William couldn’t resist laughing at his cousins’ predicament. He had often seen them bring disaster down upon themselves and he never could understand their appetite for such punishment. He said, ‘Maybe you could run for the border. I could get very stupid following you.’
Erland shook his head. ‘I think I’ll wish I had taken your offer, after tomorrow morning’s court.’
William laughed again. ‘Come along, this dressing down won’t be much worse than a dozen you’ve already had.’
Baron James, Chancellor of Krondor and first assistant to the Duke of Krondor, quickly mounted his own horse. ‘To the palace,’ he ordered, and the company turned to escort the twin princes, Borric and Erland, to the palace.
Arutha, Prince of Krondor, Knight-Marshal of the Western Realm, and Royal Heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the Isles, sat quietly attentive to the business of the court being conducted before him. A slender man in his youth, he had not gained the bulk commonly associated with middle age, but rather had become harder, more angular in features, losing what little softening effects youth had given his lanky appearance. His hair was still dark, though enough grey had come with the twenty years of ruling Krondor and the West to speckle it. His reflexes had slowed only slightly over the years, and he was still counted one of the finest swordsmen in the Kingdom, though he rarely had reason to exercise his skill with the rapier. His dark brown eyes were narrowed in concentration, a gaze that seemed to miss nothing, in the opinion of many who served the Prince. Thoughtful, even brooding at times, Arutha was a brilliant military leader. He had rightfully won his reputation during the nine years of the Riftwar which had ended the year before the twins’ birth after taking command of the garrison at Crydee, his family’s castle, when only a few months older than his sons were now.
He was counted a hard but fair ruler, quick to dispense justice when the crime warranted, though often given to acts of leniency at the request of his wife, the Princess Anita. And that relationship more than anything typified the administration of the Western Realm: hard, logical, even-handed justice, tempered with mercy. While few openly sang Arutha’s praises, he was well respected and honoured, and his wife was beloved by her subjects.
Anita sat quietly upon her throne, her green eyes looking off into space. Her royal manner masked her concern for her sons from all but those who knew her most intimately. That her husband had ordered the boys brought to the great hall for morning court, rather than to their parents’ private quarters last night, showed more than anything else his displeasure. Anita forced herself to be attentive to the speech being given by a member of the Guild of Weavers; it was her duty also to show those coming before her husband’s court the consideration of listening to every petition or request. The other members of the royal family were not normally required at morning court, but since the twins had returned from their service upon the border at Highcastle, it had become a family gathering.
Princess Elena stood at her mother’s side. She looked a fair compromise between her parents, having red-brown hair and fair skin from her mother but her father’s dark and intelligent eyes. Those who knew the royal family well often observed that if Borric and Erland resembled their uncle, the King, then Elena resembled her aunt, the Baroness Carline of Salador. And Arutha had observed on more than one occasion she had Carline’s renowned temper.
Prince Nicholas, Arutha and Anita’s youngest child, had avoided the need to stand next to his sister, by hiding from his father’s sight. He stood behind his mother’s throne, beyond his father’s gaze, on the first step off the dais. The door to the royal apartments was hidden from the eyes of those in the hall, down three steps, where, in years past, all four children had played the game of huddling on the first step, listening to their father conduct court, enjoying the delicious feeling of eavesdropping. Nicky waited for the arrival of his two brothers.
Anita glanced about with that sudden sense mothers have that one of their children is somewhere he shouldn’t be. She spied Nicholas waiting down by the door, and motioned him to stand close. Nicky had idolized Borric and Erland, despite them having little time for the boy and constantly teasing him. They just couldn’t find much in common with their youngest sibling, since he was twelve years younger.
Prince Nicholas hobbled up the three broad steps and moved to his mother’s side and, as it had every day since his birth, Anita’s heart broke. The boy had a deformed foot, and neither surgeon’s ministrations nor priest’s spell had any effect, save to enable him to walk. Unwilling to hold up the deformed baby to public scrutiny, Arutha had ignored custom and refused to show the boy at the Presentation, the holiday in honour of a royal child’s first public appearance, a tradition that may have died with Nicholas’s birth.
Nicky turned when he heard the door open, and Erland peered through. The youngest Prince grinned at his brothers as they gingerly slipped through the door. Nicky scrambled down the three steps with his canted gait to intercept them, and gave each a hug. Erland visibly winced and Borric bestowed an absent pat on the shoulder.
Nicky followed the twins as they slowly mounted the stairs behind the thrones, coming to stand behind their sister. She glanced over her shoulder long enough to stick out her tongue and cross her eyes, causing all three brothers to force themselves not to laugh. They knew no one else in court could see her fleeting pantomime. The twins had a long history of tormenting their little sister, who gave back as good as she got. She would think nothing of embarrassing them in the King’s own court.
Arutha, sensing some exchange between his children, glanced over and gifted his four offspring with a quick frown, enough to silence any potential mirth. His gaze lingered on his elder sons and showed his anger in full measure, though only those close to him would recognize it as such. Then his attention was back upon the matter before the court. A minor noble was being advanced into a new office, and while the four royal children might not find it worthy of much dignity, the man would count this among one of the high points of his life. Arutha had tried to impress such awareness upon them over the years but continuously failed.
Overseeing the Prince’s court was Lord Gardan, Duke of Krondor. The old soldier had served with Arutha, and his father before him, thirty years and more. His dark skin stood in stark contrast to his beard, almost white in colour, but he still had the alert eyes of one whose mind had lost none of its edge and a ready smile for the royal children. A commoner by birth, Gardan had risen on his ability, and despite an often expressed desire to retire and return to his home in Far Crydee, he had remained in Arutha’s service, first as Sergeant in the garrison at Crydee, then Captain of the Prince’s Royal Household, then Knight-Marshal of Krondor. When the previous Duke of Krondor, Lord Volney, had died unexpectedly after seven years’ loyal service in his office, Arutha had awarded the office to Gardan. Despite the old soldier’s protestations of not being suited to the nobility, he had proven an able administrator as well as a gifted soldier.
Gardan finished intoning the man’s new rank and privileges and Arutha proffered a terribly oversized parchment with ribbons and seals embossed upon it.
The man took his award of office and retired to the crowd, to the hushed congratulations of others in court.
Gardan nodded to the Master of Ceremonies, Jerome by name, and the thin man brought himself to his full height. Once a boyhood rival of Baron James, the office suited Jerome’s self-important nature. He was, by all accounts, a thorough bore and his preoccupation with trivia made him a natural for the post. His love of detail manifested itself in the exquisite stitching of his cloak of office and the pointed chin beard he spent hours in trimming. In pompous tones, he spoke: ‘If it pleases Your Highness, His Excellency, Lord Torum Sie, Ambassador from the Royal court of Great Kesh.’
The Ambassador, who had been standing off to one side, conferring with his advisors, approached the dais and bowed. By his attire, it was clear he was of the true Keshian people, for his head was shaved. His scarlet coat was cut away, revealing a pair of yellow pantaloons and white slippers. His chest was bare in the Keshian fashion, a large golden torque of office decorating his neck. Each item of clothing was delicately finished in almost imperceptible needlework, with tiny jewels and pearls decorating each seam. The effect was as if he was bathed in shimmering sparkles as