The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ • CHAPTER NINE •

       Welcome

      THE TRUMPETS SOUNDED.

      A thousand soldiers came to attention and presented arms. One hundred drummers on horseback began a rhythmic tattoo. Erland turned to James, who rode to his left, and said, ‘This is unbelievable!’

      Before them stood the Imperial City, Kesh. They had entered the ‘lower city’ an hour earlier, to be met by a delegation from the City Governor and his retinue. It was the same ceremony they had been forced to endure at each stop along the wearisome journey from Nar Ayab to the capital. When the Governor of Nar Ayab had met them at the outskirts of town, Erland found the welcome a relief from his black mood. He had been numb with Borric’s death for nearly a week, giving himself over to dark bouts of depression, interspersed with rage at the unfairness of it all. The pageantry of the Governor’s welcome had taken his mind off the ambush for the first time, and the novelty of seeing such a display had kept him diverted for over three hours.

      But now, the displays wore upon his patience. He had received another extravagant welcome at the cities of Kh’mrat and Khattara, and half a dozen other welcomes that might have been smaller in scale, but were just as formal and tedious at smaller towns along the way. From any official from Regional Governor down to town alderman, Erland had been forced to endure welcoming speeches from them all.

      Erland glanced behind to where Locklear rode with the Keshian official sent to meet them at the lower-city gates. The Prince signalled, and both men set heels to their mounts, trotting them to where Erland rode. The official was one Kafi Abu Harez, a noble of the Beni-Wazir, one of the desert people of the Jal-Pur. Many desertmen had come to Imperial service over the last hundred years, with a marked preference and talent for diplomacy and negotiations. Kesh’s old Ambassador to the Western Realm, Abdur Rachman Memo Hazara-Khan, deceased for ten years now, had once told Erland and his brother, ‘We are a horse people, and as such we are rigorous horse traders.’ Erland had heard his father curse the man with grudging respect enough times to believe it so. He knew that whatever else this protocol officer might be, he was no man’s fool and he needed to be watched. The desertmen of the Jal-Pur were terrible enemies.

      Kafi said, ‘Yes, Your Highness. How may I serve you?’

      Erland said, ‘This is a bit of a change from what we’ve been seeing. Who are these soldiers?’

      Kafi pulled his robe around him slightly as he rode. His outfit was similar to those Erland had seen before in Krondor, head covering, tunic, trousers, long vest, knee-high boots, and belt. But where this costume differed from those Erland had seen before was in the intricate designs sewn into the fabric. Keshian court officials seemed to display an almost unnatural affection for gold thread and pearls.

      ‘These are the Imperial Household Guard, Highness.’

      Erland casually said, ‘So many?’

      ‘Yes, Highness.’

      ‘It looks almost like a full city garrison,’ observed Locklear.

      The Keshian said, ‘It would depend which city, m’lord. For a Kingdom city, it is. For a Keshian city, not quite. For the city of Kesh, but a small part.’

      ‘Would it be giving military secrets away to ask how many soldiers guard the Empress?’ asked Erland drily.

      ‘Ten thousand,’ answered Kafi.

      Erland and Locklear exchanged glances. ‘Ten thousand!’ said the Prince.

      ‘The Palace Guard, which is a part of the Household Guard – which is but again a part of the city garrison – that is the heart of Kesh’s armies. Within the walls of the upper and lower city, ten thousand soldiers stand ready to defend She Who Is Kesh.’

      They turned their horses along the route lined by soldiers, and curious citizens, who stood and observed the passing Islemen in relative quiet. Erland saw the road turn upward and climb an incline, a gigantic high-way of stone that wound its way up to the top of the plateau. Halfway up the ramp, a gold-and-white banner flew and, Erland took note, the uniform of the soldiers above and below changed. ‘These are different regiments, then?’ he asked.

      Kafi said, ‘In ancient times, the original people of Kesh were but one of many nations around the Overn Deep. When pressed by enemies, they fled to the plateau upon which the palace rests. It has become tradition that all who serve the Empire, but who are not of true Keshian stock, live in the city below the palace.’ He pointed up the ramp to where the banner flew. ‘All the soldiers you see here in Kesh are of the Imperial garrison, but those above the Imperial banner are all soldiers of true blood. Only they may serve and live in the palace.’ There was a faint edge to his voice as he added, ‘No one who is not of the true Keshian blood may live within the palace.’ Erland looked close, but there was nothing to indicate any feelings one way or the other in the protocol officer. He smiled, as if to say it was a mere fact of Keshian life.

      As they neared the bottom of the ramp, Erland also could see that those who stood guard along the route were much as he had seen throughout the Empire so far: men from all races and of all appearances, more dark skins and hair tones than in the Kingdom, to be certain, but a few red-headed and blond citizens. But those above the banner were nearly uniform in appearance: dusky skin, but not black or dark brown, nor fair. Hair uniformly black or dark brown, with an occasionally red cast to it, but no real redheads, blonds, or light browns in sight. It was clear that this company of soldiers came from bloodlines with little intermixing with the other peoples of Kesh.

      Erland studied the wall that ran along the edge of the plateau above, noticing the many spires and towers visible from where he rode. Considering the size of the plateau, he said, ‘So then all who live in the city above, but outside the palace, are also of “true” blood?’

      Kafi smiled indulgently. ‘There is no city atop the plateau, Your Highness. All you will see atop the plateau is the palace. Once there were other buildings atop the plateau, but as the palace grew and expanded over the centuries, they were displaced. Even the great temples were relocated below so that those not of true Keshian blood could worship.’

      Erland was impressed. Under the rule of Mad King Rodric, the city of Rillanon had been beautified to become the most splendid city on Midkemia, or that was Rodric’s stated ambition. But Erland was forced to admit that even had Rodric’s plan come to fruition, even with the marble facings on all public buildings, the gardens along the walking paths throughout the city, the waterways around the palace, even with all that, Rillanon was a poor thing next to the city of Kesh. It was not that Kesh was a lovely city; it wasn’t. Many of the streets they had ridden were packed tight with dirty little buildings thick with the odours of life: cooking, the acrid smell of the forge, the pungent leather of the tanner, and the ever-present stink of unwashed bodies and human waste.

      There was little that was lovely in the city of Kesh. But it was ancient. It held the echoes of centuries of history, a city rising to become a state, then a mighty nation rising to become a great empire. There was a culture that produced artists and musicians here when Erland’s own ancestors were fishermen who had just turned their hand to raiding their neighbouring islands from their safe harbour at Rillanon. The point had been made to him by his history teacher as a child, but now he could see exactly what his teacher had meant. The stones under his horse’s hooves were worn with the passage of raiders, captive chieftains, and triumphant commanders before Rillanon had come under conDoin rule. And conquering armies under legendary СКАЧАТЬ