Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist
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but they would take an hour to oil their leather and polish their steel. They looked genuine in their part, save for a feeling of vague familiarity which caused the soldier slight discomfort: both spoke with none of the rough speech common to mercenaries, but rather with the educated crispness of those used to spending their days in court, not fighting bandits. And they were young, little more than boys.
The brothers had commenced the game with glee, ordering tankard after tankard of ale, letting losses delight them as much as wins, but now that the stakes of the game were rising, they had become sombre. They glanced at each other from time to time, and the soldier was certain they shared silent communication the way twins often did.
The soldier shook his head. ‘Not me.’ He threw down his cards, one of them flipping completely over for an instant before it came to rest upon the table. ‘I’ve got duty in an hour; I’d best be back to the barracks.’
What he really knew was that trouble was imminent and if he were still around when it arrived, he’d never make muster. And the duty sergeant was a man not given to receiving excuses kindly.
Now the dandy’s eyes turned to the first of the two brothers. ‘Play?’
As the soldier reached the door of the inn, he took note of two men standing quietly in the corner. They stood in great cloaks, faces obscured slightly by the shadows of their hoods, despite the inn being warm. Both made a show of quietly watching the game, but they were taking in every detail of the inn. They also looked familiar to the soldier, but he couldn’t place them. And there was something about the way they stood, as if ready to leap to action, that reaffirmed the soldier’s determination to reach the city barracks early. He opened the door to the inn and stepped through, closing it behind.
The man closest to the door turned to his companion, his face only partially illuminated by the light from the lantern above. ‘You’d better get outside. It’s about to break loose.’
His companion nodded. In the twenty years they’d been friends, he had learned never to second guess his companion’s ability to sense trouble in the city. He quickly stepped through the door after the soldier.
At the table, the betting reached the first of the two brothers. He made a face, as if perplexed by the play of the cards. The dandy said, ‘Are you staying or folding?’
‘Well,’ answered the young man, ‘this is something of a poser.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Erland, I would have sworn an oath to Astalon the Judge that I saw a Blue Lady flip when that soldier tossed in his hand.’
‘Why,’ answered his twin with a twisted smile, ‘does that pose a problem, Borric?’
‘Because I also have a Blue Lady in my hand.’
Men began to back away from the table as the tone of conversation shifted. Discussion of what cards one held was not the norm. ‘I still see no problem,’ observed Erland, ‘as there are two Blue Ladies in the deck.’
With a malicious grin, Borric said, ‘But you see, our friend over here,’ he indicated the dandy, ‘also has a Blue Lady tucked just not quite far enough back in his sleeve.’
Instantly the room erupted into motion as men put as much distance as possible between the combatants and themselves. Borric leaped from his seat, gripping the edge of the table and overturning it, forcing the dandy and his two henchmen back. Erland had his rapier and a long dirk out as the dandy drew his slamanca.
One of the two sailors lost his footing and fell forward. As he tried to rise, he found his chin met by the toe of Borric’s boot. He collapsed into a heap at the young mercenary’s feet. The dandy leaped forward, executing a vicious cut at Erland’s head. Erland deftly parried with his dirk and returned a vicious thrust his opponent barely dodged.
Both men knew they faced an opponent worthy of wariness. The innkeeper was circling the room, armed with a large cudgel, threatening anyone who sought to enlarge the fray. As he neared the door, the man in the hood stepped out with startling speed and gripped his wrist. He spoke briefly, and the innkeeper’s face drained of colour. The proprietor briskly nodded once and quickly slipped out the door.
Borric disposed of the second sailor with little trouble and turned to discover Erland in a close struggle with the dandy. ‘Erland! Could you use a hand?’
Erland shouted, ‘I think not. Besides, you always say I need the practice.’
‘True,’ answered his brother with a grin. ‘But don’t let him kill you. I’d have to avenge you.’
The dandy tried a combination attack, a high, low, then high series of chops, and Erland was forced to back away. In the night the sound of whistles could be heard.
‘Erland,’ said Borric.
The hard-pressed younger twin said, ‘What?’ as he dodged another masterfully executed combination attack.
‘The watch is coming. You’d better kill him quickly.’
‘I’m trying,’ said Erland, ‘but this fellow isn’t being very cooperative.’ As he spoke, his boot heel struck a pool of spilled ale and he lost his footing. Suddenly he was falling backward, his defence gone.
Borric was moving as the dandy lunged at his brother. Erland twisted upon the floor, but the dandy’s sword struck his side. Hot pain erupted along his ribs. And at the same instant the man had opened his left side to a counter thrust. Sitting upon the floor, Erland thrust upward with his rapier, catching the man in the stomach. The dandy stiffened and gasped as a red stain began to spread upon his yellow tunic. Then Borric struck him from behind, using the hilt of his sword to render the man unconscious.
From outside the sound of rushing men could be heard, and Borric said, ‘We’d best get clear of this mess,’ as he gave his brother a hand up. ‘Father’s going to be upset enough with us as it is without brawling.’
Wincing from his injury, Erland interrupted, ‘You didn’t have to hit him. I think I would have killed him in another moment.’
‘Or he you. And I’d not want to face Father had I let that happen. Besides, you really wouldn’t have killed him; you just don’t have the instinct. You’d have tried to disarm him or something equally noble—’ Borric observed, catching his breath in a gasp, ‘—and stupid. Now, let’s see about getting out of here.’
Erland gripped his wounded side as they headed toward the door. Several town toughs, seeing blood upon Erland’s side, moved to block the twin’s exit. Borric and Erland both levelled their sword points at the band of men. Borric said, ‘Keep your guard up a moment,’ picked up a chair, and threw it through the large bay window facing the boulevard. Glass and leading showered the street, and before the tinkle of shards upon stone had stopped, both brothers were leaping through what remained of the window. Erland stumbled and Borric had to grip his arm to keep him from falling.
As they straightened, they took in the fact that they were looking at horses. Two of the more bold thugs jumped through the window after the twins, and Borric smashed one in the side of the head with his sword hilt, while the other man pulled up short as three crossbows were levelled at him. Arrayed before the door was the small company of ten burly and heavily armed town watchmen commonly known as the Riot Squad. But what had the half-dozen denizens of the Sleeping Dockman standing in open-mouth amazement, was the sight of the thirty horsemen behind the Riot Squad. They wore the tabards of Krondor and the badge of the Prince of Krondor’s own Royal Household Guards. From within the inn someone overcame his stupefication and shouted, ‘Royal Guardsmen!’ and a general evacuation through the rear door of the tavern began, while the gaping faces at the window vanished.
The two brothers regarded the mounted men, all armed and ready in case trouble came. At their head rode a man well known to the two young mercenaries.
‘Ah … good evening, my lord,’ said Borric, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The leader of the Riot Squad, seeing no one else in sight, moved to take custody of the two young men.
The leader of the Royal Guard