The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist

the Admiral’s left sat Arutha’s military deputy, William, Knight-Marshal of Krondor, a cousin to the royal family. Cousin Willie, as everyone in the family called him, winked at the two boys. He had been serving in the palace for twenty years, and over that span of time had seen Nicholas’s other brothers, Borric and Erland, discover every possible way to incur their father’s anger. Nicholas was new to causing his father to lose his temper. William reached for a slice of bread and said, ‘Brilliant strategy, Squire. No unnecessary details to remember.’

      Nicholas attempted to look properly chastised, but failed. He quickly cut a piece of lamb and stuffed it in his mouth to keep from laughing. He glanced at Harry, who was hiding his amusement behind a cup of wine.

      Arutha said, ‘We’ll have to think up a suitable punishment for you two. Something to impress the value of both the boat and your own necks on you.’

      Harry threw Nicholas a quick grin from behind the wine cup; both boys knew that they stood half a chance of Arutha’s forgetting any serious punishment if the press of court business was heavy, as it often was.

      The Prince’s court was the second busiest in the Kingdom, and only by a little after the King’s. Effectively a separate realm, the West was governed from Krondor, with only broad policy coming from King Lyam’s court. In the course of one day, Arutha might have to see two dozen important nobles, merchants, and envoys, and read a half-dozen important documents, as well as approve every regional decision involving the Principality.

      A boy in the purple and yellow livery of a palace page entered the room and came to the elbow of the Royal Master of Ceremony, Baron Jerome. He whispered to the baron, who in turn came to Arutha. ‘Sire, two men are at the main entrance of the palace, asking to see you.’

      Arutha knew that they would have to be something unusual for the guard sergeant to pass them along to the Royal Steward, and for the steward to disturb the Prince. ‘Who are they?’ asked Arutha.

      ‘They claim to be friends of Prince Borric’s.’

      Arutha’s eyebrows went up slightly. ‘Friends of Borric’s?’ He glanced at his wife, then asked, ‘Do they have names?’

      The Master of Ceremony said, ‘They gave the names Ghuda Bulé and Nakor the Isalani.’ Jermone, an officious man to whom dignity and pomp were more essential than air and water, managed to convey a volume of disapproval as he added, ‘They’re Keshian, Sire.’

      Arutha was still trying to piece together some semblance of understanding when Nicholas said, ‘Father! Those are two who helped Borric when he was captured by slavers in Kesh! You remember him telling us about them.’

      Arutha blinked and recollection came to him. ‘Of course.’ He told Jerome, ‘Show them in at once.’

      Jerome motioned for the page to carry word to the entrance of the palace, and Harry turned to Nicholas. ‘Slave traders?’

      Nicholas said, ‘It’s a long story, but my brother was an envoy to Kesh, about nine years ago. He was captured by raiders who didn’t know he was from the royal house of the Isles. He escaped and made his way to the Empress’s court and saved her life. These are two men who helped him along the way.’

      Everyone was staring at the door expectantly when the page entered, followed by a pair of ragged and dirty men. The taller was a fighter by his dress: old, battered leather armor and a dented helm, a bastard-sword slung over his back, and two long dirks, one at each hip. His companion was a bandy-legged fellow, with a surprisingly childlike expression of delight at the new sights around him, and an appealing grin, although he could be described as nothing so much as homely.

      They came to the head of the table and both bowed, the warrior stiffly and self-consciously, the shorter man in a haphazard, absent-minded fashion.

      Arutha stood and said, ‘Welcome.’

      Nakor kept looking at every detail of the room, lost in thought, so after a long moment Ghuda said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Your Highness, but he’ – he jerked a thumb at Nakor – ‘insisted.’ His speech was accented, and he spoke slowly.

      Arutha said, ‘That’s all right.’

      Nakor at last turned his attention to Arutha and studied him a moment before he said, ‘Your son Borric doesn’t look like you.’

      Arutha’s eyes widened in amazement at the direct statement and lack of an honorific, but he nodded. Then the Isalani regarded the Princess and he again grinned, a wide slash of crooked teeth that made him look even more comical than before. He said, ‘You are his mother, though. He looks like you. You are very pretty, Princess.’

      Anita laughed, and glanced at her husband, then said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

      With a wave of his hand, he said, ‘Call me Nakor. I was once Nakor the Blue Rider, but my horse died.’ He glanced around the room, fixing his gaze on Nicholas. His face lost its grin as he studied the boy. He stared at Nicholas to the point of awkwardness, then grinned again. ‘This one looks like you!’

      Arutha was at a loss for words, but at last managed to say, ‘May I ask what brings you here? You are welcome, for you did a great service to my son and the Kingdom, but … it’s been nine years.’

      Ghuda said, ‘I wish I could tell you, Sire. I’ve been traveling with this lunatic for over a month, and the best I can get from him is that we need to come here and see you, then leave on another journey.’ Nakor was off in his own world again, seemingly entranced by the glitter of the chandeliers and the dancing lights reflecting off the large glass window behind the Prince’s chair. Ghuda endured another moment of painful silence, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Highness. We never should have bothered you.’

      Arutha could see the old fighter’s obvious discomfort. ‘No, it’s I who am sorry.’ Noticing the ragged, dirty attire, he added, ‘Please. You must rest. I’ll have rooms made ready, and you may bathe and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll have fresh clothing provided. Then, in the morning, maybe I can aid you in whatever mission you find yourself upon.’

      Ghuda gave an awkward salute, not quite sure of the response; then Arutha said, ‘Have you eaten?’ Ghuda glanced at the heavily laden table and Arutha said, ‘Sit down, over there.’ He motioned for them to take the chairs next to Knight-Marshal William.

      Nakor snapped out of his reverie at the mention of food and unceremoniously hurried to the indicated chair. He waited until the servants had his place set with food and wine, and fell to like a man starved.

      Ghuda attempted to display as many manners as possible, but it was clear he was uncomfortable in the presence of royalty. Amos said something in a strange language, and the Isalani laughed. In the King’s Tongue he said, ‘Your accent is terrible. But the joke is funny.’

      Amos laughed in turn. He said to the others, ‘I thought I spoke the language of Isalan pretty well.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s been near thirty years since I was last in Shing Lai; I guess I’ve lost the knack,’ and turned his attention back to the Princess of Krondor’s mother.

      Arutha sat down. He became lost in his own thoughts. Something about the appearance of these two, the old tired fighter and the comic character his sons had told him of, brought him a feeling of discomfort, as if the room were suddenly colder. A premonition? He tried to shrug it off, but could not. He motioned for the servants to remove his plate, for he had lost his appetite.

      After dinner, Arutha walked along the balcony that overlooked the harbor. Behind closed doors, servants bustled readying the rooms of the royal family’s apartments. Amos Trask left the building and came to where Arutha stood staring out at the lights near the harbor.

      ‘You asked to see me, Arutha?’

      Arutha turned and said, ‘Yes. I need your advice.’

      ‘Ask.’

      ‘What’s wrong with Nicholas?’

      Amos’s expression showed he didn’t understand the question.