Prince of the Blood. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ have a public mind that you may call your own. It must be so. I cannot stress this enough. Never once in the future can you publicly oppose the King’s will.’ Moving a short way off, he turned and regarded them both. ‘You have never known anything but peace in our Kingdom. The raids along the border are trivial things.’

      Erland said, ‘Not to those of us who fought those raiders! Men died, Father.’

      Arutha said, ‘I speak of nations now, and dynasties, and the fate of generations. Yes, men died, so that this nation and its people may live in peace.

      ‘But there was a time when border skirmishes with Great Kesh and the Eastern Kingdoms were a monthly occurrence, when Quegan galleys took our ships at their leisure, and when invaders from the Tsurani world held part of your grandfather’s lands – for nine years!

      ‘You will be asked to give up many things, my sons. You will be asked to marry women who will most likely be strangers to you. You will be asked to relinquish many of the privileges lesser men know: the ability to enter a tavern and drink with strangers, to pick up and travel to another city, to marry for love and watch your children grow without fear of their being used for others’ designs.’ Gazing out over the city, he added, ‘To sit at day’s end with your wife and discuss the small matters of your life, to be at ease.’

      Borric said, ‘I think I understand.’ His voice was subdued.

      Erland only nodded.

      Arutha said, ‘Good, for in a week you leave for Great Kesh, and from this moment forward you are the Kingdom’s future.’ He moved toward the stairs that led down into the palace and halted at them. ‘I wish I could spare you this, but I can’t.’ Then he was gone.

      Both boys sat quietly for a time, then as one, turned to look out over the harbour. The afternoon sun beat down, yet the breeze from the Bitter Sea was cooling. In the harbour below, boats moved as punts and barges carried cargo and passengers back and forth between the docks and great sailing ships anchored in the bay. In the distance white dots signalled approaching ships, traders from the Far Coast, the Kingdom of Queg, the Free Cities of Yabon, or the Empire of Great Kesh.

      Then Borric’s face relaxed as a smile spread. ‘Kesh!’

      Erland laughed. ‘Yes, to the heart of Great Kesh!’

      Both shared the laughter at the prospect of new cities and people, and travel to a land considered exotic and mysterious. And their father’s words vanished upon the wind to the east.

      Some institutions linger for centuries, while others pass quickly. Some arrive quietly, others with fanfare. In years past it was considered a general practice to give apprentices and other servants the latter half of the sixth day of the week for themselves. Now the practice had come to include a general closing of businesses on sixthday at noon, with seventhday generally held to be a day of devotions and meditations.

      But within the last twenty years another ‘tradition’ had arisen. From the first sixthday following the winter equinox, boys and young men, apprentices and servants, commoner and noble, began preparing. For upon the holiday of First Thaw, held six optimistic weeks after the equinox, often despite inclement weather, football season commenced.

      Once called barrel ball, the game had been played for as long as boys had kicked balls of rags into barrels. Twenty years before, the young Prince Arutha had instructed his Master of Ceremonies to draw up a standard set of rules for the game, more for the protection of his young squires and apprentices, for then the game was rough in the extreme. Now the game had been institutionalized in the minds of the populace; come spring, football returned.

      On all levels, from boys playing in open fields up to a City League, with teams fielded by guilds, trading associations, or rich nobles eager to be patrons, players could be seen racing up and down attempting to kick a ball into a net.

      The crowd shouted its approval as the Blues’ swiftest forward broke away from the pack with the ball, speeding toward the open goal net. The Reds’ goalkeeper hunkered down, ready to leap between ball and net. With a clever feint, the Blues’ player caused the Reds’ to overbalance, then shot it past him on his off side. The goalkeeper stood with hands on hips, evidencing disgust at himself while the Blues’ players mobbed the scorer.

      ‘Ah, he should have seen it coming,’ commented Locklear. ‘It was so obvious. I could see it up here.’

      James laughed. ‘Then why don’t you go down and play for him?’

      Borric and Erland shared in James’s laughter. ‘Certainly, Uncle Locky. We’ve heard a hundred times how you and Uncle Jimmy invented this game.’

      Locklear shook his head. ‘It was nothing like this.’ He glanced about the field at the stands erected by an enterprising merchant years before, stands that had been expanded upon and enlarged until as many as four thousand citizens could crowd 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.’

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