The King’s Buccaneer. Raymond E. Feist

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      The Prince’s palace in Krondor rested hard against the bay, having in ancient times been the defensive bastion of the Kingdom on the Bitter Sea. The royal docks were separated from the rest of the harbor by an area of open shoreline that was contained within the walls of the palace. Nicholas and Harry cut across the open expanse of beach and approached the palace from the water.

      The palace rose majestically atop a hill, outlined against the afternoon sky, a sprawling series of apartments and halls grafted around the original keep, which still served as the heart of the complex. Dwarfed by several other towers and spires added over the last few centuries, the old keep still commanded the eye, a brooding reminder of days gone by, when the world was a far more dangerous place.

      Nicholas and Harry pushed open an old metal gate, which provided access to the harbor for those who worked in the kitchen. The pungency of the harbor, with its smells of fish, brine, and tar, gave way to more appetizing aromas as they neared the kitchen. The boys hurried down past the washhouse and the bakehouse, through a small vegetable garden, and down a low flight of stone stairs, moving among servants’ huts.

      They approached the servants’ entrance to the royal family’s private apartments, not wishing a chance encounter with any of Prince Arutha’s staff or, more to the point, with the Prince himself.

      Reaching the doors used by the serving staff closest to their own rooms, Nicholas opened it just as a pair of the palace serving girls approached from within carrying bundles of linens bound for the washhouse behind the palace. He stood aside, though his rank gave him precedence, out of respect for their heavy loads. Harry gave both the girls, only a few years older than himself, his version of a rakish grin. One giggled and the other fixed him with a look appropriate to finding a rodent in the larder.

      As the young women hurried off, conscious of their impact on the two adolescent boys, Harry grinned and said, ‘She wants me.’

      Nicholas gave him a hard push that sent him stumbling through the door, saying, ‘Just about as much as I want the belly flux. Keep dreaming.’

      Hurrying up the stairs to the family’s quarters, Harry said, ‘No, she does. She hides it, but I can tell.’

      Nicholas said, ‘Harry the lady’s man. Lock up your daughters, Krondor.’

      After the bright afternoon sunlight, the hallway was positively gloomy. At the end of the hall, they turned up stairs that took them out of the servants’ area to the apartments of the royal family. At the top of the stairs, they opened the door and peeked through. Seeing no one of rank, the two boys hurried to their respective doors, located halfway down the hall from the servants’ door. Between this door and his own a mirror hung, and, catching his own reflection, Nicholas said, ‘It’s a good thing Father didn’t see us.’

      Nicholas entered his own quarters, a large pair of rooms, with enormous closets and a private garderobe, so he didn’t have to leave the room to relieve himself. He quickly stripped off his wet clothing and dried himself. He turned and caught sight of himself in a large mirror, a luxury of immense value, as it was fashioned from silvered glass imported from Kesh. His body – that of a boy on the way to becoming a man – showed a broadening chest and shoulders; he had a man’s growth of body hair, as well as a need to shave daily. But his face was still a boy’s, lacking the set of features that only time can give.

      As he finished drying, he looked at his left foot as he had every day of his life. A ball of flesh, with tiny protuberances that should have been toes, extended from the base of an otherwise well-formed left leg. The foot had been the object of medicine and magic since his birth, but had resisted all attempts at healing. No less sensitive to touch and sensation as the right foot, it nevertheless was difficult for Nicholas to command; the muscles were connected incorrectly to bones the wrong size to perform the tasks nature intended. Like most people with a lifetime affliction, Nicholas had compensated to the point of rarely being aware of it. He walked with only a slight limp. He was an excellent swordsman, perhaps the equal of his father, who was counted the best in the Western Realm. The Palace Swordmaster judged him as already a better swordsman than his two elder brothers were at his age. He could dance, as required by his office – son of the ruler of the Western Realm – but the one thing that he could not compensate for was a terrible feeling that he was somehow less than he should be.

      Nicholas was a soft-spoken, reflective youngster who preferred the quiet solitude of his father’s library to the more boisterous activities of most boys his age. He was an excellent swimmer, a fine horseman, and a fair archer in addition to being skilled at swordplay, but all his life he had felt deficient. A vague sense of failure, and a haunting guilt, seemed to fill him unexpectedly, and often he would find his mind seized by dark brooding. With company, he was often merry and enjoyed a joke as well as the next boy, but if left alone, Nicholas found his mind seized by worry. That had been one reason Harry had come to Krondor.

      As he dressed, Nicholas shook his head in amusement. His companion for the last year, Squire Harry had provided an abrupt change to Nicholas’s solitary ways, forever dragging the Prince off on some foolish enterprise or another. Life for Nicholas had become far more exciting since the arrival of the middle son of the Earl of Ludland. Given his rank and two competitive brothers, Harry was combative and expected to be obeyed, barely observing the difference in rank between himself and Nicholas. Only a pointed order would remind Harry that Nicholas wasn’t a younger brother to command. Given Harry’s domineering ways, the Prince’s court was probably the only place his father could have sent him to have his nature tempered before he became a regular tyrant.

      Nicholas brushed out his wet, neck-length hair, cut in imitation of his father’s. Alternately drying it with a towel, then brushing it, he got it to some semblance of respectability. He envied Harry his red curls, hugging his head. A quick toweling and a brush, then off he went.

      Nicholas judged himself as presentable as he was likely to make himself under the circumstances, and left his room. He entered the hall to discover Harry already dressed and ready, attempting to delay another serving woman, this one several years his senior, as she was bound upon some errand or another.

      Harry was dressed in the green and brown garb of a palace squire, which in theory made him part of the Royal Steward’s staff, but within weeks of his arrival he had been singled out to be Nicholas’s companion. Nicholas’s two older brothers, Borric and Erland, had been sent to the King’s court at Rillanon five years before, to prepare for the day Borric would inherit the crown of the Isles from his uncle. King Lyam’s only son had drowned fifteen years earlier, and Arutha and the King had decided that should Arutha survive his older brother, Borric would rule. Nicholas’s sister, Elena, was recently married to the eldest son of the Duke of Ran, leaving the palace fairly empty of companions of suitable rank for the young Prince before Harry was sent into service by his father.

      Clearing his throat loudly, Nicholas commanded Harry’s attention long enough for the serving woman to make her getaway. She gave the Prince a courteous bow coupled with a grateful smile as she hurried off.

      Nicholas watched her flee and said, ‘Harry, you’ve got to stop using your position to annoy the serving women.’

      ‘She wasn’t annoyed—’ began Harry.

      ‘That wasn’t an opinion,’ said Nicholas sternly.

      He rarely used his rank to command Harry about anything, but on those rare occasions he did, Harry knew better than to argue – especially when his tone sounded like Prince Arutha’s, a sure sign that Nicholas wasn’t joking. The Squire shrugged. ‘Well, we have an hour to supper. What shall we do?’

      ‘Spend the time working on our story, I should think.’

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