Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist

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.’

      Locklear opened the man’s robe, revealing a black tunic. ‘James, look here.’

      Baron James peered down at the dead man. His skin was dark, even darker than Gardan’s, marking him as Keshian by ancestry, but those of Keshian ancestry were common in this part of the Kingdom. There were brown- and black-skinned people in every strata of Krondorian society. But this man wore odd clothing, a tunic of expensive black silk and soft slippers unlike anything the young Princes had seen before.

      James inspected the dead man’s hands, and noticed a ring set with a dark gem, then looked for a necklace and found none.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Borric asked.

      ‘Old habits,’ was all Jimmy would answer. ‘He’s no Nighthawk,’ he observed, mentioning the legendary Guild of Assassins. ‘But this may be worse.’

      ‘How?’ asked Locklear, remembering all too well when the Nighthawks had sought to kill Arutha twenty years before.

      ‘He’s Keshian.’

      Locklear leaned down and inspected the ring. Ashen-faced, he stood. ‘Worse. He’s a member of the Royal House of Kesh.’

      The room was silent. Those who sat in the circle of chairs moved slightly, as discomfort over the attempt upon Borric manifested itself in the creaks of leather and wood, the rustle of cloth, and the clink of jewellery.

      Duke Gardan rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s preposterous. What would Kesh gain in killing a member of your family? Does the Empress wish war?’

      Erland chimed in. ‘She’s worked as hard as anyone to preserve the peace, or at least all the reports say that. Why would she want Borric dead? Who—’

      Borric interrupted his brother. ‘Whoever wants war between the Kingdom and the Empire.’

      Locklear nodded. ‘It’s such a shallow lie; so transparent an attempt that it is not believable.’

      ‘Yet …’ Arutha mused aloud, ‘what if that assassin was chosen to fail? A dupe. What if I am supposed to withhold my envoy, keep my sons at home with me?’

      Gardan nodded. ‘Thereby insulting the Royal House of Kesh.’

      James, who leaned against the wall behind Arutha said, ‘We’ve managed a fair job already by dispatching a member of the Empress’s house. He was a very distant cousin, true, but a cousin, nevertheless.’

      Garden returned to rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture of frustration more than fatigue. ‘And what was I supposed to say to the Keshian Ambassador? “Oh, we’ve found this young fellow, who seems to be a member of your Royal House. We had no idea he was in Krondor. And we’re sorry to tell you he’s dead. Oh, by the way, he tried to murder Prince Borric.”’

      Arutha leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a tent before his face, absently flexing in a gesture that all in the room had come to recognize over the years. He glanced at last at James.

      ‘We could dump the body,’ offered the young Baron.

      Gardan said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

      James stretched. ‘Take the body down to the bay and toss it in.’

      Erland grinned. ‘Rough treatment for a member of the Royal House of Kesh, wouldn’t you say?’

      Arutha said, ‘Why?’

      James moved to sit on the edge of Arutha’s desk, as the Prince over the years had come to conduct very informal sessions with close advisors and family. ‘He’s not officially a guest in the city. We aren’t supposed to know he’s here. No one is supposed to know. The only Keshians who will know he’s here are those who know why he’s here. And I doubt any of them will inquire as to his well-being. He’s now the forgotten man, unless we call attention to his whereabouts.’

      Drily, Borric added, ‘And his condition.’

      ‘We can claim he tried to kill Borric,’ James acknowledged, ‘but all we have is a Keshian corpse, a blowgun, and some poisoned darts.’

      ‘And a dead merchant,’ added Gardan.

      ‘Dead merchants are a frequent enough commodity on any given day in the Western Realm, my Lord Duke,’ observed James. ‘I say we strip him of his ring and toss him into the bay. Let the Keshians who sent him wonder for a while. Should anyone inquire, we might gain an opportunity to learn more of who’s behind him. At worst, we can show considerable distress at his demise, insisting that had we but known he was in the city we would have made every effort to ensure his safety, but if bored royal visitors slip into the city incognito, and insist on frequenting the seedier parts of the city …?’ He shrugged dramatically.

      Arutha said nothing for a while, then gave one affirmative nod. James indicated with a jerk of his head that Locklear should use Royal Guardsmen for the job, and the other young Baron slipped through the door. After a short conference with Lieutenant William outside, Locklear returned to his seat.

      Arutha sighed. Looking at James, he said, ‘Kesh. What else?’

      James shrugged. ‘Hints, rumours. Their new Ambassador is … an odd choice. He’s what they call a “trueblood”, but not of the Royal House, the assassin would have been a more logical choice. The Ambassador is a purely political appointment. It’s rumoured that he may actually have stronger influence in Kesh’s court than many with royal blood. I can’t find any obvious reason why he should be given such an honour – save as a compromise, to appease different factions in court.’

      Arutha nodded. ‘While none of this makes apparent sense, still, we must play according