Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist

together to watch a match. ‘We used to have a barrel at each end and you couldn’t stand before the mouth. This net business and goalkeepers and all the other rules your father devised …’

      Borric and Erland finished for him in unison, ‘… It’s not sport anymore.’

      Locklear said, ‘That’s the truth.’

      Erland inserted, ‘Not enough bloodshed!’

      ‘No broken arms! No gouged eyes!’ laughed Borric.

      James said, ‘Well, that’s for the better. There was one time—’

      Both brothers grimaced as one, for they knew they were about to hear the story of the time Locklear was hit from behind by a piece of farrier’s steel an apprentice boy had concealed in his shirt. This would lead, then, to a debate between the two Barons on the general value of rules and which rules enhanced the game and which impeded.

      But the lack of further comment from James caused Borric to turn. James had his eyes focused not on the game below which was drawing to a close, but upon a man down near the end of the row upon which the Baron sat, one row behind the Princes. Rank and a well-placed bribe had given the sons of the Prince of Krondor two of the best seats for the match, at the midfield line halfway up the stands.

      James said, ‘Locky, is it cold?’

      Wiping perspiration from his brow, Locklear said, ‘You’re joking, right? It’s a month after midsummer and I’m roasting.’

      Hiking his thumb toward the end of the row, James said, ‘Then why does our friend over there feel the need to wear such a heavy robe?’

      Locklear glanced past his companion and noticed a man sitting at the end of the bench, muffled in a large robe. ‘A priest perhaps?’

      ‘I know of no order that has members with an interest in football.’ James glanced away as the man turned toward him. ‘Watch him over my shoulder, but nod as if you’re listening to everything I’m saying. What’s he doing?’

      ‘Nothing presently.’ Then a horn was blown, signalling the end of the match. The Blues, a team sponsored by the Millers Guild and the Worshipful Association of Iron Mongers, had defeated the Reds, a team sponsored by a group of nobles. As such sponsorship was well-known among those in attendance, the result of the match met with general approval.

      As the crowd began to depart, the man in the robe stood. Locklear’s eyes widened as he said, ‘He’s taking something out of his sleeve.’

      James whirled about in time to see the man raise a tube to his lips and point it in the direction of the Princes. Without hesitation, James pushed hard, knocking the two young men into the row below. A strangled gasp sounded from a man standing just beyond where Erland had been, and the man raised a hand to his neck. It was a gesture never finished, for as his fingers neared the dart protruding from his throat, he collapsed.

      Locklear was only an instant behind James to react. As James and the twins went sprawling below, accompanied by angry shouts as spectators were knocked about, Locklear had his sword out and was leaping toward the robed and cowled figure. ‘Guards!’ he shouted, as an honour guard was stationed just below the viewing stands.

      The sounds of boots pounding upon wooden stairs answered his call almost instantly as soldiers of the Prince raced to intercept the fleeing figure. With little concern for bruises caused, the guardsmen roughly shoved innocent onlookers out of their way. With the silent understanding mobs possess, suddenly everyone knew that something was wrong in the viewing stands. While those nearby scampered to get away, those in other parts of the field turned to observe the cause of such turmoil.

      Seeing guardsmen mere yards away, with only a few confused citizens blocking their approach, the robed man put one hand upon the rail of the stairs and vaulted over the side, falling a full dozen feet to the earth below. A heavy thud and an exclamation of pain could be heard by Locklear as he reached the railing.

      Sprawled upon the ground, two stunned commoners sat inspecting the unmoving form that lay next to them. One man pushed himself back without standing while the other crawled. Locklear vaulted over the rail and landed upon his feet, sword point levelled at the robed figure. The form upon the ground stirred, then leaped at the young Baron.

      Almost taken by surprise, Locklear let the man get inside his guard. The robed man had his arms around Locklear’s waist as he drove him back into the supports of the viewing stand.

      Locklear’s breath burst from his lungs as he struck the heavy wooden beams, but he managed to strike the man behind the ear with his sword hilt. The man staggered away, obviously intent upon escape rather than combat, but shouting voices heralded the approach of more guardsmen. Turning, the man struck out at Locklear, who was struggling to regain his breath, and his fist found Locklear’s ear.

      Pain and confusion overwhelmed Locklear as the assailant rushed into the darkness under the viewing stands. The Baron shook his head to clear it, then turned and hurried after.

      In the sudden darkness under the stands, the man could be hiding anywhere. ‘In here!’ Locklear yelled, in reply to an inquiring shout, and within seconds a half-dozen guardsmen were standing behind him. ‘Spread out and be alert.’

      The men did as they were bidden and slowly advanced beneath the viewing stands. The men closest to the front were forced to stoop, as the lowest risers of the stands were but four feet off the ground. One soldier walked along, poking his sword into the gloom, against the fugitive having crawled under the front-most stands to hide. Above them the sounds of citizens leaving the stands filled the gloom with a thunderous clatter of sandals and boots upon wood, but after a few minutes, the noise diminished.

      Then the sounds of struggle came from before them. Locklear and his men hurried forward. In the dark, two figures held a third. Without seeing who was whom, Locklear drove his shoulder into the nearest body, knocking everyone to the ground. More guards piled on top of the fray, until at last the struggle at the bottom of the mass was ended by sheer weight. Then the guards were quickly unpiling and the combatants were pulled up. Locklear grinned as he saw that one of them was James and the other Borric. Looking down, he could see the still form of the man in robes. ‘Drag him out into the light,’ he ordered the guards. To James he said, ‘Is he dead?’

      ‘Not unless you broke his neck jumping on him that way. You damn near broke mine.’

      ‘Where’s Erland?’ asked Locklear.

      ‘Here,’ came an answering voice in the gloom. ‘I was covering the other side of the fray in case he got past these two,’ he indicated James and Borric.

      ‘Nursing your precious side, you mean,’ shot back Borric with a grin.

      Erland shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

      They all followed the guards, who were carrying the still form of the assailant, and when they were in the afternoon sunlight again, discovered a cordon had been thrown up by other guards.

      Locklear bent over. ‘Let’s see what we have here.’ He pulled back the hood and a face stared blankly up at the sky. ‘He’s dead.’

      James was instantly on his knees, forcing open the man’s mouth. He sniffed and said, ‘Poisoned himself.’

      ‘Who is he?’ said Borric.

      ‘And why was he trying to kill you, Uncle Jimmy?’ said Erland.

      ‘Not me, you idiot,’ snapped James. He pointed at Borric. ‘He was trying to kill your brother.’

      A guard approached. ‘My Lord, the man struck by the dart is dead. He died within seconds of his wounding.’

      Borric forced himself to a nervous grin. ‘Why would anyone wish to kill me?’

      Erland joined in the strained humour. ‘An angry husband?’

      James said, ‘Not you, Borric conDoin.’ He glanced around the crowd, as if seeking other assassins. ‘Someone tried to kill the future King of the Isles.’