nicholas to step forward. ‘I have the pleasure of presenting your cousin Prince Nicholas.’

Pug smiled warmly at the boy and said, ‘Nicky, I haven’t seen you since you were little more than a baby.’

Amos continued, ‘This is Harry of Ludland, his Squire, and these two are Ghuda Bulé and—’

Before he could finish, Nakor said, ‘I am Nakor, the Blue Rider.’

Unexpectedly, Pug laughed aloud. ‘You! I have heard of you.’ With genuine amusement he said, ‘You are all welcome to Villa Beata.’

He motioned for them to follow as he led them toward the strangely designed home. A large central building, white, with a red-tile roof, was surrounded by a low white stone wall, which sheltered a garden of fruit trees and flowers. In the center of the garden, a fountain fashioned of marble in the form of three dolphins sent up a cheerful spray. Off in the distance, they could see outbuildings.

Stepping forward so he walked at Pug’s side, Nicholas said, ‘What is Villa Beata?’

‘This place. In the language of those who built it, it means “blessed home,” or so I was told. And so I have found.’

Amos turned to Nakor and asked him, ‘How did you know not to go to the castle?’

The little man grinned and shrugged. ‘It’s what I would do.’

Pug said over his shoulder, ‘If you had gone to the castle, you would have found it deserted, save for some lively traps in the tallest tower. I find it preserves my privacy to keep alive the legend of the Black Sorcerer. Wards I’ve set there would have alerted me to your trespass, so I would have come to see who called, but you’ve been saved a half day of wasted time.’ Looking at Nakor, he said, ‘We should talk before you leave.’

Nakor nodded vigorously. ‘I like your house. It makes sense.’

Pug nodded in turn.

Reaching the gate through the low wall, he held open the gate for the others, letting them all pass through before he followed after. ‘Be warned, not all my servants are human, and some may startle you. But none here will do you harm.’

As if illustrating this point, a tall creature appeared at the main entrance of the house. Ghuda’s sword was half out of his scabbard before he remembered himself and put it away. The creature appeared to be a goblin, though taller than any Ghuda had ever seen. Goblins were usually smaller than men, but not by much. This creature’s blue-green-tinged skin was smooth, and his eyes were huge and round, with black irises on yellow. He also possessed a finer cast of features than any goblin Ghuda had fought, though he did have the heavy brow ridge and comically large nose common to goblin kind. But his clothing was of fine weave and cut and he carried himself with an air that could only be called dignified. He smiled, showing long teeth that came close to being fangs. He executed a courtly bow and said, ‘Master Pug, refreshments are ready.’

Pug said, ‘This is Gathis, who acts as seneschal of my house. He will provide for your comforts.’ Looking skyward, he said, ‘I think our guests will dine and spend the night. Make rooms ready.’ Turning to the five visitors, he said, ‘We have ample room, and I think a relaxed evening would be appropriate.’ He added to Nicholas, ‘Highness, you do resemble your father at your age.’

Nicholas said, ‘You knew my father when he was my age?’

The youthful-looking Pug nodded. ‘Well. I shall tell you of it sometime.’ To the entire party he said, ‘Come. Refresh yourselves. I must see to some matters of urgency, but I will join you after you have rested.’ So saying, he vanished through the door to the house, leaving them in the care of Gathis.

The odd-looking creature spoke with a sibilance due in the main to a large assortment of teeth, but his words were courtly. ‘If you have any needs, gentlemen, please inform me and I shall endeavour to meet them at once. Please, come this way.’

He led them into a spacious entry hall, facing a large set of doors opening upon a very large central garden. To the right and left, corridors stretched away. He led them to the left, down to the first corner, then to the right. A portico extended from a door on their left, connecting another large building to the main one. Leading them to the next building, Gathis said, ‘These are the guest quarters, gentlemen.’

Ghuda again almost had his sword out as a troll came ambling out through the doorway, carrying a large bundle of linens. The creature wore a simple tunic and trousers, but it was without a doubt a troll: humanlike in form, short, with tremendously broad shoulders and arms hanging nearly to the ground. The face was apelike, with large fangs protruding over the lower lip, and deep black eyes set back under a massive brow ridge. Without any fuss, the creature moved to the side and bowed slightly to the guests, letting them pass.

Gathis said, ‘That is Solunk, who is the porter here. If you need fresh towels or hot water, pull the bell cord and he will answer. He cannot speak your Kingdom tongue, but he understands it enough to answer your requests. If you should have any needs he cannot understand, he will fetch me.’ He showed them all to rooms in the building, and left each to himself.

Nicholas found himself in a well-appointed if not overly ornate room. A simple bed with thick comforter dominated one corner, beneath a large window looking out at the smaller buildings behind the great house. He glanced through and saw a man and another creature, similar to Gathis but not as large, carrying firewood into what appeared to be a cookhouse.

Nicholas turned to examine the other contents of the room, a simple writing desk with a chair, a large wardrobe, and a chest. Opening the chest, he saw fresh linens, while the wardrobe revealed a small array of clothing of varying cut, color, and weave, and several sizes, as if any number of guests might have left one or two items behind.

There was a knock at the door and Nicholas opened it to find Solunk, the troll, standing before the portal. He motioned to a large metal tub two men carried, and then to Nicholas. The boy understood and nodded, opening the door wide. The two men entered, and Nicholas couldn’t help but stare. Both were dressed only in red trousers, and their skin was black, but unlike the dark-skinned people of Krondor and Kesh, these men were not merely dark. They were black as if their bodies had been painted with lampblack or paint. They also showed no hair upon their heads and faces, and their eyes were a startling pale blue, with no visible white, against the sooty skin.

They set the tub down in the center of the room and left. The troll opened the wardrobe and without hesitation selected a pair of trousers and a tunic that appeared the proper size for Nicholas. He then rooted around in the chest, beneath the linens, and produced a pair of under-trousers and hose. The two men of unusual color returned with large buckets and filled the tub with hot water, leaving a towel, brush, and a bar of scented soap.

The troll made an inquiring noise and pantomimed scrubbing Nicholas’s back. Nicholas said, ‘No, thank you. I can manage.’

With a satisfied-sounding grunt, the troll motioned for the others to leave and followed them out, closing the door behind.

Nicholas shook his head in silent amazement, then stripped off his very dirty clothing and got in the tub. The water was hot, but not too hot, and he lowered himself gently into it. When he was sitting, he indulged himself in a long sigh and leaned back. He savored the luxury of the hot bath after a week in the close quarters aboard ship. From down the hall he could hear Harry singing to himself as he began to bathe and decided he should get on with scrubbing himself before the water cooled too much. Shortly he was covered with lather and softly humming a countermelody to Harry’s more rambunctious vocalizing.

After a long, refreshing bath, Nicholas dressed and found the clothing laid out for him to fit almost as well as his own. He pulled on his boots and left the room. The hall was empty and he thought about disturbing the others; Harry still filled the air with his less than stunning voice.

He decided to wander a bit and explore. He entered the main house, passing through the main hallway, and turned through a doorway into the central garden. Like the one before the house, this garden was dominated by fruit trees and flowers, with small paths crossing from four central doors of the square, forming a cross. At the intersection of the two paths was set a fountain similar to the one before the house, and nearby was a small white stone bench. Pug sat there, speaking with a woman.

As he approached, Nicholas saw Pug look up and rise. ‘Highness, I have the pleasure of presenting a friend, the Lady Ryana.’ Turning to his companion, he said, ‘Ryana, this is Prince Nicholas, son of Arutha of Krondor.’

The woman rose and curtsied with precision, startling green eyes fixed upon the boy. Her age was unguessable, being somewhere between the late teens and early thirties; her features were finely chiseled, ‘aristocratic’ being the only word that Nicholas could think of; in her presence he felt that he was the lowborn and she the noble. But beautiful as she was, there was something in her manner and movement that could only be called alien: her hair was not blond but truly gold and her skin was ivory, yet almost glinted in the sunlight. Nicholas hesitated a moment, then bowed correctly, saying, ‘M’lady.’

Pug said, ‘Ryana is the daughter of an old friend, come to study awhile with me.’

‘Study?’

Pug nodded, indicating that Nicholas should sit where he had, while Pug sat upon the edge of the fountain. ‘Many of those here are servants or friends, but some are also students of mine.’

Nicholas said, ‘I thought you had built the academy at Stardock as a place of study.’

Pug smiled slightly, and there was a hint of irony in his voice as he said, ‘The academy is like most other human institutions, Nicholas, which means that as time passes, it will become more set in its ways, more concerned with “tradition,” and less willing to grow. I’ve seen firsthand the results of such attitudes, and don’t wish to see them repeated. But I have a limited influence at Stardock. It’s been seven years since my last visit, and eight since I lived among the magicians there. I left soon after my wife died.’ He looked at the sky, lost in thought. ‘My old friends Kulgan and Meecham are gone as well. My children have grown and are married. No, there are few at Stardock I feel compelled to visit.’

He waved his hand in an encompassing gesture. ‘Here I will take any who is worthy, and some are from other worlds. I doubt some you’ve already met would be welcome down there.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I guess.’ Attempting to be polite, he spoke to Ryana, ‘M’lady, are you from one of those distant worlds?’

Her voice carried alien notes. ‘No, I was born near here, Highness.’

Nicholas felt his skin crawl for reasons he could not put voice to. The woman was unusually beautiful by any standard, yet it was a beauty of another kind, something he could not be touched by. He smiled, for he could not think of another polite thing to say.

Pug seemed to sense his discomfort, so he said, ‘What do I owe the pleasure of this visit to, Nicholas? I was rather pointed in my request to your father that I be left undisturbed here.’

Nicholas blushed. ‘I really don’t know, Pug. Father said Nakor insisted, and for some reason Father felt compelled to honor his request. I’m on my way to Martin’s court at Crydee, to squire there for a while and … I guess get hardened on the frontier.’

Pug smiled, and again Nicholas felt calmed by the smile. ‘Well, it’s rough compared to Krondor, but Crydee is hardly the frontier. The town is twice the size it was when I was a boy, I have been told. And the Jonril garrison is now a major town. There’s a growing duchy out there. I think you’ll like it.’

Nicholas smiled and said, ‘I hope so,’ without a great deal of conviction. He attempted to keep his expression even, but for the last couple of days he had been visited by an unexpected homesickness. The novelty of the journey had worn off, and now the tedious voyage, with nothing to do but sit in his cabin or pace the deck, was taking its toll.

‘How are things at your father’s court?’ asked Pug.

Nicholas said, ‘Quiet. And busy. The usual. No wars or plagues or other crisis, if that’s what you mean.’ Looking at Pug’s face, he saw a questioning look. Nodding, Nicholas said, ‘Your son is now Knight-Marshal of Krondor.’

Pug nodded, his expression thoughtful. ‘William and I had a falling out over his choice to be a soldier. He has some strange and powerful gifts.’

Nicholas said, ‘Father told me something about it, but I’m not sure I understand.’

Pug’s smile returned. ‘I’m not sure I do, either, Nicholas. For all my skills, being a father – at least with William – may have been a little beyond me. I insisted he study at Stardock and he would have none of it.’ Pug shook his head and his expression turned rueful. ‘I was very demanding, and he left without my leave. Arutha gave him a commission because of his being a cousin. I’m glad to see he’s made something of himself.’

‘You should go see him,’ Nicholas said.

Pug smiled again. ‘Perhaps.’

Nicholas said, ‘I wanted to ask you something. Everyone calls William “Cousin Willie,” and I’ve heard you also referred to as a cousin. But I know my grandfather Borric had only three sons and no nephews …?’ He shrugged.

Pug said, ‘I did your grandfather some service when I was part of his household. I was an orphan boy, and when he thought me lost, he added my name to the family archives in Rillanon. As I was not formally adopted as his son, the King couldn’t refer to me as a brother, so “cousin” seemed appropriate. I don’t speak of such things – no one here is concerned over matters of patents and titles – but I am considered a prince of one sort or another in the Kingdom.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘Well, Highness, the other news is that your daughter has given birth to her third child.’

Pug’s smile broadened. ‘A boy?’

Nicholas said, ‘At last. Uncle Jimmy loves his two girls, but he really wanted a son this time.’

Pug said, ‘I’ve not seen them since their wedding. Perhaps I am overdue at Rillanon for a family visit, if only to see my grandchildren.’ He looked at Nicholas with a friendly expression. ‘I’ll think about a visit to your father’s court on the way, and perhaps a stubborn father and his equally stubborn son can find something to say to each other.’

Nakor and Ghuda appeared at the entrance to the garden, the fighter wearing a finely bordered shirt of silk and balloon trousers tucked into his battered old boots. His bastard-sword had been left in his room, but his dirks were prominently evident. The little gambler wore a short robe of bright orange, which looked garish to Nicholas, but which seemed to delight him. He hurried forward and bowed to Pug. ‘Thank you for the fine robe.’

He caught sight of Ryana, and his eyes widened as his mouth opened in an O of amazement. He quickly spoke a few phrases in a language unknown to Nicholas. The woman’s green eyes widened, and she regarded Pug with an expression that Nicholas could only call alarm. Something the little man said had frightened her badly.

Pug held up one finger to his lips in the gesture for silence, and Nakor glanced at Ghuda and Nicholas. With an embarrassed laugh, he said, ‘Sorry.’

Nicholas looked at Ghuda, who said, ‘I never ask.’

Pug said, ‘Amos and Harry should be here soon. We can move to the dining room.’

The dining room turned out to be a large square room on the side of the central building farthest from the guest quarters. In the middle was a low, square table, with cushions on all sides. Pug spoke as Amos and Harry entered. ‘I prefer eating in the Tsurani fashion; I hope you don’t mind.’

Amos said, ‘As long as it’s food, I’ll stand if I must.’ Seeing Ryana, he halted, while Pug made introductions.

Harry couldn’t tear his eyes from the woman, almost falling over a cushion as he came to Nicholas’s side. Sitting next to the Prince, he whispered, ‘Who is that?’

Nicholas spoke softly. ‘A sorceress, or at least a student of Pug’s. And don’t whisper; it’s impolite.’

Harry flushed and fell silent as the two odd black men entered, carrying platters of food. They quickly set plates before everyone and left, returning a moment later with cups of wine.

As dinner was served, Pug said. ‘I’m out of practice entertaining, so I apologize should you find anything lacking.’

Amos spoke on everyone’s behalf. ‘We gave no warning of our approach, so nothing you offered would be lacking.’

Pug said, ‘You are kind, Admiral.’

Nicholas said, ‘I thought Father had some means to contact you.’

Pug said, ‘In an emergency only, Highness, and then only at great need. He has not needed to use the device I gave him. The Kingdom has been peaceful since I left.’

Conversation turned to gossip from court and other trivialities. Nakor was unusually silent, as was the Lady Ryana. Pug was a convivial host, able to draw the two boys into the conversation without making it obvious.

Both Nicholas and Harry had been drinking wine with dinner since they were old enough to sit at their parents’ tables, but as with most noble children, theirs had been diluted with water. Tonight they were drinking a full-bodied Keshian red, and after two cups, both boys were in a celebratory mood, laughing loudly at two stories they had heard Amos tell many times before.

As Amos started telling his third tale of adventure and wonder, Pug said, ‘If you will excuse me for a moment. Nakor, might I have a word in private with you?’

The little Isalani jumped to his feet and hurried toward the door Pug had indicated. They entered another of the many gardens on the property, and Pug said, ‘I have been told that this visit was your idea?’

Nakor said, ‘I never expected to meet …’

Pug said, ‘How did you know?’

The Isalani shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just know.’

Pug halted next to a low bench and said, ‘Who are you?’

Nakor sat upon the bench, pulling his feet under him. ‘A man. I know things. I do tricks.’

Pug studied him in silence for a long moment. Sitting upon the edge of a reflecting pool, he said at last, ‘Ryana’s people have come to trust me. She is the daughter of one I knew twenty years ago. They are among the last of their race, and most men think them legends.’

‘I saw one once,’ said the unabashed little man. ‘I was traveling the road from Toowomba to Injune, in the mountains. At sunset I saw one off in the distance, resting upon the peak of a mountain, in the sunlight. I thought it odd that he should be sitting there alone, but then I considered he might think it odd that I was also there alone; so, it being a matter of perspective, I decided not to disturb his meditations. But I watched him for a few minutes. He was a thing of beauty, like your Lady Ryana.’ He shook his head. ‘Wonderful creatures. Some men count them gods, I have been told. I would like to talk to one.’

Pug said, ‘Ryana is young, just having come to intelligence after years of living as a wild creature, in the fashion of her race; she is barely able to understand her own nature or her new power. It’s better if we limit her contact with humans for a while.’

Nakor shrugged. ‘If you say. I have seen her. That is enough, perhaps.’

Pug smiled. ‘You are a rare man.’

Nakor shrugged again. ‘I choose not to become upset about things I have no control over.’

‘Why the visit, Nakor?’

The man’s usually grinning visage took on a somber expression. ‘Two reasons. I wished to meet you, for it was your words that brought me to Stardock.’

‘My words?’

‘Once you told a man named James that should he meet someone like me, he should say, “There is no magic.”’ Pug nodded. ‘So when he said this thing to me, I went to Stardock, to find you. You were gone, but I stayed there awhile. I found many serious men who did not understand that magic is only tricks.’

Pug found himself grinning. ‘I’ve heard you were a bit of a shock to Watum and Korsh.’

Nakor’s grin returned to match Pug’s. ‘They are fussy men, who take their school much too seriously. I moved among the students and recruited many to my point of view. They call themselves the Blue Riders in my honor and are united to resist the insular notions of those two old ladies you left in charge.’

Pug laughed. ‘The brothers Korsh and Watum were my most apt students. I don’t think they’d appreciate your calling them old ladies.’

Nakor said, ‘They didn’t. But they act like them. “Don’t tell this; don’t share that.” They just don’t understand that there is no magic’

Pug sighed. ‘When I looked at what ten years of work had brought forth at Stardock, I saw a repeat of the past, another Assembly of Great Ones, such as I knew upon the world of Kelewan: a band of men pledged to nothing but their own power and greatness, at the expense of others.’

Nakor nodded. ‘They like being mysterious and pretending they’re important.’

Pug laughed. ‘Oh, had you visited me upon Kelewan, so many years past, you would have said worse about me.’

I’ve met some of your Great Ones,’ answered Nakor. ‘The rift gate still operates, and we still trade with the Empire. Tsurani goods come through and we send back metals. The Mistress of the Empire is a shrewd negotiator, and everyone stays happy on both sides. From time to time a Tsurani Great One visits. And some alien magicians from Chakahar. Did you not know?’

Pug shook his head and sighed. ‘If cho-ja magicians from Chakahar are at Stardock, then the Assembly’s control over the Empire has been ended.’ His eyes misted over and he said, ‘There are things I thought I would never see in my days, Nakor. The end of that tradition was foremost among them – much of what gave the Assembly its power was based on fear and lies: lies about magicians, lies about the Empire, and lies about those outside the Empire’s borders.’

Nakor seemed to understand Pug’s words. ‘Lies can live a long time. But not forever. You should return and visit.’

Pug shook his head, not certain if the little man meant Kelewan or Stardock. ‘For nearly nine years I have put my past behind me. My children now look of an age with me, and soon will look older. I’ve seen my wife die, and my teachers. Old friends on two worlds have traveled into death’s hall. I have no wish to watch my children grow old.’ Pug stood and paced a bit. ‘I do not know if I was wise, Nakor, only that I feared that more than anything.’

Nakor nodded. ‘We are alike, in some ways.’

Pug turned and stared at the little man. ‘In what ways?’

Nakor grinned. ‘I have lived three times the normal span of a man. My birth was recorded in the census of Kesh in the time of the Emperor Sajanjaro, great-grandfather of the wife of Emperor Diiagái. I saw the Empress, his wife’s mother, nine years ago. She was an old woman who had ruled for more than forty years. I remember when she was a baby, and I was then as you see me now.’ Nakor sighed. ‘I have never been a man to trust others, perhaps because of my trade.’ He produced a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere and fanned it with one hand; then, with a flick of his wrist, the cards vanished. ‘But I understand what you say. No one I knew as a child lives today.’

Pug sat again on the fountain and asked, ‘Why else have you come?’

Nakor said, ‘I see things. I do not know how, but there are moments when I know. Nicholas is upon a voyage that will take him far beyond Crydee. And there is to be much danger in the boy’s future.’

Pug was silent for a long time, thinking about what the small man had said. Finally he said, ‘What must I do to help?’

Nakor shook his head. ‘I am not a wise man by nature. I have been called a frivolous man – by Watum and Korsh, and by Ghuda most recently.’ Pug smiled at that. ‘I do not understand my abilities, sometimes.’ He sighed. ‘You are a man of great gifts and attainments, by all accounts. You live among creatures of wonder and do not think it strange. I saw the work you left behind at Stardock, and it is impressive. For me to advise you is presumptuous.’

‘Presumptuous or not, advise.’

Nakor bit his lower lip as he thought. ‘I think the boy is a nexus.’ Waving his hand in a vague circle, he said, ‘Dark forces move and they will be drawn to him. Nothing we do can change this; we must be ready to aid him.’

Pug was silent for a long time. At last he said, ‘Nearly thirty years ago, Nicholas’s father was such a nexus, for his death would have been a victory for dark forces.’

‘The serpent people.’

Pug looked astonished at the remark.

Nakor shrugged. ‘I heard of the Battle of Sethanon long after it was over. But there was one rumor that I found interesting, that the leader of those invading your Kingdom had a Pantathian mystic as an adviser.’

‘You know of the Pantathians?’

‘I have run across the serpent priests before,’ Nakor said with a shrug. ‘I assume that whatever your dark elves of the north may have thought, it was the Pantathians who were behind the entire mess, but beyond that I don’t understand much of what occurred.’

Pug said, ‘You would be even more surprising than you are if you had understood, Nakor.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. I shall help Nicholas.’

Nakor rose. ‘We should go to bed. You would like us to leave tomorrow.’

Pug smiled. ‘You I would like to stay. I think you could be a valuable addition to our community, but I understand what it is to be drawn to one’s fate.’

Nakor’s expression darkened, and he looked as serious as Pug had seen him since meeting him. ‘Of this company, five shall cross the waters, with four more we have yet to meet.’ His eyes grew unfocused as if seeing something distant. ‘Nine shall depart, and some shall not return.’

Pug looked worried. ‘Do you know who?’

Nakor said, ‘I am one of the nine. No man may know his own fate.’

Pug said, ‘You never met Macros the Black.’

Nakor grinned, and suddenly the mood was lighter again. ‘I did once, but that is a long story.’

Pug stood. ‘We must return to my guests. I would like to hear that tale sometime.’

‘What of the boy?’ asked Nakor.

Pug said, ‘For the reasons I have just given you, I am not pleased with the prospect of becoming involved with any mortal, even if they are counted kin.’ He shook his head as if irritated. ‘But I cannot abandon those for whom I profess affection. I will help the boy when the time comes.’

Nakor said, ‘Good. This is why I told his father we had to come here.’

Pug said, ‘You are indeed an unusual man, Nakor the Blue Rider.’

Nakor laughed and nodded in agreement.

They came back into the dining hall and found Amos finishing another of his tall tales, to the delight of Ghuda and Nicholas. Ryana seemed perplexed, and Harry oblivious to it, as he was completely enraptured by her.

Pug called for coffee and a fortified wine, and the discussion turned again to mundane matters of common gossip in Krondor. After a short while, yawns gave evidence that the guests were ready to retire.

Pug bade his guests good night and gave his hand to the Lady Ryana, whom he escorted from the hall. Nicholas and his companions rose and made their way back to their own rooms. Nicholas discovered the bedding turned down and candles lit upon the night tables. Across the foot of the bed a nightshirt had been provided for his comfort.

Nicholas turned in and had just fallen asleep when a hand shook him. He came awake with his heart pounding, to find Harry leaning over him. The boy was wearing a nightshirt similar to his own.

‘What?’ he asked groggily.

‘You won’t believe this. Come on!’

Nicholas jumped out of bed and followed Harry back to his own room at the far end of the hallway. Harry said, ‘I was almost asleep when I heard a strange sound.’

He motioned for Nicholas to come to the window and said, ‘Be quiet.’

Nicholas looked out Harry’s window and saw the Lady Ryana standing in the distant meadow. Harry said, ‘She was making these really strange noises, like chanting or singing, but not quite.’ There was no mistaking the golden hair, almost aglow in the light from two of Midkemia’s moons. Nicholas’s mouth almost fell open. ‘She’s nude!’

Harry stared. ‘She had clothes on a moment ago, honestly!’ The lady was indeed without clothing and seemed in some sort of a trance. Harry whistled softly. ‘What’s she doing?’

Nicholas suppressed a shiver. Despite the astonishing beauty of the woman in the meadow, there was nothing remotely titillating or erotic about her appearance. He felt uneasy. Not only did he feel as if he was intruding, he felt a sense of danger.

Harry said, ‘I’ve heard tales of witches mating with demons in the moonlight.’

Nicholas said, ‘Look!’

A golden nimbus of light gathered around the woman and soon became blinding. The boys were forced to avert their eyes as the light grew in intensity. For long moments the night seemed broken by a beam of sunlight, then it started to fade. They looked again and the light had expanded to many times the size of the woman. As large as a house, then as large as Amos’s ship, the envelope of light grew, and inside, something took shape. Then the light faded, and where the Lady Ryana had stood, now a mighty creature of legend spread wings a hundred yards across. Golden scales gleamed with silver highlights in the moons’ light, and a long neck with silver crest extended, as the reptilian head looked skyward. Then with a leap, a snap of the giant wings, and a small blast of flame, the dragon lifted into the sky.

Harry gripped Nicholas hard enough to raise a bruise, but neither boy could move. When she had vanished into the sky, the boys turned to regard each other. Both had tears running down their faces, in mixed fear and awe. The great dragons were not real. There were smaller flying reptiles called dragons, but they were merely flying wyverns with no intelligence. None lived in the Western Realm, but rumor had them common in the western mountains of Kesh. But the golden dragons who could speak and work magic did not exist. They were creatures of myth, yet there, in the moonlight, the boys had seen a woman they had dined with transform herself into the most majestic creature to fly the skies of Midkemia.

Nicholas could not stop the tears, so moved was he by the sight. Harry at last gathered his wits and said, ‘Should we wake Amos?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Never tell anyone. Do you understand?’

Harry nodded, with no hint of his usual braggadocio, looking like nothing more than a scared little boy. ‘I won’t.’

Nicholas left his friend and returned to his own room. He entered and his heart almost seized up as he discovered Pug sitting upon his bed.

‘Close the door.’

Nicholas complied and Pug said, ‘Ryana could not long live on the meager food she could eat at supper and maintain her pretense. She will hunt for the next few hours.’

Nicholas’s face was pale. For the first time in his life he felt far from home and the comfort of his father’s protection and his mother’s love. He knew Pug was considered a family member, but he was also a magician of mighty arts, and Nicholas had seen something not meant for him to see. ‘I won’t say anything,’ he whispered.

Pug smiled. ‘I know. Sit down.’

Nicholas sat down next to Pug on the bed, and Pug said, ‘Give me your foot.’

Nicholas didn’t have to ask which one and lifted his left leg so that Pug could examine the deformed foot. Pug studied it for several moments, then said, ‘Years ago, your father asked me if I could mend your foot. Did he tell you?’

Nicholas shook his head. He still was frightened enough by what he had just witnessed that he didn’t trust his voice not to break if he spoke.

Pug studied the boy. ‘At the time I had heard of this deformity, and of the efforts to correct it.’

Nicholas whispered, ‘Many tried.’

‘I know.’ Pug stood and walked to the window, looking out at the clear night brilliant with stars. Turning back toward Nicholas, he said, ‘I told Arutha that I could not. That was not true.’

Nicholas asked, ‘Why?’

Pug said, ‘Because no matter how much your father loves you, Nicholas – and Arutha loves his children deeply, no matter how difficult it is for him to show it – no parent has the right to change a child’s nature.’

Nicholas said, ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ The fear within was subsiding, and the boy asked, ‘Why would healing me be wrong?’

Pug said, ‘I don’t know if I can make you understand yet, Nicholas.’ He returned and sat next to the boy. ‘We each of us have it within to make ourselves over, if we choose to do so. Most of us not only do not try, but don’t even acknowledge that ability to ourselves.

‘By any understanding of magic I possess, the healing used upon you when you were young should have worked. Something prevented those spells from being effective.’

Nicholas frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying I wasn’t letting them heal me?’

Pug nodded. ‘Something like that. But it’s not quite so simple.’

Nicholas said, ‘I would give anything to be normal.’

Pug stood. ‘Would you?’

Nicholas was silent for a long moment, then said, ‘I think I would.’

Pug smiled, his manner reassuring. ‘Go to sleep, Nicholas.’ He withdrew something from a large pocket in his robe and placed it upon the night table. ‘This amulet is a gift. It is much like one I gave your father. Should you need me for anything, grip it tightly in your right hand while you wear it, and say my name three times. I will come.’

Nicholas picked up the amulet and saw it bore the symbol of the three dolphins he had seen in the fountains around the magician’s estate. ‘Why?’

Pug’s smile broadened. ‘Because I’m a cousin, and a friend. And in days to come, you may need both. And because I’m letting you and your friend keep a trust.’

‘The Lady Ryana.’

‘She is very young, and foolish to be seen so. In her race, the first stages of life are spent with little more thought than that of common animals. Every ten years the dragon hides in a cave to shed its skin, emerging a different color each time. Not a few perish during that time, for molting in the dark, they are helpless. Only those that live the longest span, surviving many human lifetimes, emerge with a golden skin and awareness. When intelligence at last comes, it is an unsettling thing. The sudden consciousness of self, and the sense of a larger universe, to a creature that is already old by human standards is a very great shock. In ancient times, others of her race would teach her.’ Pug opened the door. ‘There are few of the greater dragons left. Ryana’s mother once aided me on a quest, so I help the child. It would not be wise to let men know that among them walk those who are not men.’

Nicholas said, ‘Father has told me that over time there will be many things I shall learn that I cannot tell others about. I understand.’

Pug said nothing more as he closed the door. Nicholas lay back upon the bed, but sleep was a long time coming.

• CHAPTER THREE •
Crydee

THE SHIP DROPPED ANCHOR.

Crydee bustled with midday activity as the dock crew made the Royal Eagle secure. Nicholas examined his new home, drinking in the novelty of it. His bouts of homesickness had returned during the long voyage, only vanishing while passing through the dangerous Straits of Darkness, which had taken an eventful day and a half. Then northward past Tulan and Carse, and now to Crydee.

The town had grown in the last twenty years, with signs of expansion everywhere. As they had sailed northward, Amos had pointed out where a fishing village had grown up south of the promontory he named Sailor’s Grief. New buildings were visible high upon a distant hillside to the southeast as the ship entered the harbor. Nicholas squinted against the bright sun reflected off the white façades of the buildings. He saw two carriages and a pair of wagons draw up and halt before a building bedecked by a large royal standard, which proclaimed it the customs house. Servants sitting atop the rear of the carriages leaped from their stations and opened the doors. From the first emerged a tall woman, followed by a taller man. Nicholas recognized them as his aunt and uncle. A flurry of activity followed as the other vehicles came to a halt.

Amos ordered the gangway run out. Nicholas and Harry stood nearby waiting to disembark. Duke Martin, Duchess Briana, and their court stood ready to welcome the Royal Prince and his companions. Amos saw the reception below and said, ‘Well, we know at least one pigeon made it from Ylith.’

For the twenty-eight years since the Riftwar, a relay of messengers between Krondor and the Far Coast had been kept intact, including fast horses and carrier pigeons. With the sudden decision to sent Nicholas made only the day before he departed, word of his impending arrival reached Crydee just days before they came into sight of the harbor.

As the sailors made ready, Harry said, ‘Who are those girls?’

Nicholas had noticed the two young girls who had accompanied the Duke and said, ‘I expect one of them is my cousin Margaret. I don’t know who the other one is.’

Harry grinned. ‘I’ll find out.’

When the gangway was out, Amos turned to Nicholas and formally said, ‘Your Highness?’ – indicating that Nicholas was expected to be the first one off the ship.

Harry stepped forward, to discover Amos’s hand planted firmly on his chest. ‘By rank, Squire,’ he said pointedly.

Harry blushed and took a step back.

Nicholas descended to the quay and a tall man stepped forward. Martin, Duke of Crydee, smiled warmly as he bowed to his nephew. ‘Your Highness, we are most pleased to welcome you to Crydee.’ Martin resembled Arutha slightly, but was taller and heavier. His hair was nearly all grey, and his face was lined by sun and age, yet there was an air of strength about him that was clear for anyone to see. This was no sedentary noble who spent his days drinking wine and issuing orders to servants. This was a man who despite his age still spend nights sleeping on the ground under star-filled skies and who carried game home upon his back.

Nicholas smiled, a little embarrassed at the ceremony, and said, ‘Uncle, I am pleased to be here.’

Amos was second off the ship, and said, ‘Your Grace,’ as he clapped Martin roughly on the shoulder.

All formality evaporated as Martin threw his arms around Amos. ‘You old pirate,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s been too many years.’ They slapped each other on the back and shook hands. Amos inclined his head toward Nicholas.

Martin returned his attention to the Prince. ‘Your Highness. May I present my wife, the Duchess Briana.’ Nicholas had not seen her since he was a toddler, and his memories of her were vague. It was like meeting her for the first time. A tall woman inclined her head toward Nicholas. Her hair, grey with a startling white streak at the left temple, flowed back from a high brow. There was nothing pretty about the Duchess, but she was a striking woman. Blue eyes set with lines from weather and age regarded the Prince from a face otherwise free of any mark of aging, though she was past fifty. She wore a very practical-looking outfit of leather vest over a silk shirt and trousers tucked into high boots. ‘M’lady,’ said Nicholas, taking her extended hand and squeezing it slightly in greeting. The grip he received was strong, and Nicholas knew the tales of his uncle’s strange lady were mostly true. From the fallen city of Armengar – where women were soldiers alongside the men – Lady Briana could ride, hunt, and fight better than most men, from all reports. Looking at her, Nicholas didn’t doubt it.

Martin continued the introductions. ‘This is my son, Marcus.’ Nicholas turned to his cousin and hesitated; there was something vaguely familiar about him. Brown eyes and brown hair: Nicholas judged he must resemble someone back in Krondor. The same height as Nicholas, Marcus wore his hair the same length as the Prince. But Marcus was almost two years senior to Nicholas and slightly heavier in build. Marcus gave Nicholas a stiff bow and stepped back.

Nicholas said, ‘Cousin,’ and nodded.

Amos came up to stand behind Nicholas and said to Martin, ‘Remember when I first gleaned that you were Arutha’s brother?’

Martin said, ‘How could I forget? That was my first voyage, and you almost drowned us all.’

‘Saved your worthless skin with my masterful sailing, you mean,’ answered Amos. Waving a hand at Nicholas and Marcus, he said, ‘But if the world ever needed proof of your parentage, there it stands revealed.’ He stroked his chin. ‘I think we’ll have to paint one of them green so we can tell them apart.’

Nicholas looked at Amos in confusion, but Marcus’s face was an unreadable mask. Amos said, ‘The resemblance.’

Nicholas said, ‘What resemblance?’

‘To each other,’ answered the admiral.

Nicholas turned to regard his cousin. ‘Do you think …?’

Marcus shook his head slightly. ‘I don’t see it … Highness.’

Amos laughed and said, ‘You never will.’

Martin continued the introductions. ‘Highness, this is my daughter, Margaret.’

One of the two young girls curtsied. Her hair was dark like her brother’s, but she resembled her mother. Nature had given her a straight nose and high cheekbones, but with a less severe cast than Briana’s. She wore her hair long to her shoulders, like her mother, without any adornment. Dark eyes glanced up at the Prince as he said, ‘A pleasure, cousin.’ She smiled at the greeting, and instantly she was lovely.

Nicholas’s gaze drifted to the young woman at Margaret’s side, and he felt his chest tighten. Cornflower-blue eyes that seemed the largest he had ever encountered regarded him. Suddenly he felt clumsy and unsure of himself. Margaret said, ‘This is my companion, the Lady Abigail, daughter of Baron Bellamy of Carse.’ The slender girl curtsied and Nicholas was certain he had never seen anyone do it so gracefully. Unlike Margaret, Abigail had her blond hair gathered up in a silver circlet behind her head, where it cascaded in ringlets. Her skin was pale and clear and her features delicate. She smiled as she arose from her curtsy, and Nicholas couldn’t help but smile back. After a moment the smile became a silly grin.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him brought Nicholas from his trance. He said, ‘M’lady,’ and his voice sounded strained in his own ears. Nicholas turned back toward Martin and said, ‘This is Harry, my Squire,’ as his companion came down the gangway, carrying Nicholas’s and his own travel bags. The boy dropped them on the ground and bowed before the Duke of Crydee. Seeing the Princess and her companion, he grinned broadly.

Martin indicated that Nicholas should ride in the first carriage with himself and his lady. Harry began to walk after them, when Amos’s hand again descended and gripped him by the shoulder. ‘The first carriage is for the Prince, the Duke, and the Duchess. The second is for myself and the Duke’s children.’

Harry said, ‘But –’

Amos pointed to the wagons. ‘You can make sure your Prince’s luggage is in order as it’s unloaded and packed on yon wagons. Then you can ride one of them when you’re done.’

Nakor and Ghuda came down the gangplank and Harry said, ‘What about them?’

Nakor grinned. ‘We’ll walk. It’s not that far.’ He pointed to the castle on the hill overlooking the harbor.

Ghuda said, ‘I could use a little stretch.’

Harry sighed and took the two bags over to the first wagon. A drover said, ‘Here, boy, what’s this?’

Harry was in an ill temper and snapped, ‘Prince of Krondor’s baggage! I’m his Squire!’

The man made a lazy salute as he continued to lean against the wagon and said, ‘Then where will you be wanting that lot, Squire?’ He pointed.

Harry turned and saw the first load of luggage coming off the ship, as a pair of sailors carried one of Nicholas’s heavy trunks down the gangway. It was followed by three more like it. As the creak of wood and the hum of ropes filled the air, a large cargo net from deep within the ship’s hole rose majestically into view. Another dozen trunks and other assorted baggage was hauled over the side and lowered to the quay. Dock hands jumped to and began unfastening the net.

The drover said, ‘And I suppose you know where that lot’s to go, Squire?’

With a sign of resignation, Harry reached back into the wagon and pulled out the two bags that had been his and Nicholas’s source of clothing and personal items for the weeks they had been aboard ship. Obviously, they would be among the last pieces to be loaded. Shaking his head, Harry said, ‘And I’m supposed to supervise?’

With a knowing wink, the drover pushed himself away from the wagon. ‘It’ll go faster and be easier on us all, Squire, if you do your supervising from over there.’ He pointed to a doorway a dozen yards off. ‘Nice ale, good meat pies, and you can supervise through the window.’

Harry’s mouth watered at the thought of meat pies after the ship’s plain fare. But he said, ‘No, I have my duty.’

The drover shook his head. ‘Then do us both a favor, Squire, and supervise real quiet-like, if you catch my drift.’

Harry nodded and moved out of the way as the first pair of trunks were carried over to the wagon. He found himself a shady patch under the overhanging roof of the customs house and leaned against the wall. Glancing up the hill, he could see that Ghuda and Nakor were already leaving the dock area and walking up the broad street that ran through the town to the castle. They would most likely be in the castle a hour before Harry. Muttering to himself, Harry said, ‘I thought this was going to be interesting.’

As the first carriage rolled into the castle courtyard, two rows of soldiers snapped to attention. Each wore the brown and gold tabard of Crydee and carried a shield with the golden sea gull of Crydee upon a brown field, and from each halberd a brown and golden pennant hung. Their armor shone in the sun. As a coachman opened the door and Nicholas stepped out, a short, bandy-legged man with grey hair and a leathery face shouted, ‘Salute!’ At once the soldiers snapped to attention. The halberds dipped, and after a moment the company of soldiers pulled them back. Martin and the others stepped out of the carriage, then the drivers urged the horses on to the carriage house in back.

Nicholas took a good long look at his new home. Castle Crydee was small in comparison to what he knew. There was an ancient keep, around which a single surrounding building had been erected, and later another hall had been added to the rear. Nicholas quickly calculated distances, and found with some disapproval that whoever had erected the outer wall had left a relatively narrow bailey. Should the wall ever be breached, there was little to keep an invader from reaching the central keep.

As if reading his mind, Martin said, ‘My great-grandfather took this keep from the Keshian garrison stationed here, and built the wall around it.’ With a half-smile that reminded Nicholas of his own father, he added, ‘My grandfather built the two additional halls, leaving little further room for growth. Father planned on pushing the wall out to accommodate new growth … but he never got around to it.’ He put his hand upon Nicholas’s shoulder. ‘I never seem to find the time, either.’

A large black-skinned man, with a short black beard, walked slightly behind the short grey-haired man as the pair advanced between the lines of soldiers to come before Nicholas. They both bowed to the Prince.

Amos grinned at the short man. ‘Swordmaster Charles!’

Martin said, ‘Highness, my Swordmaster, Charles, and Horsemaster Faxon.’

Nicholas returned their salutes with an inclination of his head, and spoke a few words to Charles in a foreign language. The Swordmaster bowed and answered in the same language. Then in the King’s Tongue he said, ‘You speak excellent Tsurani, Highness.’

Nicholas blushed. ‘Only a few words, really. But all in the court know of Uncle Martin’s Tsurani Swordmaster.’ To the dark-skinned man he said, ‘And Horsemaster Faxon.’

Faxon said, ‘Your Highness.’

Martin introduced other members of his household, and when the formalities were over, he took Nicholas by the arm. ‘If your Highness will come with me.’

Martin and Nicholas mounted the steps to the castle, while Martin’s children and Abigail followed, heading back to their own quarters.

Briana turned to Amos. ‘We’ll have a reception tonight, but in the meantime, we’ll have someone show you to your quarters.’

Amos said, ‘Just tell me which room, my lady. I lived here too many years to get lost.’

Briana smiled. ‘Your old room is yours again, Amos.’

Amos glanced at the main gate to the castle, noting the pair of guards standing at their posts. ‘You might tell those lads that in a few minutes a pair of very unlikely characters will heave into view. One’s a short madman from Shing Lai named Nakor, and the other is a tall mercenary from Kesh, name of Ghuda Bulé. Let them in, as they’re companions to Nicky.’

Briana’s only reply was to raise an eyebrow. She turned to Swordmaster Charles and said, ‘See to it, please.’

He saluted and hurried off to the gate to inform the guards.

Briana said, ‘Who are these men, Amos?’

Forcing a light air, Amos said, ‘As original a pair as you’d meet anywhere.’

Briana put her hand upon Amos’s shoulder. They had served together in Armengar, her home, when Amos had aided in its defense against the armies of the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. ‘I understand you well enough to know there’s something else. What is it?’

Amos shook his head. ‘Just … something Arutha told me before I left.’ He glanced at the main door of the castle through which Martin and Nicholas had just passed. ‘He said that should anything happen, listen to Nakor.’

Briana was silent a moment, thinking, then said, ‘I have no doubt that “anything” means trouble.’

Amos forced a laugh. ‘Well, I doubt he meant listen to the wizard if there was a surprise party!’

Briana answered with a smile. She gave Amos a hug and kissed his cheek. ‘We’ve missed you, and your humor, Amos.’

Amos glanced around, remembering. ‘I’ve seen too many men die on those walls and spent too many days defending them to have missed Crydee, Briana.’ Then he kissed her cheek and squeezed her in a bear hug. ‘But damn me if I haven’t missed you and Martin.’

Arms around each other’s waists, the tall Duchess and the large sea captain walked up the steps into Castle Crydee.

Martin indicated Nicholas should sit and moved behind a large desk. The Duke’s office looked small compared to Arutha’s in Krondor, and Nicholas glanced around.

Behind Martin, on the wall, was the sea gull banner of Crydee. Above the bird’s head were the faint outlines of a crown, where a piece of material had been removed. Nicholas knew that once his own grandfather had held this office, and had also been second in line to the crown Nicholas’s uncle now wore. But Martin’s line was prevented from inheritance by an illegitimate birth, and all marks of such succession had been removed from the family coat-of-arms.

Martin said, ‘This office was your father’s for a while, during the years of the Riftwar, Nicholas. Before that it was your grandfather’s, and his father’s and grandfather’s before him.’

Nicholas noticed that beyond that one ducal banner, the walls were devoid of personal mementos or trophies; only a large map of the Duchy and another of the Kingdom graced the otherwise bare stone. Martin’s desk was equally well ordered, with a solitary inkwell and quill, a bar of red wax for the ducal signet, and a candle. Two rolled parchments hinted at some unfinished business, but otherwise there was a sense of organization in this room, as if the present occupant was loath to leave at the end of the day with any task unfinished or unresolved. There was something familiar in that, Nicholas realized, as that drive for order was also a hallmark of his father. He returned his attention to his uncle, who was watching him closely. Nicholas flushed.

Martin smiled and said, ‘You are with family, Nicholas, never forget that.’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘I’ve heard Father tell of Crydee, and Amos has war stories that never end, but …’ He glanced around once more. ‘I guess I didn’t know what to expect.’

Martin said, ‘That’s why you’re here. Arutha wished you to know something of your heritage.

‘We’ve a rough court, by Krondorian standards,’ he continued. ‘Close to primitive by the standards of Rillanon and the other eastern courts. But you’ll find it comfortable enough in the ways that matter.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘What exactly will I be doing?

Martin said, ‘Arutha has left that up to me. I think for the time being I’m going to name you my Squire. You’re a little old for the position, but that way you can stay close, and perhaps after a while I’ll find better use for you. I’ll assign your friend to Marcus.’

Nicholas was about to object when Martin said, ‘Squires do not have squires, Nicholas.’ Nicholas nodded.

‘Tonight we’ll have a formal reception, with a troupe of players who are in the town. Then tomorrow you’ll begin your duties.’

‘What will those be?’

‘Housecarl Samuel will fill you in on some of your duties. Swordmaster Charles and Horsemaster Faxon will have others for you. You will do several things every day, mostly to make my time more efficient in governing the Duchy. You may have noticed new buildings above the south bluffs and beyond. Crydee is becoming quite the metropolis by Far Coast standards. There is much to be done. Now I’ll have a servant show you to your rooms.’

‘Thank you, Uncle Martin.’ Nicholas rose as Martin came around the desk and opened the door, signaling for a servant to approach.

Martin said, ‘Beginning tomorrow, Your Highness, you will address me as “Your Grace”. You will be addressed as “Squire”.’

Nicholas flushed, feeling embarrassed but not knowing why. He nodded and followed the servant to his quarters.

That night Nicholas sat between his uncle and his cousin Marcus. The food was hearty if plain, the wine was robust and flavorful, and the entertainment adequate. Nicholas spent the better part of the evening glancing past his aunt and uncle to where Abigail sat beside Margaret. The two girls seemed to have their heads together the better part of the meal, and several times Nicholas found himself blushing without quite knowing why. The few attempts he made at speaking with Marcus resulted in short answers and long silences. Nicholas was beginning to feel that somehow his cousin disliked him.

Amos, Nakor, and Ghuda Bulé were all at the far end of the table, beyond Nicholas’s ability to speak to them. They were obviously having a good enough time swapping stories with Swordmaster Charles and Horsemaster Faxon.

Looking down the table, Nicholas saw Harry attempting to engage a quiet young man in conversation. The man seemed to speak quietly, as Harry was constantly leaning over to hear him. The man seemed not much older than the boys, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties. He had a shock of blond hair that hung to his shoulders, and had bangs that seemed to threaten his vision every moment, as he was constantly brushing them back with his hand. His eyes were blue, and Nicholas imagined that if he ever smiled, he’d be a likable-enough-looking chap.

‘Cousin, who is that?’

Marcus looked to where Nicholas indicated. ‘That’s Anthony. He’s a magician.’

‘Really?’ asked Nicholas, pleased that he had finally gotten more than one sentence from his cousin. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘My father asked your father to intercede with the masters of Stardock to send a magician to us a few years ago.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘Something to do with Grandfather, I think.’ He put down the rib bone he had been gnawing, dipped his hands in the finger bowl, and wiped them on a linen napkin. ‘Did your father ever talk about having a magician at court?’

Relieved that they were at last engaged in something like a conversation, Nicholas shrugged. ‘A few stories. About Kulgan and Pug, I mean. I met Pug on this journey.’

Marcus kept his eyes upon the magician. ‘Anthony is a good fellow, I’ll warrant you that, friendly when you get to know him. But he keeps to himself a great deal, and those few times Father asks him for counsel, he tends towards the evasive. I fear the magicians at Stardock sent him here as something of a joke.’

‘Really?’

Marcus fixed Nicholas with a sour look. ‘You keep asking “really” as if I’m making this up.’

‘Sorry,’ said Nicholas, blushing a little. ‘It’s just a habit. What I mean is, why do you think the masters of Stardock would do that, send him here as a joke?’

‘Because he’s not a very good magician, from what I can tell of such things.’

Nicholas caught himself as he was about to say ‘Really?’ and instead changed it to, ‘Interesting. I mean, you don’t see a lot of magicians anywhere, but the few who’ve come to court don’t do much by way of magic, at least not anywhere you can see them.’

Marcus shrugged. ‘I guess he has his uses, but there’s something about him that makes me cautious. He’s got secrets.’

Nicholas laughed. Marcus turned to see if Nicholas was laughing at him. Nicholas said, ‘I think that’s part of the act, you know. Lurking in shadows and mysteries and the rest.’

Marcus shrugged again, allowing himself a faint smile. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, he’s Father’s adviser, though he doesn’t do much of that.’

Glad to be involved at last in something other than silence, Nicholas pursued the conversation. ‘You know, I knew Horsemaster Faxon’s father. I didn’t know he’d bear such a resemblance to the old Duke.’

Marcus grunted a noncommittal sound. ‘Gardan was an old man when he came back from Krondor. I never noticed.’

Feeling the conversation slipping away, Nicholas said, ‘I was sorry to hear of his death last year.’

Marcus shrugged, his most expressive gesture, it seemed. ‘He didn’t do much but fish and tell stories. He was an old man. I liked him enough, but …’ Again he shrugged. ‘You get old, then you die. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?’

It was Nicholas’s turn to shrug. ‘I hadn’t seen him for almost ten years. I guess he got older.’ Realizing instantly that the remark was inane, he let the conversation lapse into silence for the rest of the meal.

At the finish of the meal, Martin rose and said, ‘We welcome to our home our cousin Nicholas.’ The gathered court and servants gave polite applause. ‘Beginning tomorrow, he shall be acting as my Squire.’ At this, Harry glanced at his friend with a questioning expression. Nicholas shrugged.

Martin said, ‘And his companion, Harry of Ludland, will be Squire to my son.’

Harry made a face that said, Well, that answers that.

‘Now,’ said Martin. ‘I bid you all good night.’

He extended his hand and Briana placed hers upon it, in ceremonial fashion, and he led her from the table. The ladies Margaret and Abigail followed, and then Marcus rose. Turning to Harry, he said, ‘Well then, if you’re to squire for me, I need you awake an hour before sunrise. Ask any servant where my quarters are and don’t be late.’ Turning to Nicholas, he said, ‘Father will want you ready, too.’

Nicholas didn’t care much for his cousin’s tone, but he refused to be anything but polite. ‘I’ll be there.’

Marcus smiled and it was a shock, for it was the first time since meeting him that Nicholas had seen any expression other than a neutral frown. ‘I expect you will.’ Waving to the servants, he said, ‘Show the Squires to their quarters.’

The boys fell in behind two servants, and as they passed by the magician, Harry said, ‘See you around, Anthony.’

The magician muttered a reply. When they entered a long hallway, Harry said, ‘That’s the Duke’s magician.’

‘I know,’ answered Nicholas. ‘Marcus said he wasn’t very good at his job.’

Harry indicated he had no opinion on that topic, but added, ‘He seems a right enough fellow, if a little shy. Mumbles a bit.’

The servants led the two young men to doors next to one another. Nicholas opened the indicated one and entered what could only be considered a cell. It was barely ten feet in length and eight feet wide. A straw pallet lay on the floor and a small chest for personal belongings took up one corner of the room. A tiny table, a chair, and a rude lamp on the table were the only other features. Nicholas turned to the servant, who was walking away, and said, ‘Where are my things?’

The servant said, ‘In storage, Squire. His Grace said you won’t need them until you’re ready to leave, so he had them put down in the sub-basement. You’ll find all you need in the chest.’

Harry clapped his friend upon the shoulder. ‘Well, Squire Nicky, better turn in and get a good night’s sleep. We’re up early tomorrow.’

‘Don’t let me oversleep,’ said Nicholas, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

‘What’s it worth to you?’

Nicholas said, ‘How about I don’t knock you on your backside?’

Harry appeared to consider this for a moment, then said, ‘Seems fair to me.’ With a laugh he said, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get used to being a squire. Look at me; I’ve done right well being yours.’

He entered his own room, and Nicholas looked heavenward, as if to say, because you’ve never had to act like one. With a feeling of deep foreboding, he entered his cell, closed the door, and undressed. Blowing out the lamp, he made his way in the dark toward the pallet, and lying on the straw-packed sack, he pulled the single blanket up over him. The rest of the night was spent tossing and turning, with only a little rest and a deep sense of dread.

Nicholas was awake when the knock came. He fumbled his way in the dark and realized with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t located any means to light the lamp before he had blown it out. He found the door handle in the dark and opened the door. Harry, who stood there, said, ‘You planning on going like that?’

Feeling silly standing in only his undertrousers, Nicholas said, ‘I forgot to locate the flint and steel.’

‘They’re on the table, behind the lamp, where they usually are. I’ll light it; you get dressed.’

Nicholas opened the chest and found a simple tunic and trousers in brown and green, which he took to be the uniform of a Crydee squire, as Harry was garbed in like fashion. He put them on and found them a close enough fit. Pulling on his own boots, he said, ‘What is this business of awaking before dawn.’

Harry put down the now burning lamp, closed the door, and said, ‘Farmers, I guess.’

‘Farmers?’

‘You know. Country people. Always up before dawn, asleep with the chickens.’

Nicholas grunted a vague acknowledgment of the remark as he pulled on his boots. His left foot seemed slightly swollen, which made getting the specially made boot on that more difficult. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘must be damper here than at home.’

Harry said, ‘You noticed! You mean the mold growing on the stones next to your bed didn’t give you a hint?’

Nicholas swung a lazy backhand at Harry, which he avoided easily. ‘Come on,’ he said with a laugh, ‘it wouldn’t do to be late our first day.’

Nicholas and Harry found themselves alone in the hallway and suddenly Harry said, ‘Where are the servants?’

‘We’re the servants, you dolt,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think I know where the family quarters are.’

By trial and error, the boys found their way through the castle to the family’s wing. Modest quarters compared to what the Prince was used to at home, they were nevertheless considerably more comfortable than the cells the boys had inhabited the night before. A pair of servants were leaving two of the rooms, and Nicholas asked and was told that they were indeed Lord Martin and Lady Briana’s quarters and young Master Marcus’s.

Taking up their stations by the respective doors, the boys waited. After a few moments, Nicholas ventured a quiet knock. The door opened and Martin looked out and said, ‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Squire.’

Before Nicholas could answer, ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ the door was closed in his face.

Harry grinned and raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could strike wood, the door opened and Marcus stepped through. ‘You’re late,’ he snapped. ‘Come along.’ He hurried down the hallway, and Harry almost had to leap to catch up with him.

A few minutes later, Martin emerged from his bedchamber and moved down the hall without comment. Nicholas fell in behind him and followed along. Instead of heading for the main hall, as the boy expected, the Duke moved through the quiet keep to the main entrance, where stable hands were bringing out horses. Marcus and Harry could be seen riding out the gate as a servant thrust reins in Nicholas’s direction.

Martin said, ‘You can ride?’

Nicholas said, ‘Of course … Your Grace,’ he added quickly.

‘Good. We’ve no shortage of green horses that need a firm hand out.’

As he climbed aboard, Nicholas instantly found himself in a contest with the horse. A quick half-halt jerk to the mouth and a hard seat brought the fractious animal under control. The gelding was young and probably had been cut late, given the stallion-like crest of his neck and his aggressive behavior. Nicholas also didn’t care for the heavy saddle, which made contact with the animal difficult.

But Martin gave him no time for consideration of the finer points of horsemanship, having turned his animal and headed for the gate. Nicholas put heels to the sides of his mount and found he had to use a lot of leg to keep the horse moving forward. Then the explosion came: the animal bucked hard before trying to race through the courtyard. Nicholas automatically gripped with his legs, sinking down in the saddle and giving a quick and firm halt on the reins. He guided the horse into a circle, half-halting with the reins until the animal was calmed down to a nice posting trot. Then, when he was at the Duke’s side, Nicholas slowed the animal down to a walk to match the Duke’s mount.

‘Did you sleep well, Squire?’

‘Not really, Your Grace.’

‘Aren’t the quarters to your liking?’ asked Martin.

Nicholas looked to see if he was being mocked, and saw only an impassive face regarding him.

‘No, they’re adequate,’ he said, refusing to be baited into complaining. ‘It’s the newness of all this, I guess.’

‘You’ll get used to Crydee,’ Martin said.

‘Does Your Grace usually not eat in the morning?’ asked Nicholas, his stomach already noticing the absence of breakfast.

Martin smiled, a slight upturn of his mouth, much like Nicholas’s father’s half-smiles, and said, ‘Oh, we’ll break fast, but there’s always a couple of hours’ work to do before we dine, Squire.’

Nicholas nodded.

They entered the town, and Nicholas saw that the streets were already busy. Shops might still have their windows shuttered and their doors locked, but workers were already on their way to the docks, the mills, and other places of work. Fishing boats could be seen heading out of the harbor in the grey light of dawn, the sun not yet above the distant mountains. Rich smells filled the air as bakers continued the work they had begun the night before, getting ready the day’s wares.

A familiar voice cut the air as they reached the docks. ‘Get those nets ready!’ shouted Amos.

Nicholas saw that the Admiral was supervising the loading of some stores from the dockside. Marcus appeared around a corner, walking along beside a slow-moving wagon, Harry a step behind him. ‘That’s the last of it, Father,’ Marcus called.

Martin didn’t explain to Nicholas what was happening, but the Prince deduced that Martin was adding to the cargo bound to the new garrison up north. The Duke called, ‘Amos, are you going to make the morning tide?’

‘With minutes to spare,’ roared back Amos, ‘if these ham-fisted monkeys can get this cargo aboard in the next half hour!’

The dock workers seemed oblivous to the shouting, taking it as a matter of course, while they efficiently went about the business of loading the cargo nets. When they were full, the crew on the hoist raised up the cargo and swung it above the hold of the ship, lowering it down without missing a beat.

Amos came over to where Martin and Nicholas watched. ‘The hard part’s going to be unloading that mess. I figure the soldiers at the garrison can give us a hand, but it’ll still take two or three weeks to get it all off the ship by longboat.’

‘Are you going to have time for a visit on the way back?’

‘Ample,’ Amos replied with a grin. ‘Even should I be gone a month, I can spend a few days here before we head back to Krondor. If the unloading goes quickly, I might give the men a week of rest before we brave the straits.’

‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,’ said Martin.

As the net was quickly reloaded and the last of the cargo hauled away, Martin said to Nicholas, ‘Ride back to the castle and tell Housecarl Samuel that we’ll be up for our meal in a half hour.’

Nicholas started to turn, then said, ‘Should I return here … Your Grace?’

Martin said, ‘What do you think?’

Because he didn’t know what to think, Nicholas’s answer sounded awkward in his own ear. ‘I’m not sure.’

Martin’s tone was not scolding, but it wasn’t warm, either. ‘You’re my squire. Your place is at my side until I tell you otherwise. Return as soon as you’ve done what I’ve told you.’

Feeling somehow inadequate for not having known that, Nicholas blushed furiously. ‘At once, Your Grace.’

He set heels to the gelding and let the horse stretch out into a canter as he hurried away from the docks. Nearing the busy streets of the town he was forced to slow to a trot. Any horseman was likely to be a noble or a soldier, so most gave way as they heard Nicholas ride up behind or saw him coming. Still, he had to move cautiously. Slowing to a walk, he took in the sights around him. Shops were now opening and traders began setting their wares out in windows as costermongers displayed their produce upon their wagons, and more workers made their way to their places of employment. A couple of young women, not more than a year or two older than Nicholas, whispered to each other as he passed.

Crydee was strange to Nicholas. It was neither the rich quarters of Krondor nor the slums of the city; it was something else. The beggars one found haunting the merchants’ quarters in Krondor were absent, as well as the thieves one didn’t see, he suspected. He also doubted he’d find whores on the corner near the taverns in the evening, though he didn’t doubt there were ample ladies of salable affections in the taverns near the docks. The heavy industry, the large mills, the dyers, the tanners, the wagonwrights, and the rest, were not evident. No doubt there were some dyers and tanners in Crydee, but the reek of their trade didn’t reveal them the way it did down by the harbor in the Prince’s city.

No, Crydee was a town – A big, bustling, growing town, but not a city, and as such it was a place both wondrous and fearful to Nicholas. His nervousness at being away from home was offset by his curiosity about this new place and the people in it.

Clearing the eastern edge of the town proper, he kicked his animal into another canter and hurried toward the castle. His desire to be efficient doing Martin’s bidding was secondary to a more basic motivation: he was hungry.

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Squire

NICHOLAS STUMBLED.

Harry said as he passed his friend, ‘Hurry, or Samuel will have our ears!’

In the week since they had come to serve at Crydee, the boys had discovered their bane: Housecarl Samuel. The old steward, approaching eighty years of age, had been in the service of the ducal household of Crydee since Nicholas’s grandfather’s time. And he could still wield a stout switch.

The morning after Amos departed, Harry had stopped upon an errand to make the acquaintance of some local girls, and had returned overly late from his mission to find a tight-lipped Samuel waiting for him. When shown the switch, Harry had tried to joke his way past the punishment, for he hadn’t been whipped since leaving his father’s estates. When it was evident the old man wasn’t jesting, Harry had shrugged off the punishment until he discovered that while Samuel was old, there was nothing feeble about his switch. Nicholas had tried to avoid the same punishment, but on the third day had managed to make hash of a series of tasks for the Duke. For a while he had faintly hoped that his rank would spare him the punishment, but all Samuel said was ‘In my time I’ve switched your uncle the King, boy.’

The two Squires were racing across the courtyard to meet with their supervisor at first light. The Housecarl would inform them if there were any unusual duties to perform instead of reporting to their respective stations outside the Duke and Marcus’s rooms. Usually, they were to remain available to Martin and his son should they need the boys, but sometimes the Duke thought of something for them to do after they had gone to bed; he would pass instructions through the Housecarl.

Reaching the hall that led to the old man’s office, they found him opening the door as they hove into view. The rule was simple: if they weren’t there by the time he was seated behind the large table he used as a work desk, they were late and would be punished.

Scrambling down the hall, the two boys were through the portal as the reed-thin old man sat down. Raising one nearly white eyebrow, he said, ‘Cutting it a bit fine today, aren’t we, boys?’

Harry tried to smile, but failed in the attempt. ‘Anything special, sir?’

Samuel’s eyes narrowed a moment as he thought; then he said, ‘Harry, to the harbor and see if the mail packet from Carse came in during the night. It was due in yesterday, and if it still is not here, the Duke wants to know.’ Harry didn’t wait to see if Nicholas had anything special; when an order was given by the Housecarl, a lowly court page or squire didn’t dare linger. Samuel continued, ‘Nicholas, attend your master.’

Nicholas hurried back toward the Duke’s quarters. Now that he was no longer dashing through the still-dark corridors, he suddenly felt very tired. He was not an early riser by nature. This business of being up before sunrise was taking its toll.

From the morning after the welcoming banquet, the alien quality of being in this frontier castle was slowly being replaced with a familiar routine: either being in a hurry or standing around waiting. And the hours were from before dawn to after the evening meal. The Prince had expected things to be somewhat different, but the impact of just how different things were was beginning to gnaw at Nicholas.

He reached Martin and Briana’s chamber door and waited. If the past week’s experience was any predictor, the Duke and Duchess would both be awake and dressing and coming through that door in the next few minutes. Nicholas turned and leaned back against the wall. He gazed through a window that looked out over the courtyard and the town beyond the wall. The grey of morning was deep, and while Nicholas was becoming used to the landmarks of Crydee, there was still barely enough light to make out details. Within the hour the sun would rise, and the town would be bathed in morning brilliance – or still grey with overcast. The weather around here was very difficult to predict, Nicholas observed.

He yawned and wished he were back on his pallet. No, he corrected himself, he wished he were back in his own bed in Krondor. He had to admit that fatigue made the straw-stuffed mattress tolerable, but he would never think of it as comfortable. Nicholas still grappled with homesickness, but only in rare moments like these when he had a few minutes to think about himself. The rest of the time he was too busy.

His uncle made Nicholas uncomfortable. Before he came to Crydee, his memories of Martin were of a large man with big, gentle hands who had carried him on his shoulders for a time when visiting Krondor. That had been nearly fourteen years ago. Martin had visited the Prince’s court once since then, but Nicholas had been ill in bed at the time and had only had a five-minute visit from Martin. Now the warm, gentle memory of a large uncle was being replaced by the reality of a distant man.

Unlike Samuel, Martin never seemed to lose his temper or raise his voice. But he had a way of looking at the boys that made them wish they could crawl off into a hole and hide. If Nicholas or Harry failed in a task, he would say nothing, but turn away with unspoken disapproval in the air. It was for the boys to correct their errors.

Harry at least had Marcus, who was more than willing to inform him how he was failing. Some of the staff had made it clear that part of Marcus’s coolness toward the boys was due in part to the fact that until shortly before Nicholas’s arrival he had squired for his father, so of course he was measuring everything they did by his own performance. Nicholas had once made the mistake of protesting that it wasn’t fair to chide them for not knowing where something was when sent upon an errand, and Marcus had turned and cooly said, ‘Then you need to find out where it is, don’t you?’

The door opened and Nicholas came awake. Briana proceeded her husband from the sleeping room and smiled. ‘Good morning, Squire.’

‘My lady,’ Nicholas said, bowing to her. His court manners always made her smile, and it had become something of a little game between them.

Martin closed the door as he came through and said, ‘Nicholas, the Duchess and I ride alone this morning. Have our horses made ready.’

‘Your Grace,’ said Nicholas, and with that he was off down the hallway at a run. Samuel had informed Nicholas that when Briana and Martin went riding at dawn, it was usually a two- or three-hour trip, so the Squire knew they’d be stopping in the kitchen for some provisions. He decided a little initiative was called for and dashed for the kitchen.

Reaching the kitchen, he found the servants hard at work readying the meals for the nearly two hundred people who lived within the walls of Castle Crydee. Mastercook Megar, a solidly built old man, stood in the center of the kitchen supervising every aspect of his crew’s labors. His old wife, Magya, hovered near the stove, her still-keen eyes fixed upon what cooked there. Nicholas slowed to a walk as he entered, saying, ‘Mastercook, the Duke and his lady ride this morning.’

Megar gave Nicholas a friendly smile and a wave. The kitchen had turned out to be the only place in the castle where Harry and Nicholas had found warm greetings, for the old cook and his wife seemed to have a fondness for boys. ‘I know, Squire, I know.’ He pointed to a saddle pack being filled with food. ‘But it was a good thought,’ he added with a grin. ‘Now off to the stable with you!’

Friendly laughter followed Nicholas as he hurried from the kitchen, dashing outside toward the stable. Reaching the stabling area, he found it still quiet and knew that Rulf, the senior stableman, was still asleep. How the man had gained his rank was a mystery to Nicholas, although he had been told his father had held the position before him. As the boy hurried through the dark stable, the horses nickered in greeting and some stuck their heads through the stall doors, seeing if he might be arriving with something to eat.

At the far end of the breezeway, he almost ran into a still figure that had been hidden in the gloom. A dark face turned toward him and a soft voice said, ‘Quiet, Squire.’

Horsemaster Faxon pointed through the door, and there upon his pallet lay the stout figure of Rulf, snoring loudly enough to rattle the heavens, thought Nicholas.

‘Seems a pity to disturb such peace, doesn’t it?’

Nicholas tried not to grin as he said, ‘The Duke and Duchess ride this morning, Horsemaster.’

‘Well, in that case …’ said Faxon, as he picked up a water bucket, took one step across the small room, and emptied the contents upon the reclining figure. Rulf sat up with a gasp and uttered a cry of pure aggravation. ‘Agh! What –’

‘You oaf!’ shouted Faxon, all friendliness vanishing from his manner. ‘The day is half over and you’re lying in your bed dreaming of town girls!’

Rulf sat up sputtering, and when he saw Nicholas, for a moment his eyes narrowed, as if the boy were the cause of his misery. Then he came fully awake and saw the Horsemaster, and his manner changed. ‘Sorry, Master Faxon.’

‘Duke Martin and Lady Briana need their mounts! If the horses aren’t tacked up and ready by the time my lord and lady are upon the front steps of the keep I’ll have your ears upon the stable door!’

The heavyset man arose with a sour look, but said only, ‘At once, Master Faxon.’ Turning toward the loft, he shouted, ‘Tom! Sam! You lazy boys! Get up! We have work to do and you didn’t wake me as I told you to!’

Sleepy grunts from the loft answered, and a moment later, two young men scampered down the ladder from the hayloft. They were about a year apart in age, from their look, in their mid-twenties, and both bore an unmistakable resemblance to Rulf. He swore at them and sent them scrambling to get the indicated horses. Turning to Faxon, he said, ‘They’ll be ready in no time, Master Faxon.’

Nicholas turned to see Faxon regarding the three of them. ‘One would never know it to look at them, Squire, but they’re unusually good with the horses. Rulf’s father was Horsemaster Algon’s stableman when I was a boy.’

‘Is that why you keep Rulf on?’ asked Nicholas.

Faxon nodded. ‘You’d probably never guess, but he was very brave when the Tsurani besieged the castle during the Riftwar. Many times he carried water to the soldiers – myself being one of them – right into the battle, armed with nothing more than two buckets.’

‘Really?’

Faxon grinned. ‘Really.’

Nicholas blushed. ‘I’ve got to stop doing that.’

Faxon clapped him upon the shoulder. ‘You’ll get over it.’ He looked out through the breezeway to where Rulf and his sons were tacking up the horses. ‘And I feel sorry for Rulf since his wife died. She was the only gentle thing in his life. He and his sons have only one another and the stable. They have quarters over in the servants’ wing, but they sleep here most of the time.’

Nicholas nodded. He realized at that moment he had always taken servants for granted, and there were those who had served him at Krondor of whom he knew nothing. He had just assumed, somehow, that they vanished into a servants’ closet, keeping quietly out of sight until they were needed. Coming out of his reverie, he said, ‘I’d best be back to the Duke.’

‘The horses will be ready,’ answered Faxon.

Nicholas hurried back to the kitchen and indeed found Martin and Briana there, inspecting the provisions. The Duke and his wife approved the selection of food. Briana motioned for a pair of servants to follow her out of the kitchen. Martin headed toward the armory. Without a word, Nicholas fell in behind him. When they reached the armory, a soldier on guard saluted and opened the door for Martin and Nicholas.

Inside, Martin waited while Nicholas quickly lit a lantern against the gloom of the always dark room. When the light flared, it was reflected from a thousand angles, dancing across polished metal. Racks of swords and spears, shields and helms, covered every wall. Nicholas hurried to another door and opened it for Martin, anticipating his need.

Martin stepped into the small room where his personal arms were stored, and selected a longbow that hung on one wall. He handed it to Nicholas while he himself filled a quiver with the long arrows called cloth yard shafts, because they were thirty-seven inches long, the measure a miller used to cut a yard of cloth. Nicholas had never seen a longbow’s effects, as the soldiers at Krondor were all armed with crossbows or the small horse bow used by the cavalry, but he had heard tales of the weapon’s fearful power: that a skilled bowman could punch a steel-headed shaft through nearly any armor.

Nicholas knew that his uncle had served as their grandfather’s Huntmaster, back at a time when Martin’s birthright had been hidden from all but a few of the old Duke’s most trusted advisers. Just before his death, Lord Borric had legitimized his eldest son, raising him from the ranks of the common to become in time Duke of Crydee, inheritor of his father’s title. But before then Martin was still acknowledged as one of the finest bowmen in the Western Realm.

The Duke handed Nicholas the quiver of arrows. He inspected a row of blades upon a table, before choosing two large hunting knives and handing them to Nicholas. He then selected another bow, for Duchess Briana, which he also gave to Nicholas. A quiver of arrows for the shorter bow was his last choice, and they departed.

They reached the courtyard to find Lady Briana standing next to a pair of horses. Nicholas didn’t need to be told that this was not merely a morning ride but a hunting trip, and the Duke and his wife would probably be gone for the day or longer, if they decided to sleep in the forest.

Harry raced into view and between gasps for breath said, ‘Your Grace. No word yet on the packet boat from Carse.’

Martin’s expression darkened. ‘Have Marcus pen a note for Lord Bellamy in Carse, asking if the boat turned back to Carse for some reason, then send it by pigeon.’

Harry bowed and started to run off, but Martin stopped him by saying, ‘And, Squire …’

Harry stopped and turned. ‘Your Grace?’

‘Next time you’re sent to the harbor on an errand, take a horse.’

Harry grinned sheepishly and bowed. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, and hurried off to do Martin’s bidding.

Briana mounted without waiting for any unnecessary assistance and Nicholas handed her a bow, quiver, and knife. After Martin was mounted, Nicholas gave the remaining weapons to the Duke.

Martin said, ‘We may be gone until tomorrow sunset, Squire.’

Nicholas said, ‘Your Grace?’

‘Today is Sixthday, if it’s escaped your notice.’ It had. ‘You may have the afternoon to yourself. See to Master Samuel for any further instructions until we return.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

As they rode out of the courtyard, Nicholas sighed. Sixthday: traditionally a half day of rest for the children of any castle or palace. Seventhday was a day of contemplation and worship, though Nicholas had noticed there were always plenty of servants to do his bidding back in Krondor on Seventhday. He and Harry had arrived on Seventhday the week before, so he had no idea what to expect with his first free time since coming off the ship.

The sound of boys shouting echoed across the side courtyard, near a small garden, which was called the Princess’s Garden. It had been the province of Nicholas’s aunt, the Princess Carline, when she had lived in Crydee, and the name had stuck.

A rough game of football was under way, with one of the soldiers acting as referee. The teams were composed of the sons of the castle’s servants, a few pages, and two of the younger squires. An area of the approved size had been chalked out in the dirt, with a battered goal net erected at each end. It might not match the emerald-green grass field of the professional stadium at Krondor, but it was a ball field.

Looking on were Margaret, Abigail, and Marcus, from a vantage point of seats on a low wall alongside the garden. Nakor and Ghuda were watching the game from the other side of the field, among a group of soldiers, and both waved at Nicholas. He waved back.

Nicholas had been running errands all morning for the Housecarl, and had finally stolen into the kitchen to eat a quick lunch that Magya had prepared for the Squires, and then had left to see what he could do with his time off. He was thinking about returning to his room for a nap when the sounds of the game distracted him.

Marcus nodded at him and the girls both smiled. He jumped up to sit on the wall, next to Margaret, and leaned forward to return Marcus’s greeting. He then looked at Abigail, who smiled warmly and said, ‘I’ve not seen you around much, Highness, save when you were running from one place to another.’

Looking at Abigail caused Nicholas’s ears to burn. He said, ‘The Duke keeps me busy, my lady,’ and turned his attention to the game. What it lacked in skill it more than made up for in enthusiasm.

‘You play football in Krondor, Squire?’ asked Marcus, stressing the last words. As he spoke, he reached over and placed his hand upon Abigail’s. The possessive gesture was not lost on Nicholas.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Nicholas said, ‘We have professional teams in Krondor, sponsored by the guilds, merchants, and some nobles.’

‘I mean do you play?’

Nicholas said, ‘Not much.’

Marcus glanced at Nicholas’s feet and nodded slightly. Marcus’s gesture did not earn him Nicholas’s thanks; Nicholas found himself irritated by his cousin’s manner.

Margaret glanced from her brother to Nicholas, and her expression shifted slightly from neutral to dryly amused as Nicholas said, ‘But when I had time, I was considered good.’

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even with your foot.’

Nicholas felt his face flush and he was suddenly angry. ‘Yes, even with my foot!’

Harry appeared, a bit of bread and cheese in his hand, and Marcus only glanced at him for a moment. The Duke’s son knew that Harry’s time was now his own until the next morning. Harry gave the assembled group a general wave and said, ‘How’s the game?’

Nicholas jumped off the low wall and said, ‘We’re playing.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’m eating.’

With a smile, Marcus said, ‘I’ll keep the sides even.’

Harry grinned openly as he jumped backward to sit in the space Nicholas had just vacated, next to Lady Margaret. ‘Give ’em hell, Nicky,’ he said cheerfully.

Nicholas stripped off his tunic, feeling the warm sun and cool ocean breeze upon his skin. He hardly knew any of the boys on the field – just two of the pages – but he knew the game. Feeling irritated by Marcus’s attitude, he needed to vent his anger.

A moment later, the ball went out of bounds. Marcus reached over and picked it up, saying, ‘I’ll throw it in.’

Nicholas ran out onto the field and glanced around. He waved over a kitchen boy and said, ‘What’s your name?’

The boy said, ‘Robert, Highness.’

Nicholas frowned and shook his head. ‘I’m the Duke’s Squire. Who’s our side?’

Robert quickly pointed out the seven boys that made up the rest of the informal team and Nicholas said, ‘I’ll guard Marcus.

Robert grinned and nodded. ‘No one will dispute you that privilege, Squire.’

Suddenly Nicholas was moving, cutting off a boy who was hurrying forward to take the toss in from Marcus. By throwing his body almost out of bounds, he managed to kick the ball to a startled boy on his own team. After a brief hesitation, the fray was on.

Harry guffawed and said to the girls, ‘Nicholas is as good at stealing inbounds as anyone I’ve seen.’

Margaret watched her cousin pick himself up off the hard ground and race to rejoin the game and said, ‘That must hurt.’

‘He’s tough enough,’ answered Harry. Glancing at the two girls beside him, he said, ‘Any bets?’

The two girls looked at each other. ‘Bets?’

‘On who will win,’ said Harry as Marcus deftly made a sliding tackle on the ball, knocking it loose for one of his teammates to intercept.

Abigail shook her head. ‘I don’t know who’s better.’

Margaret gave an unladylike snort of contempt. ‘Neither is “better,” but those two will kill each other trying to find out.’

Abigail shook her head as Nicholas was slammed from behind by one of Marcus’s teammates, out of view of the referee, so that no penalty was called. The boy threw a forearm at the back of Nicholas’s head that had him seeing white lights for a moment. Marcus shook his head in sympathy as Nicholas pulled himself together and jumped to his feet. The boy who had leveled Nicholas was somewhere down the field. ‘Got to keep your wits about you,’ shouted Marcus. ‘Not a lot of subtlety in this game.’

Shaking his head to clear it, Nicholas said, ‘I’ve noticed.’

Then both boys were off toward the ball.

Harry said, ‘Damn, they look alike out there, don’t they?’

Abigail said, ‘They could be brothers, certainly.’

In the middle of the fray, Marcus and Nicholas both angled for the ball, attempting to kick it out of the mess, each leaning into the other, elbows slamming into ribs.

Harry surveyed the two girls and said, ‘About the bet?’

Margaret looked at Harry and her smile was wry. ‘The stakes?’

‘Easy,’ said Harry, attempting an offhand manner. ‘There’s a festival in two weeks, I’ve been told. You’ll need an escort.’

Margaret smiled and glanced at Abigail. ‘Both of us?’

Harry guffawed. ‘Why not? It’ll drive them both crazy.’

Margaret laughed aloud. ‘Some friend you are.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I know Nicholas, and if I’m not mistaken, he and Marcus are only beginning a long and possibly colorful rivalry.’ Looking directly at Abigail, he said, ‘I think they’re both smitten, my lady.’ Abigail had the courtesy to blush, but her expression looked as if the observation was not news to her.

‘And what are your ambitions, Squire?’

Margaret’s frank question caught Harry off guard. ‘Why, none, I think,’ he said in confusion.

Margaret patted him in familiar fashion on the leg and Harry found he was now the one blushing. ‘Whatever you say, Squire,’ said the Duke’s daughter.

Harry felt his body stir and warm at her hand on his thigh, and suddenly wanted to be anywhere but sitting next to her. He had never had a problem talking to the younger women of the Prince’s staff in Krondor, either the serving women who were disadvantaged by their rank, or the daughters of the court nobles who were disadvantaged by their youth. But there was nothing of the shy, inexperienced girl in Margaret’s manner. There was something positively worldly about this girl, who was almost the same age as Harry and Nicholas.

Abigail watched the game with obvious divided loyalties, but Margaret showed little interest. She glanced around and saw Anthony standing behind them in the garden and waved for him to join them.

The young magician came to where they sat and bowed awkwardly. Margaret smiled at him. ‘Anthony, how are you?’

‘Fine, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘I thought I’d get some air and sun and watch a bit of the game.’

‘Sit there next to Abigail,’ ordered Margaret with humor. ‘She needs support. Two fools are shedding blood in her honor.’

Abigail blushed furiously, and her tone was cold. ‘That isn’t funny, Margaret.’ They had never been particularly close; Margaret had spent most of her childhood playing with her brother and his rough friends. The few town girls – daughters of the richer merchants – who had been selected as her companions had been as appalled as Margaret’s tutors when the Duke’s daughter had shown indifference to the training reserved for young ladies of rank. Her mother had lived her early life as a warrior and had seen no benefit in much of what they attempted to teach Margaret, save reading and writing, and often spared her daughter punishment when she abandoned her needlework to go riding or hunting.

Abigail was just the most recent of a long line of companions for the Duke’s rugged daughter, no better matched to Margaret than the others, save she got on her nerves less than most. Abigail usually had a good sense of humor, which was being sorely tested by her friend as, with a cheery air, Margaret said, ‘I think it is.’

Harry smiled, glad the attention was off him for the moment. As the Duke’s daughter watched the game, he studied her profile. At first glance, she was not a terribly pretty young woman, but there was something almost regal in the way she held herself, erect and proud: not the posturing of a vain court woman, but rather the same upright bearing her mother showed, that of a woman who had no doubt of her own ability or her place in the world. Suddenly Harry felt deeply inadequate.

The game moved up and down the field, and Harry observed that at some time in the last five minutes Nicholas had acquired a bloody nose. Scanning the field for Marcus, he noticed that the Duke’s son was not too far from Nicholas, and that his left eye was puffing.

Harry caught Nakor’s attention across the field, and the little man rolled his eyes heavenward and made a motion with his finger to his head indicating someone was crazy. Harry made a sign asking which one, and Ghuda, who had followed the exchange, motioned that both were. Harry laughed.

Margaret said, ‘What?’

‘They play rough here, don’t they?’

Margaret laughed a very unladylike laugh, slightly more delicate than a honk, and said, ‘Only when they think they have something to prove, Harry.’

Harry had never seen Nicholas play so aggressively. The boy had always used his head and his natural quickness in whatever sport he undertook, but he was hurling himself around the field with abandon, his play reaching previously unmatched heights of madness.

Marcus pushed himself away from Nicholas, and made a running interception of a pass, breaking toward the goal set up at the far end of the field. Nicholas was hot after him, and those looking on cheered loudly at the spectacle.

Margaret laughed and Abigail sat with her hands clenched in her lap, an expression of open concern on her face. Harry started to cheer, but the sound died in his throat. Nicholas was limping and Harry knew that he couldn’t overtake Marcus. Nicholas strained and forced himself, but there was something wrong in the way he moved.

Harry jumped from the low wall, and Margaret asked, ‘What?’

Ignoring her, he raced toward the far end of the field as Nicholas fell to the ground, ignored by the other players as Marcus deftly scored the winning goal. The referee shouted time and the match was over. As the winners gathered around Marcus, Harry reached Nicholas’s side.

Kneeling next to his friend, he said, ‘Nicholas! What is it?’

The Prince’s face was contorted and drained of color, while tears ran down his face. He gripped his left leg and could barely speak as he gasped, ‘Help me up.’

‘No, damn it, you’re hurt.’

Nicholas grabbed Harry’s tunic and said, ‘Help me to my feet.’ His voice was an angry whisper, thick with pain. Harry gripped Nicholas’s arm and helped him to his feet.

Marcus and the other boys approached, with Nakor and Ghuda crossing from the other side of the field. The Duke’s son said, ‘Are you all right?’

Nicholas forced a smile and said, ‘I twisted my ankle that’s all.’ His voice was nearly unrecognizable to Harry, and the Squire looked at his friend to see his face was chalky. ‘Harry will help me back to my room. I’ll be all right.’

Before Marcus could say anything, Nakor fixed him with a narrow stare. ‘You broke something?’

Nicholas said, ‘No, I’m fine.’

Ghuda said, ‘I’ve seen finer-looking corpses, son. Better let me help you back to your room.’

Before the old mercenary could move, Anthony took Nicholas’s other arm, saying, ‘I’ll help him.’

The girls had come up beside Marcus, and Margaret regarded her cousin, all sarcasm forgotten. ‘Are you all right?’

Nicholas forced a smile. ‘Yes.’

Abigail stood silently beside the Duke’s daughter, but her eyes showed her concern as Nicholas was helped away, supported on Harry’s and Anthony’s shoulders.

He hobbled between them until they rounded the perimeter of the garden, when he promptly fainted.

Nicholas revived as they reached his room. Anthony and Harry eased him down upon his pallet and Harry said, ‘What happened to you?’

Nicholas said, ‘Someone stomped on my bad foot and I felt something break.’ His face was still drawn, and sweat streamed off it.

Anthony said, ‘The boot will have to come off.’

Nicholas nodded and gritted his teeth as they removed the boot. His head swam from the pain but he remained conscious.

Anthony examined the deformed foot and said, ‘I don’t think there are bones broken, but something’s dislocated. Look at this.’ Nicholas levered himself up on his elbows and saw what Anthony was pointing at: a nasty-looking purple bruise that covered fully half of the top of the foot. Anthony pushed his thumb firmly into the bruise, and Nicholas exclaimed in pain. The magician kept pushing. An audible popping sound was accompanied by a grunt of surprise from Nicholas. Then he moved his foot, wiggling his vestigial toes. Anthony set the foot gently down and Nicholas fell back with a great sigh.

Anthony said, ‘I’ll send one of the servants down to the harbor for a bucket of salt water. Soak in it for a half hour, then keep the foot elevated and warm for the rest of the evening. You’re going to be sore, but I think you’ll be able to get around. I’ll ask the Duke to excuse you from work tomorrow, and take things easy for a while. You’re going to have a nasty limp for a few days, my friend.’ The young magician stood up and said, ‘I’ll take a look in on you tomorrow, first thing.’

Harry said, ‘Are you the Duke’s healer, as well as adviser?’

Anthony nodded. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

Harry said, ‘I thought healers were priests.’

Anthony smiled. ‘Mostly, but some magicians are skilled at healing. I’ll see you tomorrow, Nicholas.’

As the magician moved toward the door, Nicholas said, ‘Anthony.’

The magician paused and looked down at Nicholas. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

For a moment Anthony paused, then he smiled, looking no older than either Nicholas or Harry. ‘I understand.’

After he left, Harry turned to his friend and said, ‘He understands what?’ He pulled over the little stool and sat. From somewhere in his tunic he produced an apple, which he broke in half, giving a piece to Nicholas.

Lying back as he chewed on the apple, Nicholas said, ‘He understands that Marcus and I are going to be knocking heads and thumping on each other for a while.’

‘That wasn’t a game out there, Nicky. That was war. You took more blows in one half today than I’ve seen you take in all last season, and that was thirteen matches. And I’ve never seen you throw as many elbows and shoulders either. You two weren’t playing ball, you were trying to kill each other.’

Nicholas sighed. ‘How did I get to this point?’

‘You had the bad manners to want the same girl as Marcus, and while you’re playing at Squire, he knows you’re a Royal Prince of the Kingdom and he’s only a Duke’s son.’

‘Only a Duke’s son?’

Harry shook his head. ‘You can be thick at times, my friend.’ Waving his hand, he said, ‘If Marcus came sailing into any city but Krondor or Rillanon, the local girls would be falling all over him for attention. Here on the Far Coast, he’s the most eligible bachelor, related to the King and everything. But you, my bashful boy, are the most eligible lad north of the Empire of Kesh, now that your brothers are married, and you’re the brother of our next King.

‘The lovely Lady Abigail could be head over heels about Marcus, but the moment you walk in, she’s got to stop and take a long look.’ With a shrug, he added, ‘It’s the sort of thing people do.’

At mention of Abigail, Nicholas sighed. ‘Do you think she is?’

‘Is what?’

‘In love with Marcus.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Then, with a grin, he said, ‘But I can find out.’

Nicholas said, ‘No, don’t do anything. If you start poking around and asking questions, she’ll find out.’

‘Ha! You’re afraid she’ll find out you like her!’ Harry laughed at Nicholas’s discomfort. ‘Don’t worry about that, my friend. It’s too late.’

Nicholas groaned. ‘You think?’

Harry said, ‘Certain of it. You look like you’re going to faint every time you see her looking at you. How do you think Marcus knew? He’s not amused.’

‘He’s a cool one,’ said Nicholas, an observation that was half admiration, half dislike.

Harry nodded. ‘You two are a lot alike, but he keeps things closer in than you do.’

Nicholas said, ‘Well, everyone keeps saying we’re alike, but I don’t see it.’

Harry stood up. ‘Well, soak the foot and wrap it, and have a good night. I’ll bring you some food from the kitchen tonight.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m heading back to the garden to find Abigail.’

‘Not you too!’ groaned Nicholas.

Harry waved his hand. ‘Not a chance. I’m interested in Margaret.’

‘Why?’ said Nicholas as Harry paused by the door.

‘Well, for one thing, Marcus is her brother, and while marriages between royal cousins aren’t unheard of, in your case, I seriously doubt it. Besides, I think I love her.’

Nicholas’s eyebrows shot up in skeptical surprise. ‘Right.’

‘No, I mean it. She gives me a stomach ache.’ Saying no more, he left Nicholas alone.

Nicholas fell back, laughing, but soon his mirth fled, as he understood exactly what Harry was saying. Abigail gave him the most desperate twist in the stomach he had ever experienced.

• CHAPTER FIVE •
Instruction

NICHOLAS WINCED.

He had been laid up all the previous day, and while his foot still hurt, he could move around. So before the sun rose, he was standing at his post outside the Duke’s door, almost motionless.

Marcus’s door opened and he emerged into the hall, motioning for Harry to follow. A moment later, Martin’s door opened and Briana and Martin came through. The Duchess said, ‘How is the foot, Nicholas?’

He managed a wry smile as he said, ‘I’ll live. It’s a little tender, my lady, but I can get around.’

Martin said, ‘Accidents happen. You’re not going to be much use for running errands; go back to the Housecarl and see if he can find something you’re suited for today.’

Nicholas said, ‘Your Grace,’ and limped off.

As he wandered through the halls toward the servants’ wing, where Samuel had his office, he felt thoroughly disgusted with himself. The Sixthday game had been a debacle. As he had brooded over it all day, lying on his pallet, he realized he had looked like a fool.

Over the years, being the youngest son of the Prince of Krondor had forced Nicholas into many situations where he would rather have held back; there was no escaping public scrutiny when protocol dictated one be upon the balcony at a festival, or in attendance at court. But in most areas, Nicholas preferred to let others, like Harry, take the lead. In football, Nicholas had developed a justified reputation as a wicked defender, able to steal a ball and pass it off before the other side knew what had happened, but when it came to scoring, he always let others take the glory. Two days before had been the first time he had ever propelled himself to the fore, demanded the ball at every opportunity, and attempted to dominate by force of will alone. And every step of the way Marcus had shadowed him.

There had been scant satisfaction in realizing that he had been as effective at blocking Marcus’s efforts as Marcus had been at blocking his; the game had been more or less a stalemate, save for the injury done his foot, which finally allowed Marcus to score.

As he gingerly moved down a flight of stairs, Nicholas was more sensitive to his birth defect than usual. Like most of those born with such a deformity, he had adapted to it and compensated for it without much thought. Being Arutha’s son had saved him from much of the childhood taunting children of lower rank would have had to endure, but he had still experienced some of it, as well as more than his share of stares and whispers. But today was the first day he felt as if his foot was a true handicap. Had it not been for that, he was certain, he would have bested Marcus. He swore softly, being angry with everyone, himself most of all.

He reached Samuel’s office door and said, ‘Housecarl?’

Samuel motioned him to enter. Nicholas had been in the office only a half hour earlier and had been told there were no unusual duties. The Housecarl looked around as if seeking inspiration, then said, ‘I have nothing that needs doing, Squire. Why don’t you return to your room and rest that injured foot?’

Nicholas nodded and departed, not feeling very much like lying abed another day. He returned to his room and threw himself onto his straw mattress. Having slept most of the previous day, he felt little like resting, and the straw itched. Besides, he was hungry.

After a few minutes he heaved himself off his pallet and headed for the kitchen. By the time he reached it, the smell of food in the hallway had his mouth watering. Magya was busy supervising the kitchen staff, walking behind the cooks like a general overseeing her troops. She smiled at Nicholas and waved him over.

‘Are you feeling better today, Squire?’ asked the old woman. Tending toward the plump, she nevertheless moved about the kitchen quickly and efficiently, despite her age and weight.

‘Yes, but not quite fit for duty, according to the Duke.’

She chuckled. ‘But fit enough to be hungry?’

He smiled back. ‘Something like that.’

Patting his shoulder, she said, ‘I think we have something we can spare before the Duke and Duchess break fast.’

She pointed to a tray, which Nicholas picked up. She spooned out a thick porridge that was bubbling in a pot, sprinkled some cinnamon on it, put a large dollop of honey in the middle, and poured milk over it all. She placed the bowl on the tray, cut a slab of hot bread and a thick slice of ham, and motioned for Nicholas to carry it over to a small table in the corner.

Megar entered with two kitchen boys following behind, each carrying a basket of eggs. He waved the boys about their tasks and came over to sit at the table with his wife and Nicholas, who had taken to the old master cook, a large man with an open smile and kind manner, the first time they had met. ‘Morning, Squire,’ said Megar, a friendly smile on his open, lined face.

Nicholas said, ‘Have you seen Ghuda and Nakor? I’ve not caught a glimpse of either since the game.’

Megar and Magya exchanged glances. ‘Who?’ asked Megar.

Nicholas described them. ‘Those two,’ said Magya. ‘I’ve seen the short fellow talking to Anthony a few times in the last week. The big soldier went out with a patrol, for the fun of it, he said. Left yesterday morning.’

Nicholas sighed. They weren’t real friends, but he knew them better than anyone in the castle save Harry. While the cook and his wife were nice enough, he didn’t know them well and knew that they were only sparing a few moments out of courtesy, and that as soon as he was finished eating, they’d be about preparing the rest of the day’s meals.

As Nicholas ate, they talked. They inquired how he was adjusting to life in Crydee, and then about this trip. At mention of Pug, they both smiled wistful, half-sad, half-pleased smiles. ‘He was like our son,’ said Megar. ‘He was our fosterling, you know, so many years ago.’

Nicholas shook his head to show he hadn’t known, and Megar started telling him a little of Pug, and of Megar and Magya’s own son, Tomas, who had been Pug’s closest friend. As the story of their lives unfolded – a mixture of reminiscence and spirited argument about who remembered what correctly – a picture formed in Nicholas’s imagination.

He had heard tales of the Riftwar from Amos, and once in a while his father could be persuaded to reveal something of his own part in it, but Megar and Magya’s simple retelling was by far the most compelling he had heard. The manner in which they related everything that occurred in their own references, how many buckets of water the kitchen staff carried to the walls, how many extra rations needed to be cooked, how they made do without this or that, when meals were cold because the cooking staff was tending the wounded – all wove a far more vivid picture in Nicholas’s mind than even Amos’s most colorful boasting.

Nicholas asked one or two questions, and suddenly a picture of Pug as a boy emerged. Nicholas smiled as Megar explained at great length how difficult it was for him as a child, being the smallest boy for his age in the keep, and how Tomas had become protective. By the time the stories were finished, Nicholas had eaten all that had been put before him. Magya’s eyes were shining as she explained how Tomas had looked on the day he had become a man, at the Choosing – that ancient rite where all the boys are given over to the masters who would train them.

There was something familiar about the name Tomas, but Nicholas couldn’t quite make it fit. He said, ‘Where is your son now?’

Instantly he regretted asking, as a look of sorrow passed over both their faces. He thought the young man must have died in the war.

But to his surprise, Megar said, ‘He lives with the elves.’

Suddenly Nicholas made the connection. ‘Your son is the Elf Queen’s consort!’

Magya nodded. With resignation she said, ‘We don’t see him much. We’ve had one visit since the child was born, and we get a message from time to time.’

‘Child?’

Our grandson,’ answered Megar. ‘Calis.’

Magya brightened. ‘He’s a good boy. He visits once or twice a year. He’s more like his father than those elves he lives with,’ she said with conviction. ‘I often wish he’d come to live here at Crydee.’

The conversation died, and Nicholas excused himself and left through the door to the courtyard. He recollected what his uncle Laurie had told him about the last days of the Riftwar and what bits Amos had told him. Tomas wasn’t human. At least, that was the impression Nicholas had been left with; he was something else, related to the elves, but different. Nicholas thought that if he had human parents, especially ones as warm and open as Megar and Magya, he must have been much like the other keep children. What could have changed him? wondered Nicholas.

Nicholas wandered over to the Princess’s Garden, faintly hoping to find Abigail and Margaret there. Given the hour, they were probably in the hall, dining with Duke Martin, but Nicholas hoped anyway.

Instead of the young girls, Nicholas was astonished to find Nakor and Anthony, lying flat on their stomachs, staring at something under a stone bench.

‘There, you see?’ said Nakor.

‘That one?’ asked Anthony.

‘Yes.’

They dusted themselves off as they rose. Nakor said, ‘You must be sure it is the one with those tiny flecks of orange. If they are red, it is deadly. If it is any other color, it is useless.’

Anthony took notice of Nicholas and bowed slightly. ‘Highness.’

Nicholas sat upon the bench they had just been peering under, taking the weight off his foot. ‘Squire,’ he corrected.

Nakor grinned his lopsided grin. ‘For the present, Squire, but Prince always. Anthony knows this.’

Nicholas ignored the observation. ‘What were you two doing?’

Anthony seemed embarrassed. ‘Well, there’s a small mushroom-like growth that you can find in dark, damp places –’

‘Under the bench,’ injected Nakor.

‘– and Nakor was showing me how to identify it correctly.’

‘For magic potions?’ asked Nicholas.

‘As a drug,’ snapped Nakor. ‘To induce sleep – if prepared correctly. Very handy when you have to cut an arrow out of a soldier, or remove a bad tooth.’

Nicholas indulged himself. ‘I thought all you magicians have to do is wave your hand and put someone in a trance.’

Anthony shrugged, as if to say that he wasn’t much of a magician, but Nakor said, ‘See, that’s what comes of letting children grow up uneducated.’ He opened his bag and took out an orange. ‘Want one?’ he asked.

Nicholas nodded and Nakor tossed the fruit to him. He gave another to Anthony. Then he handed the bag to Nicholas. ‘Look inside.’

Nicholas examined the large rucksack. He found it simple: black material, feeling like common felted wool. A leather drawstring had been sewn around the mouth of the bag, and a wooden frog and loop served as a clasp. The bag was empty. Handing it back, Nicholas said, ‘There’s nothing in it.’

Nakor reached in and withdrew a writhing snake. Anthony’s eyes widened and Nicholas scooted backward on the bench, until he hit the wall behind. ‘That’s a viper!’

With a wave of his hand, Nakor said, ‘This? It’s just a stick.’

In his hand was a simple piece of wood, which he put back in the bag; then again he tossed the bag to Nicholas. Nicholas examined it closely and said, ‘It’s empty.’ he handed the bag to Nakor. ‘How did you do that?’

Nakor grinned again. ‘It’s easy if you know the trick.’

Anthony shook his head. ‘He does some very impressive things, yet insists there is no magic’

Nakor nodded. ‘Maybe I’ll explain it to you someday, magician. Pug knows.’

Nicholas glanced over his shoulder at the walls above the courtyard and said, ‘I’ve been hearing a lot about Pug today, it seems.’

Anthony said, ‘He is something of a legend here. At Stardock, too. He left before I joined the community there.’

Nicholas said, ‘Well, you can’t have been a member for long; he’s only been gone from there about eight years.’

Anthony smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m a very junior magician. The masters felt –’

‘Masters!’ snorted Nakor. ‘Those overblown fools Korsh and Watoom!’ Shaking his head, he sat down next to Anthony. ‘They were the reason I left Stardock.’ He pointed to Anthony as he looked at Nicholas. ‘This boy was quite gifted, but he is what those fools call a “lesser” magician. If I had stayed, I would have made him one of my Blue Riders!’ Grinning at Anthony, he said, ‘I sure made some trouble there, didn’t I?’

Anthony laughed, and Nicholas saw him look as young as Harry and himself. ‘That’s the truth. The Blue Riders are the most popular faction at Stardock, and there are some very bitter fights –’

‘Fights!’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘Magicians fighting?’

Anthony said, ‘Student brawls, really. There are some older apprentices, who call themselves the Hands of Korsh – though he doesn’t care for that – who often start trouble in the taverns at Stardock. No one causes serious damage – the masters wouldn’t allow that – but it can result in a cracked head now and again.’ He sighed, remembering. ‘I wasn’t there long enough to become seriously involved with all that politics. I was having too much trouble with my studies. That’s why they sent me here, at Duke Martin’s request, because I’m not much of a magician.’

Nakor shook his head and made a face. ‘If you’re not much like them, that’s a good thing.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to the woods to look for some things. I’ll see you at supper.’ He pointed to Anthony. ‘Put some salve on the boy’s foot, so it’ll be better tomorrow.’

Anthony said, ‘I have some things that might help.’

Without further word, Nakor scampered from the garden, leaving the young magician and Squire alone.

Nicholas was the first to speak. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known a stranger person.’

Anthony said, ‘I’ve met a few strange ones at Stardock, but no one to rival Nakor.’

‘Was he one of your teachers at Stardock, before he left?’

Anthony shook his head and sat in the spot Nakor had just vacated. ‘Not really. I’m not sure what he was doing there, except causing trouble for Watoom and Korsh. The story is he showed up one day with a letter from Prince Borric and some claim that Pug told him to come to Stardock. He stayed about three or four years, and did some strange things, mostly converting a lot of students to the notion that everyone could learn magic – or what he calls “tricks” – and that magicians were not very bright for not being able to understand this.’ Anthony sighed. ‘I had problems of my own at the time, and didn’t pay too much attention. I was a new student and saw Nakor only two or three times, around the island.’

Nicholas said, ‘Is it true that they sent you because you weren’t very good?’

Anthony said, ‘I suspect as much. There were many more gifted students than I, and no small number of accomplished master magicians living at Stardock.’

Nicholas’s face darkened. ‘That’s close to an insult, you know.’

Anthony’s face flushed. ‘I didn’t.’

Nicholas said, ‘I don’t mean to belittle you, Anthony. You may be more talented than you think. At least, Nakor says you are,’ he added quickly. Both knew it sounded a weak attempt to smooth over the remark. ‘But the King’s brother requested a magician, to fill a post once held by Pug’s teacher. They should have sent one of their best.’

Anthony stood up. ‘Perhaps.’ His manner was stiff, caught between embarrassment and insult. He flushed a little as he said, ‘Stardock doesn’t feel it owes much allegiance to the Kingdom, I’m afraid. If Pug were still there, that might be one thing, him being a cousin to the King and all, but as it is today, Korsh and Watoom have a great deal of influence among the masters and they are from Kesh. They’d like to keep Stardock out of politics on both sides of the border, I think.’

Nicholas said, ‘That might not be a bad idea, I guess, but it’s still rude.’

Anthony said, ‘If you come with me, I have some salves that may hasten your recuperation; at the least, they won’t cause any problems even if they don’t help.’

Nicholas followed the young magician. Glancing around the garden, he again regretted that the girls were nowhere in sight.

The weeks passed with surprising speed. Each day was full of duties from dawn to dusk, and Nicholas discovered that the hectic pace was to his liking. Being busy kept him from brooding, a trait inherited from his father. The strenuous routine of constantly being on the move, of having to pitch in with much of the physical labor, was hardening his youthful frame as well. Always fit from riding and sword practice, he was now gaining strength to go with his speed. After his first day hauling arms and armor out for cleaning and having to lug it all back into the armory, he thought he was going to die. Now he could carry twice the load and feel little strain.

The work seemed to agree with Harry, too, though he reveled in complaining whenever he had the chance. In the three weeks since coming to Crydee, both boys had found little time to spend with Margaret and Abigail, though Harry had found a bit more than Nicholas. He delighted in playing upon Nicholas’s anxiety over the young lady-in-waiting, sometimes teasing him to the point of anger. But most of their time was caught up in the seemingly endless routine of the court of Crydee. So far the only time Nicholas had found to pay court to Abigail was on Sixthday afternoons, and to his chagrin Marcus was always nearby.

The people of Castle Crydee took on individual identities to the boys from Krondor. The kitchen staff was friendly, the other servants respectful and distant. The younger serving girls viewed Harry with a mixture of amusement and wariness, while a few watched Nicholas with open admiration, attention he found somewhat disquieting. Swordmaster Charles was interesting but always formal in speech and manner. Faxon was open and friendly, and Nicholas found him a good listener. Nakor and Ghuda were rarely in evidence, always seeming to find something in town or the nearby woods to occupy their time. Slowly the alien quality that had overwhelmed Nicholas upon first arriving was wearing off, and while Crydee would never feel like home, it was becoming familiar. And Abigail occupied more of Nicholas’s thoughts than any girl he had previously known. On those rare occasions he could find her without Marcus hovering by she was warm and attentive, and left him with conflicting feelings that he was making a total ass of himself and that she really cared for his company.

Nearly a month after the reception dinner, Nicholas and Harry dined with the Duke’s court once again. Since they were members of the household, it was not an unexpected event, but it was the first time since they had come to Crydee that the boys had been free enough from duty to eat at the same time as everyone else. They sat at the foot of the table, removed enough from the Duke and his family that only faint snatches of conversation reached them. Not only was the household in attendance, but several important members of guilds and crafts from the town were seated at the Duke’s table, while some visiting merchants and traders were seated around the hall.

Nicholas sat staring across the hall at Abigail, who seemed to be listening somewhat distractedly to something Marcus was telling her. She glanced at Nicholas with regularity and occasionally flushed and lowered her eyes when he caught her gaze.

Harry said, ‘The girl likes you.’

Nicholas said, ‘How do you know?’

Harry grinned as he sipped at a goblet of wine. ‘She keeps looking over here at you.’

‘Maybe she thinks I look funny,’ Nicholas said with a note of fear.

Harry laughed. ‘Given how much you and Marcus resemble each other, and that you’re obviously the only two chaps she pays the least bit of attention to, I’d say she has a preference for a certain type.’ Tapping his friend upon the shoulder, he said, ‘She likes you, dummy.’

Dinner passed with the boys engaging in trivialities with the two young men who sat beside Nicholas. One was a gem dealer seeking to underwrite an expedition into a region of the Grey Tower mountains; he claimed there were gem deposits still untapped by dwarves or human miners. He was to be disappointed, Nicholas knew, for the Kingdom made no claims over the Grey Towers beyond the foothills; the gem dealer would have to treat with Dolgan, the King of the western dwarves, at village Caldara, a week’s travel or more inland.

The other man was a traveler from Queg, a merchant in fine silks and rare perfumes, who had occupied most of the girls’ afternoon showing them his wares, which was why Nicholas had not caught sight of them all day. Margaret was more given to hunting leather and simple tunics, like her mother, it seemed, though she wore the proper gowns and jewelry in court; but Abigail and most of the daughters of the town’s richer merchants had purchased enough of the merchant’s fineries to guarantee him a profitable trip before he visited Carse and Tulan on his way home.

The merchant was named Vasarius, and something about him irritated Nicholas. Perhaps it was the way Nicholas had caught him staring at Margaret and Abigail, in a manner Nicholas could only consider covetous. When Nicholas caught him at it, he merely averted his eyes from the girls, or smiled at Nicholas as if he were but glancing around the room.

After dinner the merchants gathered before the Duke and his lady and a short period of socializing followed, before they were escorted out of the castle. Nicholas noticed that while the other merchants were attempting to get Martin’s attention, Vasarius was chatting amiably with Charles and Faxon.

Nicholas was on the verge of saying something about this to Harry when Marcus approached. ‘We’re going hunting tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You two begin laying out everything we’re going to need. Have a couple of servants go with you.’

Nicholas nodded, while Harry barely suppressed a groan. They hurried off and motioned for a couple of the servants to follow. Nicholas glanced over his shoulder and noticed Abigail watching his departure. She waved to him, wishing him a silent good night, and Nicholas turned to see Marcus looking at her with a sour expression. Smiling slightly, Nicholas felt better than he had since coming to Crydee.

It was late when Nicholas and Harry finished organizing the equipment for the hunt. They would be gone only two or three days, but there would be a half dozen in the party – Martin, Marcus, Nicholas, Harry, Ghuda, and Nakor – so a fair amount of equipment and provisions needed to be readied. After a minute of standing around in confusion, not knowing where to begin, the boys had allowed the experienced servants to take charge and had mostly observed, save when it came to choosing weapons. Both squires knew they were responsible for those choices, and by now both had a good idea of what Martin and Marcus would require. Like his father, Marcus was an excellent bowman and favored the longbow.

When everything was ready, Nicholas and Harry returned to the banquet hall. Nicholas left his friend and went up to the Duke. Martin finished his conversation with one of the local merchants and said, ‘Yes, Squire?’

Nicholas said, ‘All is ready for tomorrow, Your Grace.’

‘Good. I have no further need for you this evening, Squire. We leave at first light.’

Nicholas bowed and departed, leaving Martin to his guests. Harry was likewise on his own, from all appearances, as he hurried across the hall to Nicholas. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I thought I’d turn in. It’s an early start tomorrow.’

‘Lady Margaret mentioned that she’d be taking a stroll through the Princess’s Garden.’

‘Well, there you go,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now’s your chance.’

Harry grinned. ‘Abigail went with her.’

Nicholas grinned in return. ‘What are we waiting for?’

With a signal lack of decorum, the boys hurried out of the Duke’s great hall just a stride short of a full run.

As the boys leaped the three steps to the Princess’s Garden, Margaret and Abigail exchanged glances and smiles. Margaret’s was confident and amused; Abigail’s was shy and pleased.

Both boys came to an abrupt halt and bowed with a fair amount of courtly dignity. Grinning self-consciously, Nicholas said, ‘Good evening, ladies.’

‘Good evening, Squire,’ replied Margaret.

Abigail spoke softly. ‘Good evening, Highness.’

The two boys fell in, Nicholas next to Abigail and Harry next to Margaret. The boys were silent for a moment, then both started to speak at the same time. The girls laughed and the boys had the good grace to look embarrassed. Again there was a silent moment, then Harry and Nicholas began to speak again.

Margaret said, ‘I know you two can’t seem to live a moment apart, but why don’t you come over here with me, Squire Harry.’

Harry glanced at Nicholas and his expression was a mix of surprise, pleasure, and panic as Margaret took him firmly by the hand and led him off toward a small bench beside the blooming roses.

Nicholas and Abigail walked slowly to the far end of the small garden to another bench, where they sat. Softly Abigail said, ‘You seem to be adjusting to living with us, Highness.’

Nicholas said, ‘It’s “Squire” here, my lady.’ He flushed a little and said, ‘I … think I like it. Some of it.’ He stared at her, amazed at how delicate her features were, almost doll-like. Her skin was clear and smooth and without the usual blemishes girls her age endured. He was certain he had never seen eyes as big or blue, almost luminous in the faint light of the torches upon the wall. Her hair was gathered back, encircled with a silver ring, then fell to her shoulders in a cascade of golden silk. He glanced down and said, ‘Some things I find a great deal more appealing here than others.’

She flushed a little, but smiled, then said, ‘Is His Grace overworking you? I hardly ever see you in the castle. We’ve spoken little more than a dozen words in weeks.’

Nicholas said, ‘I have a lot to do, but in truth I find it more interesting than going to lessons, or attending my father’s court and being a fixture at the parades, presentations, and receptions that go on all the time in Krondor.’

‘I would have thought that a wonderful life,’ she said. Her tone was disappointed. ‘I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than being presented in your father’s court, or the King’s court.’ Her eyes were wide and her expression earnest as she spoke. ‘The great lords and beautiful ladies, the ambassadors from distant lands – it all sounds so wonderful.’ She positively glowed to Nicholas’s eyes as she said this.

Trying not to sound too blasé, Nicholas said, ‘It’s often colorful.’ In fact, he found the entire demands of court pomp an unrelenting bore. But he was sure Abigail didn’t wish to hear that, and at this particular moment causing her any sort of disappointment was the last thing he wished. She looked at him with eyes so wide he felt he could fall into them; he forced himself to inhale, as somewhere in the last moments he had forgotten to breathe. ‘Perhaps someday you can visit Krondor or Rillanon.’

Her expression turned from wondering to resigned. ‘I’m the daughter of a Far Coast Baron. If my father has his way, I’ll be pledged to marry Marcus soon; I’ll be an old woman with children before I have a chance to visit Krondor, and I’ll never see Rillanon.’

Nicholas didn’t know what to say; all he knew was that a tightening in his throat and stomach seemed to reach painful proportions when she spoke of marrying Marcus. At last he said, ‘You won’t have to.’

‘Have to what?’ she asked, a faint smile upon her lips.

‘Marry Marcus if you don’t want to,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s not as if your father can command you to.’

‘He can make it very hard for me to say no,’ she said, lowering her eyes and looking at him from beneath lashes that were impossibly long.

Feeling as if his hands were slabs of wood, he reached out and took her hands in his own. Holding them awkwardly in one hand and patting them with the other, he said, ‘I could …’

Softy, her eyes fixed upon his own, she said, ‘What, Nicky?’

Feeling as if he were choking upon the words, he said, ‘I could ask my father –’

Abigail said, ‘Nicky, you’re wonderful!’ She reached out and put her hand behind his neck, pulling his face to hers.

Nicholas suddenly found himself being kissed. He had never known a kiss could be so soft, sensual, and pleasant. Her lips rested perfectly upon his, and her breath was as sweet as roses. His head swam as he began to return the kiss. He felt his body warming as he drew her to him, feeling her softness beneath his hands. She moved in such a way it seemed she melted into him, fitting perfectly within the circle of his arms.

Abruptly she pulled away. ‘Marcus!’ she whispered and before Nicholas could gather his wits she was gone. He blinked in confusion, feeling as if someone had poured icy water over his head. A moment later, Marcus came into view, entering the garden from the rearmost steps, the ones by the football field. Nicholas had been so caught up in the kiss he had not heard his cousin approach.

When Marcus saw Nicholas sitting upon the bench, his expression darkened. ‘Squire,’ he said coldly.

‘Marcus,’ answered Nicholas, feeling thoroughly irritated.

‘I don’t suppose the Lady Abigail is here.’

Nicholas discovered that he didn’t like the way in which Marcus was looking at him, and even more to the point, he disliked hearing him mention her name. ‘She’s not here.’

Marcus glanced around. ‘But unless you’ve taken to wearing her cologne, she was here moments ago.’ With narrowed gaze he said, ‘Where is she?’

Nicholas stood. ‘Over there, I think.’

Marcus moved away, and Nicholas had almost to jump to catch up with him. They both crossed to the other side of the Princess’s Garden, where they found Harry sitting on the bench. The Squire from Ludland was flushing furiously.

Standing, he nodded to Marcus and Nicholas.

Marcus said, ‘I suppose you were entertaining my sister.’

Harry’s flush deepened to a blush of heroic proportion. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. Looking off toward the castle-in the direction the girls had obviously gone-he added, ‘She is a most remarkable girl.’

Marcus stepped away and turned to face them both. ‘I hoped you two would figure things out for yourselves, but obviously you haven’t. Well, here’s how it’s going to be.’ Pointing at Harry, he said, ‘My sister can take care of herself, but she’s slated for bigger things than a meaningless romance with the son of a petty Earl.’

Harry’s face burned scarlet, and his eyes flashed anger, but he kept his silence.

Looking at Nicholas, Marcus said, ‘And you, cousin … Abigail doesn’t need any fancy court boy sweeping her off her feet, then leaving her behind when he goes home. Is that clear?’

Nicholas stepped forward, ‘What I do, Marcus, when your father doesn’t have duties for me, is my business. And who Abigail chooses to spend her time with is her business.’

Appearing to be on the verge of coming to blows, the two cousins were separated by Harry, stepping between them. ‘It won’t do anyone any good if you two start brawling,’ he said, his anger making his voice hard and scolding. Looking as if he would welcome any excuse to brawl himself, he turned a challenging gaze at Marcus. ‘The Duke would be displeased, wouldn’t he?’

Marcus and Nicholas both looked at Harry in momentary surprise, then locked gazes. Marcus said, ‘We leave at first light, Squire. See that everything is ready.’ He turned and marched away, his back as straight as a poll arm.

Nicholas said, ‘He is going to cause trouble.’

‘You’re the one who’s already caused trouble,’ answered Harry.

‘She doesn’t love him,’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh, she told you this?’ asked Harry.

‘Not in so many words, but –’

‘Tell me on the way to our rooms. We’ve got to be ready for tomorrow.’

As they walked, Nicholas said, ‘She doesn’t want to stay here with Marcus, that’s certain.’

Harry nodded. ‘So you think you’ll take her back to Krondor?’

‘Why not?’ said Nicholas with an edge of anger in his tone.

‘You know why,’ answered Harry. ‘Because you’re going to marry some Princess from the court of Roldem, or a Duke’s daughter, or a Princess of Kesh.’

With anger in his voice, and the memory of Abigail’s kiss still fresh in his thoughts, he said, ‘What if I don’t want to?’

Sighing, Harry said, ‘What if your King commands you to?’

Nicholas’s jaws tightened, but he said nothing. He ached with frustration, the frustration of the interrupted embrace and the frustration of wanting to plant his fist in Marcus’s face. At last he asked, ‘What did Margaret do that got you so flustered?’

Harry blushed again. ‘She’s … amazing.’ He drew a deep breath and blew it out theatrically. ‘She started by asking me how the men in Krondor kiss, then asked me to show her. One thing led to another.’ He stopped as if catching his wind. With red cheeks, he said, ‘She got very bold, and …’ He paused, then blurted, ‘Nicholas, she asked me if I’d ever been with a woman!’

‘She didn’t!’ exclaimed Nicky, half laughing, half groaning.

‘She did! Then …’

‘What?’

‘Then she asked me what it was like!’

‘She didn’t!’

‘Will you stop saying that. She did.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘I told her what it was like.’

‘And?’

‘She laughed at me! Then she said, ‘When you know what you’re talking about, Squire, come let me know. I’m curious.’ Then she went back to kissing me, and moving around against me so I thought I was going to burst! Then Abigail came running over and said Marcus was coming, and they hurried off.’

‘Amazing,’ observed Nicholas, his anger and frustration vanishing before his astonishment at his unusual cousin Margaret.

‘She’s that,’ Harry said.

‘You still think you’re in love?’ Nicholas asked jokingly.

‘My stomach hurts worse than ever, but …’

‘What?’

‘Your cousin Margaret is really scary.’

Nicholas laughed and bade Harry good night. As he returned to his own quarters, he lapsed into a memory of soft lips, warm perfume, and the most incredible eyes he had ever beheld. His body warmed at the memory. And his stomach hurt like mad.

• CHAPTER SIX •
Raid

MARTIN SIGNALED.

The party halted as he turned and said, ‘All of you wait here a bit. There’s something ahead.’

The two boys were glad of the halt. They were footsore and tired. They had left the boundary of Crydee town at dawn. Martin had been teaching the two city boys something of wood lore, so they were moving on foot the entire way. Their destination was another day’s walk away, the banks of the river Crydee. They waited with Nakor and Ghuda while Martin and Marcus moved into the woods, vanishing silently. ‘How do they do that?’ asked Nicholas.

Huntmaster Garret said, ‘Your uncle was raised by the elves as much as by the monks at Silban’s Abbey who found him, and he’s taught Marcus and myself everything we know.’ Nicholas had met the Duke’s Huntmaster Garret for the first time the night before.

Nakor waved absently at the woodlands and said, ‘We’re being watched.’

Ghuda, his hand resting absently on his sword, said, ‘For about half an hour.’

Neither sounded concerned. Nicholas glanced around, while Harry said, ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘You have to know where to look,’ said a voice from their left.

A young man emerged from the woodlands, his movements as stealthy as Martin’s and Marcus’s. ‘And it’s been closer to an hour,’ he added. He was dressed in leather tunic and trousers dyed deep green. His hair was blond, but rather than the pale straw color of Anthony’s, it was nearly sun-golden. It hung to shoulder-length, but was cut at the sides, revealing lobeless but otherwise normal ears. His eyes were blue, but almost too pale, and his movement hinted at tremendous power, despite his slight frame.

Then with a grin that made him look years younger he said, ‘This is a game with Martin and us.’

‘Us?’ asked Nicholas.

The boy signaled and another three figures emerged from the woodlands, and Nicholas said, ‘Elves!’

The young human said, ‘I am Calis.’

The three elves stood silently nearby, then one turned suddenly as Martin and the others appeared. With a half-smile, Marcus said, ‘You didn’t think we were fooled by that false trail, did you?’

Martin made what looked to be slight gestures to the elves, who nodded slightly, or raised an eyebrow. Garret whispered to Nicholas and the others, ‘They have a subtle speech with few words when they want.’

Then Martin spoke aloud. ‘This is Nicholas, son of my brother, Arutha, and his companions, Harry of Ludland, Nakor the Isalani, and Ghuda Bulé from Kesh.’

Calis bowed and said, ‘Greetings. Are you bound for Elvandar?’

Martin shook his head. ‘No. Garret returned to the castle yesterday, carrying news that you were south of the river, so I thought it a good excuse to have you meet my nephew while we hunted. Perhaps in the future I’ll bring Nicholas to your court.’

‘And me,’ said Nakor.

Calis smiled and scratched his temple, his hand brushing back his long hair. Nicholas was surprised that Calis looked and sounded entirely human.

Martin frowned slightly, but Nakor said, ‘I have never talked to a Spellweaver before and would like to.’

Calis and Martin exchanged glances, but it was Nakor who continued to speak. ‘Yes, I know about your Spell-weavers, and no, I am not a magician.’

The three stood seemingly motionless for a moment, then Calis grinned. ‘How do you know so much?’

Nakor shrugged and said, ‘I pay attention when other people are babbling. You can learn a lot when you shut up.’ Reaching into his ever present bag, he said, ‘Want an orange?’

Producing four pieces of fruit, he tossed them to Calis and the elves. Calis bit into the fruit and tore away a bit of peel, then sucked the juice. ‘I haven’t had an orange since the last time I visited Crydee.’

The other elves sampled the fruit and nodded their appreciation to Nakor. Harry said, ‘I wish I could figure out how you can fit so many oranges into that bag.’

Nakor began to speak, but Nicholas interrupted: ‘I know. It’s a trick.’

Nakor laughed. ‘Maybe someday I’ll show you.’

Martin said, ‘Why has your Queen sent you south of river Crydee?’

‘We’re growing lax in our patrols, Lord Martin. Things have been peaceful too long on our borders.’

‘Trouble?’ said Martin, instantly alert.

Calis shrugged. ‘Not to talk about. A moredhel band crossed the river to the east of our borders a few months ago, heading south at great speed, but they did not trespass upon our lands, so we left them in peace.’ Nicholas knew of the elves’ dark cousins, called the Brotherhood of the Dark Path by humans. Their last rising had been broken at the Battle of Sethanon. ‘Tathar and the other Spellweavers speak of vague echoes of dark powers, but they can sense nothing that threatens us directly. So we mount more active patrols and venture farther from home than we have for years.’

‘Anything else?’

Calis said, ‘One report of a strange sighting near your new fortress up at Barran, near the river Sodina. Someone beached a long boat in the mouth of the river one night a few weeks ago. We found marks in the mud and tracks of men coming and going.’

Martin’s face reflected his consideration as he was silent for a moment. ‘No smuggler would be willing to come that close to a garrison; besides, there’s no one to trade with that far to the north.’

Marcus said, ‘Scouts?’

‘For whom?’ asked Nicholas.

Martin said, ‘We’ve no neighbors to the north, save goblins and moredhel. And they’ve been quiet since Sethanon.’

‘Not too quiet,’ said Calis. ‘We’ve had a few skirmishes along the northern borders of Elvandar.’

Marcus said, ‘Are they preparing to invade again?’

Calis said, ‘There’s no pattern to it. Father rode out and thinks it’s nothing more than migrations due to failed crops or clan wars. He sent word to the dwarves at Stone Mountain that they may have unwelcome neighbors soon.’

Suddenly Nicholas made the connection: this was Megar and Magya’s grandson! His father was Tomas, the legendary warrior from the Riftwar.

Martin nodded. ‘We’ll send word to Dolgan that they may be returning to the Grey Towers as well. It’s been more than thirty years since the great migration; the moredhel may be returning to their abandoned homelands.’

‘Thirty years is not very long as elvenkind counts time,’ observed Garret.

Marcus said, ‘To have the Dark Brothers in the Grey Towers and the Green Heart again would mean serious trouble.’

‘We send word to the commander at Jonril as well,’ said Martin. ‘If the Dark Brothers establish villages in the Green Heart, every caravan and mule train from Carse to Crydee is at risk.’

Marcus glanced around. ‘We should make camp, Father. The light is failing.’

Martin said, ‘Calis, will you join us?’

Calis glanced at the sky, noticing the fading light, then at his companions, who seemed to Nicholas to remain motionless, but after a moment he said, ‘We’d be pleased to share the fire with you.’

Turning to Nicholas and Harry, Martin said, ‘Better start gathering firewood, Squires. We make camp.’

Harry and Nicholas glanced at each other, but both knew it was futile to ask where one finds firewood. They moved away from the clearing and began looking about. Many fallen branches and some dead trees were in sight. As Nicholas started to pick out a deadfall, a hand touched him upon the shoulder. Nearly jumping straight up, he turned to find Marcus behind him, holding out a hatchet. ‘This might be easier than trying to chew through the branches,’ he said. He handed another to Harry.

Feeling foolish, Nicholas watched his cousin return to the others. He said, ‘Sometimes I could really learn to hate him.’

Harry began chopping at the deadfall. ‘He doesn’t seem overly fond of you, either.’

‘I have half a mind to take Abigail and return to Krondor with Amos.’

Harry laughed. ‘Oh, what I’d give to be a fly on the wall when you explain that to your father.’

Nicholas fell silent as he continued to hack away at the wood. When a full armload was ready, they gathered it up and returned to the clearing. Martin had already begun a fire with twigs and some moss, and fed the branches into the flames. ‘Good, this is a fine start. Bring us three times that, and we’ll have wood for the night.’

With a barely hidden groan, the dirty and sweating Squires returned to the deadfall and resumed hacking.

The sentry leaned out of the tower. Something was moving across the water into the harbor mouth. His station at the top of Longpoint lighthouse was the most vital post in the Duchy, as Crydee was more vulnerable from the sea than from any other quarter, a lesson hard learned during the Riftwar. The Tsurani had burned half the village with fewer than thirty men.

Then he saw: six low shapes gliding across the water. Each shallow boat was rowed by a dozen men, with another dozen standing in the middle, armed and ready.

The soldier had orders to toss a pot of special powder on the fire that would turn the flames bright red; then he was to strike a gong. Reivers were entering the harbor! As he turned, a line snapped out, weighted at one end, and before he could take another step, his neck was broken.

The assassin had concealed himself beneath the window of the tower, crouching low upon a support beam, barely two inches of which protruded beyond the stone. He quickly pulled himself into the window and removed the metal hooks he had used to climb the wall by embedding their points in the mortar between the stones. He hurried down the winding stairs, killing two more guards along the way. Three men served each night in the tower, with another three in a small guard shack at the base. As he reached the shack, the assassin saw three bodies slumped over a table, while a pair of black-clad forms moved away. He quickly overtook them, and the three killers hurried along the causeway of land called Longpoint that led from the town to the lighthouse. One of the black-garbed killers glanced toward the harbor. Another dozen pinnaces followed the first six, and the raid would soon begin in earnest. Still no alarm sounded, and all was proceeding as planned.

Longpoint broadened, with a low dock on one side and shops and storage buildings on the other. Silent ships rested alongside the quay, with half-alert sentries dozing upon their quarterdecks. A door opened as the three assassins passed, and the last patron of a dockside inn stumbled out. He was dead before he took two steps, as was the innkeeper who had shown him the door. One of the three killers glanced through the door, and the innkeeper’s wife died from an expertly thrown knife before she realized it was a stranger in the doorway instead of her husband.

They would fire the docks and destroy the ships at anchor, but not yet. It would alert the castle, and if the raid was to succeed, the garrison must not be roused until after the keep gates were opened.

The three killers reached the main docks. They passed one last ship in its berth and saw movement at the bow. One assassin drew back a throwing knife, ready to kill any who might give alarm too soon, but a familiar black-clad figure waved once, and climbed over the rail, shinnying down the bowline to join his three companions. The guards on that ship were now all dead. They continued south along the docks, to where they found the small boats pulling in. Two other black-garbed men waited. They kept their distance from the armed men who now silently climbed up from the shallow boats tied off below. This was a murderous crew, men of no loyalty and one goal: killing and booty. The six men in black felt no kinship with these brigands.

But even these hardened men stepped away in dread to clear a path for the hooded and robed figure who climbed up from the last boat. He motioned toward the castle, and the six dark assassins sped up the road toward the keep. Their task was to climb the walls and open the gates. All other considerations were to wait for the breach of the final defense of Crydee.

The robed man beckoned and a small group stepped away from the main force. This band he had picked to be the first through the gate. They were the men he judged most likely to keep their wits and follow orders during the first frenzied moments of combat. But to drive home their instructions, he said, ‘Remember, your orders. If any man breaks my commands, I will personally cut out his liver and eat it before life fades from his eyes.’ He smiled, and even the hardest of these men felt a chill, for the man’s teeth had been filed to points, the mark of a Skashakan cannibal. The leader threw back his hood, revealing a head devoid of hair. His massive brow was close to a deformity, as was his protruding jaw. Each earlobe had been pierced and stretched until long loops of flesh hung to his shoulders, with gold fetishes tied to the loops. A golden ring decorated his nose, and his fair skin was covered in purple tattoos, which made his blue eyes even more startling and terrifying.

The captain glanced back into the harbor, where the third wave of pinnaces should be approaching, another three hundred men. Silence was less a problem for the third wave, as he fully expected the alarm to sound before the third band of raiders reached the docks.

Another man approached and said, ‘Captain, everyone is in place.’

To the group nearest to him he said, ‘Go, the gates will be open when you reach them. Hold or die.’

To the man who had approached he said, ‘Does everyone understand the orders?’

The man nodded. ‘Yes. They can kill the old men and old women, and any children too young to survive the journey, but everyone who is young and healthy is to be captured, not killed.’

‘And the girls?’

‘The men don’t like it, Captain. A little rape is part of the caper. Some say it’s the best part,’ he added with a smirk.

The captain’s hand shot out and gripped the man’s shirt. Pulling him close enough so his sick-sweet breath filled the man’s nostrils, he spoke in tones of low menace. ‘Vasarius, you have your orders.’ He pushed the man roughly away and pointed to where a half-dozen men stood silently observing. Cross-gartered sandals too light for these cooler climates were all the protection afforded their feet, and except for the black leather harnesses that formed an H on back and chest, and leather masks covering their faces, they wore no clothing save black leather kilts. They stood motionless in the cool night air, ignoring whatever discomfort the other men might have felt. They were slavers from the guild in Durbin, and their reputations were enough to cow even as hard a crew as Captain Render’s band of cut-throats.

Render said, ‘Well enough I know who put that complaint in the men’s minds. You’re too hungry for the feel of young girls’ flesh to make a good slaver, Quegan, so mark this: if one of these maidens is violated, I will kill the offending man and take your head for good measure. With your share of the gold you can buy yourself a dozen young girls once you reach Kesh. Now see to your men!’ He shoved the Quegan pirate away and turned to the remaining reivers, who stood ready to attack.

He held his hand aloft, signaling the men on the docks to be quiet. They waited for the sound of battle to reach them. Long moments passed, then suddenly an alarm sounded from the keep. The pirate captain signaled and the assembled throng of cut-throats roared as one and sped into the town. Within minutes, flames were lighting the night, as torches were put to strategic buildings.

Captain Render howled a delighted laugh, knowing that the once peaceful town of Crydee was dissolving into chaos. He was in his element, and like the master of ceremonies at a grand palace gala, he delighted in every aspect of the event unfolding as planned. Pulling his own sword from its scabbard, he turned and raced after his charging men, intent on getting his fair share of the murder.

Briana’s eyes opened. Something was wrong. A child of Armengar, a city of constant warfare, she had learned to sleep in armor with a sword in her hand before reaching womanhood. Past sixty years of age, she still moved out of her bed with the fluid grace of a woman half her age. Without thought, she drew her sword from the scabbard that hung from the wall peg closest to her dressing table. Clad only in a thin nightshirt, her grey hair tumbling around her shoulders, she moved toward the door of her suite.

A scream echoed down the hall and Briana hurried toward the door. It opened as she reached for it, and she leaped back, her sword coming up. Before her stood a stranger, holding a sword leveled in her direction. A rough voice shouted from down the corridor and the distant sounds of fighting came from somewhere else in the keep. The figure in the door showed no features, as another stood behind him holding a torch, rendering the first man in silhouette. Briana brought her sword up, shifted her stance, and waited.

The shadowy figure stepped forward: a short man with close-cropped blond hair, his blue eyes half-mad under heavy brows as he grinned at her. ‘Just a grandmother with a sword,’ he complained, his voice almost a whine. ‘Too old to sell. I’ll kill her.’ He lashed out with his sword. The Duchess parried easily, slipping her blade around his and running up inside his guard to catch him under the arm in a swift killing blow.

‘She’s killed Little Harold!’ cried the man holding the torch. Three men rushed forward past the torchbearer, fanning out. Briana stepped back, keeping her eyes on the centermost, while remaining aware of the other two. She knew the center opponent was likely to feign attack, while the true attack would come from one or both of the men on the flanks. Her only hope was that these men were not practiced in fighting in a coordinated fashion and would inconvenience one another.

As she anticipated, the center swordsman leaped forward and then back. The man on her left, her weakest side, was moving toward her, his massive cutlass held high for a slashing bow. Briana ducked under his blade, impaling him on her sword point. As the man’s legs went rubbery, she gripped his free hand with her own. Swinging him to her right, she propelled him into the path of the attacker on the right.

The center attacker was the next to die, as he fully expected her to be occupied by his companions and did not anticipate her attack. Briana’s sword lashed out, taking him in the throat, and he stumbled back, unable to make a sound as blood fountained from the gaping wound under his chin. The last man died as he tried to free himself from the body of his companion, a slashing blow to the back of his exposed neck killing him instantly.

Briana reached down and freed a long dagger from the belt of the last man to die, as she knew she would have no time to don armor or find a shield. The raider who stood before the door holding the torch was watching down the hall, expecting the other three to have finished the lone woman in her chamber. He died before he had time to turn and see if the murder was done.

The dying man fell atop his torch, extinguishing it. Briana turned in shock as the hallway remained lighted. Angry red and yellow light illuminated the corridor, and she saw that the far end of the hall was ablaze. A scream caused Briana to turn from the flames and run as fast as she could toward her daughter’s rooms.

Bare feet slapped on flagstones as the Duchess of Crydee raced to the far end of the hall. There Abigail crouched in a doorway, her nightgown half torn from her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear and she screamed again. At her feet lay a dead raider, and at her side Margaret crouched, a long dagger held ready to defend herself. A wounded man eyed her warily, and Margaret never acknowledged her mother’s approach, so as not to give the man warning. He died a second later as Briana struck him from behind.

Margaret grabbed the fallen man’s sword and felt its balance. Abigail rose, and Margaret thrust the dagger at her, hilt first.

Abigail looked down at the bloody weapon and reached to take it, then clutched at failing fabric as the nightdress slipped down off her shoulder.

‘Damn it, Abigail, worry about your modesty later! If you live long enough.’

Abigail took the dagger, and the torn nightgown fell to her waist. She covered her breasts with her left arm and awkwardly gripped the bloody hilt. Then she grabbed the fabric of her gown and tried to cover herself.

Briana pointed down the hallway, saying, ‘For them to be here, they’ve already killed our soldiers on the lower floors. If we can hold at the tower until the rest of the garrison fights its way from the barracks to the keep, we may survive.’

The three women headed toward the far door, to the southern tower of the keep. But before they were halfway to the door, a half-dozen men came into view. Briana halted and motioned for her daughter and Abigail to move back toward their quarters, as she stood ready to defend them.

Margaret took one step and halted as more men came into view behind them. She spun, back to back with her mother, and said, ‘We can’t.’

Briana glanced behind her, then said, ‘Try to hold as long as you can.’

Margaret pushed Abigail to her left, saying, ‘They will try to come at me from my weak side.’ When Abigail looked confused, she said, ‘My left side! Don’t worry about your right. Stab at anything that moves on your left.’

The frightened girl awkwardly held the blade out, her knuckles white from holding it so tight. Her left arm pressed hard across her chest, holding up the top of her tattered nightdress. The men at both ends of the hall approached warily. They stopped out of sword range and waited.

Then those facing Margaret and Abigail moved aside, to let three large men in black masks come to the fore. The leader of the three looked at the women a long moment and said, ‘Kill the old one, but do not harm the two young ones.’

With unexpected speed, one of the three men lashed out underhand with a heavy black whip. The slaver’s strap snaked toward Margaret’s sword arm. She instinctively twisted her wrist in a downward parry, but this was not a blade she attempted to block. The cord turned over in a serpentine and suddenly snapped around her arm, the stinging impact bringing a gasp from her. Rough leather closed down on her forearm as the large slaver pulled hard on the whip. Margaret was a strong young woman, but she was pulled off balance, yelling as she fell.

Briana spun around to see what was wrong with her daughter, and found Abigail staring, eyes wide with terror, as Margaret was dragged along the floor by the big slaver. Briana leaped forward, blade slashing down, trying to sever the whip.

Margaret rolled on her back, yelling to Abigail, ‘Cut it!’

Then she saw Briana’s eyes widen. Behind her stood a raider, and Margaret knew he had seized the moment to strike from behind. ‘Abby! Cut the cord!’ screamed Margaret, but her companion could only huddle in fear, pressing her back to the wall.

‘Mother!’ screamed Margaret as Briana fell to her knees. Another man stepped up behind the first and grabbed the Duchess by her hair, pulling her head back for a killing blow. Briana reversed her sword and thrust backward hard. The man holding her hair screamed in agony, doubling over as blood fountained through his fingers while he clutched at his groin.

The man who had struck Briana first didn’t hesitate. He drew back his sword and plunged it hard once again into her back. Rough hands grabbed Margaret’s arm and twisted it cruelly, forcing her to release the sword. ‘Mother!’ she screamed again as Briana’s eyes went vacant and she fell forward onto the stone floor.

The third slaver rushed forward and grabbed Abigail by the hair, yanking her roughly up, forcing her to stand on tiptoe. She screamed in terror and the dagger fell from her hand as she reached upward to relieve the pain of being pulled up by her tresses, and her gown fell to her waist.

The men howled and laughed in delight at the sight of her bare breasts. One started to move toward her, stepping over the still body of the Duchess, and the first slaver shouted, ‘Touch her and die!’

Two men hauled Margaret, kicking and clawing, up off the floor and quickly tied the girl’s wrists, then hobbled her feet so she couldn’t kick out. The slaver who had used his whip on her slid a wooden rod through the cords around her wrists and ordered the two men to hold her up. Margaret, like Abigail, had to stand on tiptoe, which gave her little opportunity to resist. The leader of slavers reached out and ripped the bodice of Margaret’s gown. She spat at him, but he ignored the spittle upon his black mask. Gripping the waistband, he tore away the remaining cloth and she stood naked before him. With a practiced eye, he inspected her. He touched her small breasts, and ran his hand down her flat stomach. ‘Turn her,’ he commanded. The two men turned Margaret to face away from the slaver. The slaver ran his hand down her back; there was nothing intimate in the touch. He inspected her the way a horse trader inspected a potential purchase. He fondled her buttocks and ran his hand down long legs that were well muscled from riding and running. With a satisfied grunt, he said, ‘This one isn’t pretty, but she is steel under that velvet skin. There’s a market for strong girls who can fight. Some buyers like them mean and rough. Or she may earn her life fighting in the arena.’

He then looked back at Abigail. He motioned and another slaver tore away all her gown. The men laughed appreciatively at the sight of the rest of her body, and several complained openly about not being able to take her right there.

The slaver’s eyes lingered over Abigail’s full young form, and he said, ‘That one is unusually beautiful. She will fetch twenty-five thousand golden ecus, perhaps as high as fifty if she’s a virgin.’ Some of the men laughed and others whistled at the amount; it was more wealth than they could imagine. ‘Wrap them both so there are no marks on their skin. If I see so much as a scratch that wasn’t here this moment, I’ll know they were not cared for and I will kill the man who marks them.’

The two other slavers produced soft shapeless robes that were fashioned so they could be tied over the shoulders and around the neck, so the captives could be covered without their arms and legs being freed. Abigail wept openly and Margaret continued to struggle as rough hands lingered while they covered the girls. One of the men still fondled Abigail even after the robe was properly tied.

‘Enough!’ shouted the slaver. ‘You’ll be getting ideas before long, and then I shall have to kill you!’ Pointing at the men who had blocked the way to the tower, he said, ‘Finish your search.’

The man on the floor moaned in pain, and the slaver glanced back at him as Abigail had her hands tied to a pole above her head. ‘Nothing can be done. Kill him.’

One of his companions said, ‘Sorry, Tall John. We’ll use your share of the gold to hoist a drink in your name,’ and cut the man’s throat expertly. As life fled from the dying man’s eyes, the one who killed him wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic and said in a friendly way, ‘See you in hell someday.’

A man ran from the far end of the hallway, shouting, ‘The fire’s spreading!’

‘We leave!’ commanded the slaver. He led the band and their two captives away. Tied to a pole, the ends carried upon the shoulder of a man in front of and one behind her, and with her feet hobbled, Margaret still refused to come along meekly. She gripped the pole and kicked with both feet at the man behind her, sending him to the floor. She lost her footing and found herself sitting upon the flagstone staring backward. The lead slaver shouted, ‘Carry her if you must.’ Quickly her feet were tied to the pole, and she was hanging like a trophy animal. As she was picked up, she could see back into the hall. Through eyes filled with tears of rage and sorrow she saw her mother lying facedown on cold stones, her blood pooling around her.

A grunt of irritation woke Nicholas, and then he was aware of a questioning voice. ‘What?’

The boy rose, and in the dim moonlight he saw Nakor standing over Martin, shaking his shoulder. ‘We must leave. Now!’

Marcus and the others were also waking and Nicholas reached over and gave Harry a shake. Harry’s eyes opened instantly and he said, ‘Huh?’ in a cross tone.

Martin said, ‘What is it?’

Nakor turned his back, gazing to the southeast. ‘Something bad. There.’ He pointed.

In the night sky a faint glow could be seen.

‘What is it?’ asked Harry.

Martin was on his feet, quickly gathering his belongings. ‘Fire’ was all he said.

Calis spoke quickly to the three elves. One nodded and all three hurried off into the early morning darkness. Calis turned to Martin. ‘I’ll come with you. This may have something to do with those odd sightings.’

Martin only nodded, and Nicholas was suddenly aware that he was almost ready to travel, as was Marcus. Poking Harry, Nicholas said, ‘We’re going to be left behind if we don’t jump!’

The two Squires quickly gathered up their belongings, and by the time they were ready to move, Martin and Marcus had already left the clearing, Calis at their side. Garret said, ‘I’ll make sure you get back safely, but Lord Martin couldn’t wait.’

Nicholas understood; there had been a grim focus of purpose in Martin’s reaction to the light in the sky. For a fire to be that large, to illuminate the heavens enough to be seen a half day’s march away, would mean terrible destruction, either to the woodlands near the town, or to the town itself.

Ghuda and Nakor waited for the boys, then the five remaining members of the hunting party headed off. Garret said, ‘Keep in a single line behind me, all of you. I’ll stay on the trail, but there are still many places to hurt yourself in the dark if you’re not careful. If I go too fast for any of you to keep up, call out.’

‘Want a light?’ asked Nakor.

‘No,’ answered Garret. ‘A torch or lantern won’t light far enough to help and would make it harder to see ahead into the woods.’

‘No, I mean a good light!’ said the little man. He opened his bag and pulled out a ball that he tossed into the air. Rather than come down, the ball spun and began to glow, first faintly, then with increasing brilliance. As it grew brighter, it rose until it hung fifteen feet above their heads, illuminating the woodland trail for a hundred yards ahead and behind.

Garret glanced at the blue-white object, shook his head, and said, ‘Let’s go.’

He set off at a fast trot, not quite a run, and the others kept pace. They hurried through the woodlands, illuminated to stark contrast and absolute black shadows by the alien glow. Nicholas expected they would overtake Martin and the others quickly, but they never did.

The journey became a series of seemingly unconnected images of a brilliantly lit pathway leading into the blackness, with occasional obstacles, a deadfall to climb over, a small stream to be leaped, or a rock outcropping to be skirted. Still tired from the previous day’s march and interrupted sleep, Nicholas fought back the urge to ask for a halt. His nerves jangled with fatigue and tension; Martin’s and Marcus’s faces had been grim masks, expressions he had never seen before, and he felt his stomach knotting in dread anticipation.

The minutes ground away to hours, and at some point Nicholas became aware that Nakor’s light was gone, and the entire woodland was illuminated by the grey dawn. This close to the coast, the light from the east was diffused by ocean-born mists carried inland through the valleys and dells surrounding Crydee. Nicholas knew that the haze would burn off around midmorning if the day did not remain overcast.

Later, Garret called a halt and Nicholas leaned against a tree. He was drenched in perspiration, and his left foot throbbed from exertion and changes in the weather. Absently, he said, ‘There’s a storm coming.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.