Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist

else would one expect from an assemblage of old scholars, poking around in musty piles of manuscripts.’

      James shook his head. They came to what was obviously the crossroads of the two main streets in the town and turned toward the lake. As James expected, down near the waterfront a large pier had been constructed and several ferries of differing sizes waited to haul goods and people to the island. Despite the late hour, workers still stacked sacks of grain against the need of hauling them the next morning.

      Reining in, James called down to the nearest ferryman, ‘Good evening. We seek passage to Stardock island.’

      A face, dominated by a hawk-beaked nose, with ill-cut bangs almost hiding the eyes, was revealed as the man glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘I can make one quick run across, sir. Five coppers a man, sir, but you need stable your horses here.’

      Jimmy smiled. ‘How about ten gold pieces for the lot of us, including the mounts?’

      The man returned to his work. ‘No bargaining, sir.’

      Borric rattled his sword a bit as he said, half-jokingly, ‘What, you turn your back upon us?’

      The man turned again to face them. Touching his forehead, in slightly sarcastic tones, he said, ‘Sorry, young sir, but no disrespect was intended.’

      Borric was about to respond, when James tapped his arm with a gloved hand and pointed. In the gloom, just out of the light of a guttering torch, a young man in a plain robe of homespun sat at the dockside watching the interplay calmly.

      Borric said, ‘What?’

      ‘The local constable, I expect.’

      ‘Him?’ said Borric. ‘He looks more a beggar or monk than any sort of fighting man.’

      The ferryman nodded. ‘Right you are, sir. He’s our Peacekeeper.’ He grinned up at James. ‘You know your way around, sir. Yes, you do. That’s one of the magicians from the island. The council that runs the place keeps it peaceful-like over here in Stardock Town, so they make sure that we have the means. He has no sword, young sir,’ he said to Borric, ‘but with a wave of his hand he can stun you worse than a poleaxe to the noggin. Believe me, sir, I found that out the hard way.’ His voice falling to a near mutter, he added, ‘Or, it could be the magic what sets you to itching so bad you wish to die …’ Returning to the topic at hand, he raised his voice, ‘And as far as hagglin’, sir, as much as I do enjoy a good round of lying about how much injury a good profit does my children’s diet, the fact is the Academy sets the rates.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Suppose you could haggle with that young spellcaster over there, but I expect he’ll tell you the same. Given the traffic back and forth, the prices are fair.’

      ‘Where is the stable?’ James asked, but just then several small boys pushed from the crowd and offered to take their horses.

      ‘The boys will see your mounts to a clean stable.’ James nodded and dismounted. The other riders followed suit. Instantly, small hands removed reins from James’s grasp as other children did likewise throughout the company. ‘Very well,’ said James, ‘but see they have clean stalls and fresh hay and oats. And have a farrier check shoes, will you?’

      James ceased his commentary as something caught his eye. He turned abruptly, reached out, and yanked a small boy away from Borric’s horse. James lifted the boy off the ground and looked him hard in the eyes. ‘Give it back,’ he said with a calm note of menace. The boy began to protest, then when James shook him for emphasis, thought better of it and held out a small coin purse to Borric. Borric’s mouth opened as he patted himself down and then accepted the purse.

      James put the boy down but held onto his shirt front, then leaned down so he was eye to eye with the would-be cutpurse. ‘Boy, before I was half your size I knew more than twice what you’ll ever know about thieving. Do you believe me?’ The boy could only nod, so frightened was he at discovery. ‘Then take my word on the matter. You haven’t the knack. You’ll end up at the end of a short rope waiting for a long drop before you’re twelve if you keep this up. Find an honest trade. Now, if anything is missing when we leave, I’ll know who to look for, won’t I?’ The boy nodded again.

      James sent him scurrying and turned to the ferryman. ‘Then it’ll be twenty-four of us on foot to the island.’

      At this, the young magician rose to his feet and said, ‘It’s not often we have armed soldiers come to the Academy. May I ask your business?’

      ‘You may ask,’ said James. ‘But we’ll save our answers for another. If we need your permission, send word to the magician Pug that old friends come to call.’

      The young magician raised an eyebrow. ‘Who should I tell him comes to call?’

      James smiled, ‘Tell him … Baron James of Krondor, and …’ he glanced at the twins, ‘some of his kinsmen.’

      A small group waited to welcome the company as the ferry came to rest against the shore with a bump. A loading dock was the only sign that this was the entrance to perhaps the strangest community upon Midkemia, the Academy of Magicians. Workers aided the soldiers as they negotiated the dock. Many were unsteady after their first ride on a flat-bottomed ferry. Lanterns hung from the dock posts, illuminating the welcoming committee.

      A short man of middle years, wearing only a black robe and sandals, was at the centre of the group. To his right stood a striking, dark-skinned woman with iron-grey hair. An old man in robes stood to his left, a large huntsman in leather tunic and trousers at his shoulder. Behind them two younger men, attired in robes, waited patiently.

      As James, Locklear, and the twins stepped off the ferry, the short man stepped forward and bowed slightly. ‘Your Highnesses honour us.’ Then he said, ‘Welcome to Stardock.’

      Borric and Erland stepped forward, and awkwardly held out their hands to exchange a less formal hello with the man. While they were Princes born, used to some degree of deference and awe at their rank at times, here before them stood a man legends and tales had grown around. ‘Cousin Pug,’ Borric said, ‘thank you for receiving us.’

      The magician smiled and everyone relaxed. Though nearly forty-eight years old, he looked a man in his early thirties. Brown eyes almost shone with warmth and, despite his age, the dark beard couldn’t hide an expression that was almost boyish. This youthful face could not belong to the man reputed to be the single most powerful individual in the world.

      Erland and he quickly exchanged greetings, and James stepped forward. ‘Lord Pug …’ James began.

      ‘Just Pug, James.’ He smiled. ‘Around here we have little use for formal titles within our community. Despite King Lyam’s generous intentions in creating a tiny duchy out of Stardock and naming me its lord and master, we rarely think of such things.’ He took James by the arm. ‘Come; you remember my wife?’

      James and his companions bowed slightly and took the woman’s slender hand. Upon close inspection, James was surprised at how delicate the woman looked. He hadn’t seen her for over seven years, but she had been a robust, healthy woman in her early forties, with suntanned cheeks and raven dark hair. Now she looked ten years her husband’s senior. ‘My Lady,’ said James, bowing over her hand.

      The woman smiled and years vanished from her. ‘Just Katala, James. How is our son?’

      James grinned. ‘William is happy. He is Acting Captain of Arutha’s Guard. He is well thought of, and I expect will hold the office when Valdis steps down. He’s a fine officer and will rise high, perhaps even to Knight-Marshal someday.’

      Katala said, ‘And … otherwise?’

      James’s smile faded. ‘He pays court to several lovely ladies of the Princess’s retinue.’ For a brief instant Katala’s expression lightened. ‘But no one holds his interest, I’m afraid.’ Katala’s face turned sombre again. Nothing more need be said; Katala, Pug, and James remembered the young woman who had been very dear to William, a young woman lost in serving the Kingdom. Softly James said, ‘That wound