Too Many Princes (4 page)

Brastigan glanced up. He hadn't been mistaken. There was a current of suppressed alarm in his half-brother's voice.

“
I don't know,
”
he replied softly, for Habrok alone to hear.
“
But if I were just a bit slower, you'd be carrying me home on a table. You might ask Stam to keep an eye out for a man with an empty sheath. I'm taking this up to show Eben. If anyone can find out where it came from, he can.
”

Habrok might be slow, but he wasn't stupid. No less than four of King Unferth's illegitimate sons had died within the past year. Aric had been killed by bandits, Mathas choked on a bone, Rickard in a hunting accident, and young Luvan drowned while fishing on the Great Bay. Brastigan would have been the fifth. Given his well-known liking for such places as the Dead Donkey, who would have questioned it? Nevertheless, the surviving Princes of Crutham were watching each other's backsides these days.

“
I'll stay myself and see what I can find out,
”
Habrok decided. He gave Brastigan a clout on the shoulder that fairly knocked him over.
“
You get up to the keep. It took me almost an hour to find you.
”

Brastigan grimaced, but stepped off the porch.

“
And make yourself presentable,
”
Habrok called after him.
“
It's for official business.
”

Brastigan glared over his shoulder.
“
The only time I ever see our father is for official business,
”
he growled, not really meaning Habrok to hear.

It didn't matter. His half-brother was already plowing a path back into the inn. A pair of soldiers passed him on the way out, unceremoniously dumping an unconscious man into the horse trough just outside the alehouse. The resulting fountain of water restored Brastigan's humor somewhat.

* * *

The most important thing in Harburg was the great, gray keep. There lived King Unferth of Crutham with his wife, several consorts and numerous offspring. Theirs was a sizable court, bustling with soldiers, officials, servants and assorted other hangers-on. Not surprisingly, since it housed all these people—and their chickens, pigs, cows, horses, goats, dogs and falcons—the keep was easily the largest thing in Harburg. That wasn't saying a lot. Crutham wasn't much as kingdoms went. Queen Alustra had pointed this out to her husband on more than one occasion.

The keep was built from the gray stones of the craggy mountains that loomed behind it. It stood on a promontory overlooking the rolling plains of Daraine. From the uppermost tower, one could see well in every direction. Alas, there was little more to see than mountains. Mountains to the north, in Verelay. Mountains to the south, in Gerfalkan. Mountains in Firice and Begatt. Crutham would have been twice the size if so much of it weren't vertical. They weren't even wild or dangerous mountains, but sad old peaks, worn down like the teeth of an aged dragon. To the west, the sea ran out and away. Far, far across the Great Bay was the desolate coast of Urland. That was where the
real
mountains lived.

The city swirled, like a raggedy skirt, out from the knees of the keep. Neither looked as though it had been washed in quite a few years. Thus, Harburg was known to be very strong, and in more than one sense of the word. Especially so on an afternoon in spring, with the day almost visibly lengthening toward summer.

Long legs carried Brastigan rapidly down the street. He skirted vendors and heaps of refuse. The common folk gave way before him, and not just because of the knife he bore. His lips twitched in what could have been a grin but wasn't. Brastigan swished his dark mane and stalked on.

All his life, Brastigan had been a misfit. He wasn't one of them; he didn't belong. Oh, he hadn't been told in so many words. No one dared insult a prince that way. But any reasonably intelligent boy would have taken their meaning. His mother had been a foreigner, Leithan by name. A wellborn lady, or what passed for it among the Urulai. Accepting concubinage to King Unferth had been the price of safety for the tattered remnant of her people who'd fought their way free when Sillets conquered Urland.

Leithan had died when he was young. Some said she had been poisoned by Queen Alustra. Personally, Brastigan didn't believe it. He couldn't imagine stuffy Alustra being so overcome by jealousy that she plotted against another woman's life. That would have required emotion, of which he doubted the bitch was capable. Except where matters touched Oskar, her only son—but he was a different problem.

All of this was meaningless, of course. Brastigan's mother was so long dead he had never known her. His father was, to put it kindly, a loving man who had sired so many offspring he probably couldn't remember all their names. And Brastigan was a half-breed misfit who didn't have the sense to be ashamed of his differences.

His upbringing had been left to Joal, an old Urulai who'd been Leithan's servant during her life. In that respect, Brastigan had to admit he'd been luckier than he deserved. Joal had been both father and mother, had wiped his nose and his behind, washed his cuts, and paddled him when he needed it. It couldn't have been easy. Brastigan had been a wild brat, more beast than boy, but Joal had been like the mountains, everywhere and immovable. He was the one obstacle Brastigan could never get around.

Always, he'd been teaching. Oh, not reading, or any of that nonsense. On important subjects, Joal had taught Brastigan everything. Not just how to ride, but how to gentle a horse so that it served him out of love. Not just how to shoot from horseback, but how to make the bow he shot with. How to move silently, leaving no trace, and how to track one who didn't wish to be followed. How to hold his own against boys—and later men—twice his size. Brastigan was arguably the best swordsman in Crutham: maybe the best in the world. That was only part of the debt he owed to Joal.

Oh, there had been complaints. Queen Alustra, for one, hadn't approved of a savage Urulai being brought up in her court. Unferth hadn't seemed to care what Joal did, except when Brastigan was in trouble for one thing or another. Fortunately, he'd been all but eighteen when Joal stopped breathing one night. Brastigan scowled, remembering. Those had been bitter days. Then, despite himself, Brastigan's lips twitched into a smirk. It was lucky he'd been too old for any more fostering by then. He could have been stuck with some stodgy old lump of a nursemaid, like the one who'd badgered Lottres half to death, poor pup. Neither of them would have survived his adolescence!

A clatter of hooves on cobblestone jarred his thoughts. Brastigan looked around quickly, then relaxed as he remembered he hadn't done anything blameworthy. At least, not today. He was at the base of the ramp that led up to the keep, and a mounted patrol was coming down. Around him, commoners hurried out of the way. Brastigan toyed with the idea of standing where he was, forcing the riders to break around him. But no, he recognized the troop leader. The man had no sense of humor. Grudgingly, Brastigan stepped to the side of the road, concealing the dagger he still carried behind his arm. He shook his head at the ugliness of the passing chargers. Those weren't horses. They were barrels with legs! Finally they were gone, leaving only a few heaps of steaming dung to mark their passing. The waiting populace surged out into the street, and Brastigan with them.

The ramp wove twice across the face of the bluff below the keep. The rock walls were sheer, to prevent any attackers climbing up from below. At the first bend was a guardhouse, where Brastigan passed unchallenged. They knew him—there weren't many Urulai left in Harburg.

From that point, the ramp was walled. Anyone foolish enough to try fighting his way through would face a host of defenders and a dozen dirty tricks: concealed archers, boiling oil, caltrops, or worse. Siege warfare wasn't a pretty business. Brastigan hoped to avoid it for many years to come.

The ramp was steep. Brastigan kept an even pace, but he was sweating by the time he reached the top. Guards at the gatehouse questioned him about the dagger, although, being a prince, he could fairly well do what he wanted. Then it was into the gatehouse, under the barbed portcullis and the murder holes, and out into the yard.

Within the keep was a wide rectangle of packed earth, oriented west to east. The low dwellings of the servants were tucked under the northern wall. A planted garden occupied most of the western end, along with penned animals. Those provided the fresh morsels Queen Alustra demanded. Along the southern wall were interior barracks for the soldiers on duty. All roofs were of slate, a ward against fire.

On the eastern side was the high walled inner ward, where the king and queen dwelt with their personal attendants. Their quarters were finer than the rest, but not much larger. There wasn't enough room inside for all of the king's offspring, so additional housing had been constructed inside the southern wall. Brastigan made his way toward this.

At Queen Alustra's insistence, one wing of the two-storied dwelling was occupied only by men, including the princes and gentlemen of the court. The other wing was reserved for the king's daughters, who, since Luvan's untimely passing, outnumbered his sons.

Along the northern wall, the new Great Hall thrust out into the courtyard. Brastigan avoided that, since the royal court conducted most of its business there and it was always crowded. He toyed with the idea of cutting through the women's wing and seeing how much fuss he could stir up. Grinning, he reluctantly decided not. He angled his long strides toward the men's wing.

There always seemed to be someone loitering beneath the high, arched entry. Courtiers and toadies, Brastigan thought with an unconscious sneer. Today one of them hurried out to meet him. To his surprise and pleasure, he recognized a friend.

Lottres was another of Unferth's bastards, but he too was an odd one among them. Perhaps that was why he and Brastigan had become such friends. Brastigan's lanky height often outstripped that of the burly Cruthans, and he had his striking good looks to add insult to injury. No such good fortune had visited Lottres.

Folks said he had the look of Merowen, his dam. She had been a foreigner, too, the daughter of a diplomatic envoy from Forix. Lottres was shorter than almost everyone at court, including the ladies, and frankly scrawny. He had reddish brown hair that curled far too much. Muddy brown eyes were set in a face too finely drawn to be a man's. Even a thick fleece of beard couldn't hide that. At twenty, Lottres still had the gawky, unfinished look of a half-grown pup. He'd followed Brastigan around like one, too, starting when he was three and Brastigan five. Brastigan hadn't been too happy about it, but Joal had taken a liking to the younger lad. Under his patient tutelage, Lottres had slowly learned to manage his unruly limbs. He would never be a great swordsman, but he could defend himself. And in other ways, he was as gifted as Brastigan. If not for Lottres, Brastigan wouldn't have been able to do more than scrawl his own name.

So he genuinely smiled as Lottres scurried up to him.
“
Hello, Pup.
”

He hadn't slackened his pace, so Lottres was forced to whip around and follow.
“
Bras, we've been looking high and low. Where were you?
”

Brastigan shrugged.
“
Well, first I was at arms practice this morning.
”
He smirked.
“
Whipped the snot out of Tarther again, too. Then I had to try gentling that colt of Therula's.
”
He grimaced, and shook his head to toss black hair over his shoulders.
“
That nag isn't worth a heap of dung, but it's pretty, so she won't let go of it. After that, I needed some relaxation, so I went down to the low-town. Ran into a little trouble.
”

Brastigan flipped the dagger into the air, spun on his heel and caught it. Lottres ducked nervously. The courtiers by the door applauded politely. Brastigan managed not to sneer at them.

“
Worthless toadies,
”
he told Lottres in an undertone.
“
Come on. Let's go somewhere we can talk.
”

“
But Brastigan, Father wants us. Now!
”

“
He'll like me better when I've bathed,
”
Brastigan promised.

“
True,
”
Lottres retorted. Brastigan grinned and punched his shoulder lightly.

The courtiers bowed as they passed, a habit which never failed to grate on Brastigan's nerves. He swept through without acknowledging them as Lottres jogged to keep up. Just inside was a steep stairwell. One flight led downward, to the subterranean bath
-
house and stores. They took the other, upward, to the quarters of the junior princes and gentlemen of the king's household.

“
Brastigan, would you please slow down?
”
Lottres sounded slightly winded.
“
You know I can't keep up.
”

“
The exercise will make you strong,
”
Brastigan teased, but he did wait.

The long corridor was hushed, since most of the suites were empty at this time of day. At the far end, a lone servant went scurrying about some errand. The two men had adjoining chambers near the center of the wing. Brastigan unlocked the wooden door to his own suite and pushed through.

Since he wasn't one of the legitimate or important princes, he had only a pair of middle sized rooms, linked by an arched portal. One was a sitting room, the other his bed chamber. They were furnished not richly but comfortably and, he noted with irritation, had been tidied during his absence.

“
Now tell me what really happened,
”
Lottres said, following Brastigan through to the bedchamber.

“
I don't know,
”
Brastigan replied, voice muffled as he rummaged through a chest of clothing.
“
I was at the Dead Donkey having a drink, and I was looking at one of the alewives. Some big fellow saw me and didn't like it. Seems she was his girl.
”
He emerged long enough to toss a garment onto the bed.