Prince of the Blood (58 page)

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 a 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 …?”