LITMIR.BIZ

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The boy, Suli, was gone!

      Borric patted around in the dark for the knife and found it where he left it. Feeling only slightly better for the presence of the indifferent weapon, he wondered what the boy could be up to. Perhaps he figured to bargain his own life in exchange for knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain red-haired slave?

      Borric felt close to panic. If the boy had indeed tried to bargain for his own safety, both were as good as dead. Forcing himself to calmness, he again peered through the little crack. It was nearly sunrise, and already the Governor’s household was busy, with servants hurrying between the outbuildings, the kitchen, and the main house. Still, there was nothing to suggest other than the normal morning’s activities. No armed men were in sight, no shouting voices could be heard.

      Borric sat back and thought. The boy might not be terribly educated, but he was not stupid. No doubt he knew his own life was forfeit if anyone learned of his involvement with the escaped slave. He most likely was hiding in another part of town, or perhaps even on a ship heading out of the city, working as a common seaman.

      Always a hearty eater, Borric felt his stomach knot. He had never truly been hungry before in his life, and he didn’t care for the feeling. He had been too miserable while travelling to Durbin to dwell much on his hunger; it was merely one among many afflictions. But now with his sunburn turned to a deep reddish tan and his strength almost returned in full, he was very aware of his empty stomach. He wondered if he could slip out into the early morning bustle, and decided against trying. Red-headed slaves over six feet tall were certainly not common in this city and he would probably be caught before he got within a hundred paces of the kitchen. As if fate conspired to torment him, a familiar odour came wafting in on the morning breeze. The kitchen cooked bacon and ham for the Governor’s household. Borric’s mouth began to water, and he sat for a miserable minute, thinking of breakfast cakes and honey, boiled eggs, fruit with cream, hot slabs of ham, steaming fresh bread, pots of coffee.

      ‘No good can come from this,’ he scolded himself, forcing himself back from the crack. Hunkering down in the dark, he attempted to discipline his mind away from the torment of hunger. All he need do was wait for night to fall and then he could steal into the kitchen and nick some food. Yes, that’s all he need do. Wait.

      Borric discovered, that like hunger, waiting was not to his liking. He would lay back for a time, then cross over to the crack in the roof, peer through, and wonder how much time had passed. Once he even dozed for a while, and was disappointed to discover that – judging from the nearly unchanged shadow angles – only minutes had passed when he had hoped for hours. He returned to his place of resting, a section of attic where the floor seemed a little less uncomfortable than the rest of the floor, more likely due to his imagination than any real difference. He waited and he was hungry. No, he corrected himself. He was ravenous.

      More time passed and again he dozed. Then to break the routine, he practised some stretching exercises a Hadati warrior had once taught him and Erland, designed to keep muscles loose and toned at times when there was no room for sword practice or the other rigors common to warcraft. He moved one way then another, balancing tension and relaxation. To his astonishment, he discovered that not only did the exercises take his mind off of his stomach, they made him feel better and calmer.

      For the better part of four hours, Borric sat near the crack, observing the comings and goings of those in the Governor’s courtyard. Several times, soldiers running messages hurried through Borric’s field of vision. He considered: if he could stay hidden here long enough – assuming he could steal food and not get caught – in a few more days they would assume he had somehow slipped out of their grasp. At that time he might be able to sneak aboard an outbound ship.

      Then what? He thought upon that prickly issue. It would do little good to return home, even if he should find a way. Father would only send fast riders south to Kesh with warnings to Erland to be cautious. No doubt he could be no more cautious than he already was. With Borric’s disappearance, Uncle Jimmy was sure to assume the worst and count Borric dead. It would take a gifted assassin to win past Earl James’s notice. As a boy, Jimmy had rightly been counted something of a legend in the city. When years younger than Borric’s present age, he was already a master thief and counted an adult by the Mockers. No mean feat that, Borric thought.

      ‘No,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I must get to Erland as quickly as possible. Too much time will be lost if I return home first.’ Then he wondered if perhaps he should attempt to reach Stardock. The magicians could do astonishing things and perhaps could provide him with a faster way yet to reach Kesh. But Jimmy had mentioned Pug was leaving the day after they departed, so he was already gone. And the two Keshian magicians he left in charge were not men who appeared to Borric as likely candidates for generous help. There was something decidedly off-putting about both of them. And they were Keshian. Who knows how far this Lord Fire’s plotting reaches? Borric considered.

      Looking up from his musing, he realized that night was falling. The evening meal was being prepared in the kitchen and the smell of meat roasting over a spit was nearly enough to make him mad. In a few hours, he told himself. Just relax and let the time pass. It won’t be long. In just a few more hours, the servants will be in their own beds. Then it will be time to steal out and—

      Abruptly the trap moved and Borric’s heart raced as he readied the knife to defend himself. The trap raised up and a slight figure pulled himself into the trap. Suli Abul said, ‘Master?’

      Borric almost laughed from relief. ‘Here.’

      The boy scurried over and said, ‘I feared you might have been found, though I suspected you were wise enough to stay here and await my return.’

      Borric said, ‘Where did you go?’

      Suli was carrying a sack that Borric could barely make out in the gloom. ‘I stole out before dawn, master, and as you were sleeping soundly I chose not to disturb you. Since then I have been many places.’ He opened the bag and brought forth a loaf of bread. Borric tore off a hunk and ate without having to be asked twice. Then the boy handed over a block of cheese and a small skin of wine.

      Through his full mouth, Borric asked, ‘Where did you get this?’

      The boy sighed, as if being back in the attic was a relief. ‘I have had a most perilous day, my kind master. I fled with the idea of perhaps leaving you, then considered what fate has offered. Should I be caught, I will be sold for a slave because of my incompetent theft. If I am linked with your escape, I will be dead. So, what are the risks? By hiding until you are caught and hoping you will not speak the name of Suli Abul before they kill you, I wager a death sentence against the possibility of regaining the life I had before these recent turns of events, which upon consideration is not a very grand thing. Or I can risk that poor life and return to help my young master against the day you return to your father, to reward your faithful servant.’

      Borric laughed. ‘And what reward shall you have if we get safely back to Krondor?’

      With a solemnity that almost made Borric laugh again, the boy said, ‘I wish to become your servant, master. I wish to be known as the Prince’s body servant.’

      Borric said, ‘But what about gold? Or perhaps a trade?’

      The boy shrugged. ‘What do I know of trade, master? I would be a poor merchant, and perhaps be ruined within a year. And gold? I would only spend it. But to be the servant of a great man is to be close to greatness in a way. Do you not see?’

      Borric’s laughter died in his throat before it was voiced. He realized that to this boy of the street, the position of a great man’s servant was the highest attainment he could imagine. Borric thought about the countless and nameless bodies that had surrounded him all his life, the servants who had brought this young son of the Royal House his clothing in the morning, who washed his back, who prepared his meals, each day. He doubted he knew more than one or two by name and perhaps only a dozen by sight. They were … part of the landscape, no more significant than a chair or a table. Borric shook his head, and sighed.

      ‘What is it, master?’

      Borric said, ‘I don’t know if I can

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