Prince of the Blood (30 page)

The chariot driver was about to start the horses on their way again when the charioteer pulled the whip out of his hand. As if anticipating the move, the warrior wheeled about as the leather lash sang through the air and let it catch upon a leather bracer he wore on his left arm. Quickly grabbing the whip, he yanked hard and almost pulled the charioteer over the side of his chariot. Then
just as the man was regaining his balance, the mercenary drew one of his two long dirks and cut the lash. The charioteer fell backward and almost went over the other side. As the angry charioteer started to right himself again, the mercenary struck the nearest horse on the flank, shouting “Ya!” at the top of his lungs. Caught unawares, the driver was barely able to pull them around and head them down the street without driving through a packed mob of merchants and shoppers.

Laughter filled the boulevard as the enraged charioteer called back curses upon the large warrior. The warrior watched the departing chariot, then entered the ale shop and came to stand beside Suli.

“Ale,” he said, putting down what he had picked up in the street. It was a copper coin.

Borric shook his head. “You were almost run down because you stopped to pick up a copper?”

The man removed his metal helmet, revealing damp hair clinging to his head, where he had hair, for the man was at least in his forties or fifties and had lost most of the hair on top. “You can’t take the chance of waiting, friend,” he said slowly, his accent giving him a full-mouth sound as he spoke, as if he was speaking around cotton wadded in his cheeks. “That’s five luni; it’s more money than I’ve seen in a month.”

Something in his accent sounded familiar to Borric’s ear, and he said, “Are you from the Isles?”

The man shook his head. “Langost, a town in the foothills of the Peaks of Tranquillity. Our people were from Isles stock, though. My grandfather’s father was from Deep Taunton. I take it you’re from the Isles?”

Borric shrugged as if it really didn’t matter. “Most recently from Durbin,” he said. “But before that I was in the Isles.”

“Farafra isn’t paradise, but it’s a better place than that pesthole Durbin.” The man stuck out his hand “Ghuda
Bulé, caravan guard, late of Hansulé, and before that Gwalin, and before that Ishlana.”

Borric shook the man’s hand, heavily callused from years handling both sword and livestock. “My friends call me Madman,” he said with a grin. “This is Suli.”

Suli solemnly shook hands with the fighter, as if one among equals.

“Madman? Must be a story about that name, or didn’t your father like you?”

Borric laughed. “No, I did some crazy things once and the name stuck.” Borric shook his head. “Caravan guard? That would explain why you knew how to move those chariot horses.”

The man smiled, little more than curling his lip slightly, but his blue eyes danced. “Charioteers and their drivers give me gas. And one thing I do know about horses is that when someone is pushing on their faces, they don’t like it and will back up. You can try that with a fool wiggling their reins and trying to flick a whip behind their ear, but I wouldn’t try it with a rider on their back with a strong leg and a pair of spurs.” He chuckled. “Pretty stupid, wasn’t it?”

Borric laughed. “Yes, it was.”

Ghuda Bulé drained the last of the ale from his cup and said, “Well, best be off to the caravansary. My most recent woman threw me out of her crib this morning when she finally figured out I wasn’t going to marry her and get a job in the city, after all. So, I’m without funds and that means time to find work. Besides, I’ve about had my fill of Farafra and could do with a change of scenery. Good day to you both.”

Borric hesitated an instant, then said, “Let me buy you one.”

Ghuda put the helm he had just retrieved back on the bar. “You talked me into it, Madman.”

Borric ordered another round. When the barkeep had
put the drinks down, Borric turned to the mercenary and said, “I need to get to the city of Kesh, Ghuda.”

Ghuda turned about as if looking to see where he was. “Well, first walk that way,” he said, pointing down the street, “until you reach the southern tip of the Spires of Light—it’s a large mountain range; you’ll notice them right away. Then turn left to bend around them, then right where the River Sarné runs along the north tip of the Guardians. Follow the river to a place on the Overn Deep where a lot of people live, and that’s the city of Kesh. Can’t miss it; big palace on top of a plateau, more truebloods than a dog has fleas running around. If you start now, you should get there in six or eight weeks.”

“Thanks,” said Borric dryly. “I mean I need to get there and I’d like to hire on a caravan heading that way.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ghuda noncommittally, nodding.

“And it would help if I had someone known around here to vouch for me.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ghuda. “So you’d like me to take you along to the caravansary and tell some unsuspecting caravan master that you’re my old friend from home, a truly cracking good swordsman, who, by the way, is called the Madman.”

Borric closed his eyes as if he had a headache. “Not quite.”

“Look, friend, I thank you for the drink, but that doesn’t entitle you to risk my good name by making recommendations that are bound to reflect badly on me in time.”

Borric said, “Wait a minute! Who said it would reflect badly on you? I’m a competent swordsman.”

“Without a sword?”

Borric shrugged. “That’s a long story.”

“It always is.” Ghuda picked up his helm and put it crookedly upon his head. “Sorry.”

“I’ll pay you.”

Ghuda took his helmet off and put it back on the bar. He signaled to the barman for another round. “Well, then, let’s cut to the heart of it. Reputations have a certain value, don’t they? What do you suggest?”

“What will you earn on a trip from here to Kesh?”

Ghuda considered. “It’s a pretty uneventful route, well patrolled by the army, so there’s little pay, which is why there are always caravans needing guards. A large caravan, perhaps ten ecu. A small one, five. And food on the trip of course. Maybe a bonus if there are bandits along the way we have to fight.”

Borric did a quick calculation in his head—he could only think in terms of Kingdom coins—and reviewed the money he had in his purse from Salaya and his poker winnings on ship. “I’ll tell you what. Get the three of us hired on to guard a caravan and I’ll double whatever is paid you.”

“Let me get this right: we get you on a caravan to Kesh and you’ll give me your wages when we get there?”

“That’s right.”

“No,” he said, drinking down his ale. “What guarantee do I have you’ll not skip out with the money before I can collect?”

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

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

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

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

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

Suli just nodded, bleary-eyed. “Cook.”

“But can you handle a blade, Madman?” asked Ghuda, seriously.

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

Ghuda’s eyes widened. “That’s a boast!”

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

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

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

The barman shouted, “Here you two! Stop breaking up my shop!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Through bleary eyes, the boy said, “Master, why is the room spinning?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, O Master of Ten Thousand Lice, is a Good Luck Cook?”

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

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

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

“And how did the cook survive?”

“He was squatting a few feet away.”

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

“I killed the bastard for almost poisoning me.”

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