Chapter One

Homecoming

The inn was quiet.

Walls darkened with years of fireplace soot drank in
the lantern light, reflecting dim illumination. The dying
fire in the hearth offered scant warmth and, from the
demeanor of those who chose to sit before it, less cheer.
In contrast to the mood of most establishments of its ilk,
this inn was nearly somber. In murky corners, men
spoke in hushed tones, discussing things best not over-
heard by the uninvolved. A grunt of agreement to a
whispered proposal or a bitter laugh from a woman of
negotiable virtue were the only sounds to intrude upon
the silence. The majority of the denizens of the inn
called the Sleeping Dockman were closely watching
the game.

The game was pokiir, common to the Empire of
Great Kesh to the south and now replacing lin-lan and
pashawa as the gambler's choice in the inns and taverns
of the Western Realm of the Kingdom. One player held
his five cards before him, his eyes narrowed in concen-
tration. An off-duty soldier, he kept alert for any sign of
trouble in the room, and trouble was rapidly approach-
ing. He made a display of studying his cards, while dis-
creetly inspecting the five men who played at the table
with him.

The first two on his left were rough men. Both were
sunburned and the hands holding their cards were
heavily callused; faded linen shirts and cotton trousers
hung loosely on lank but muscular frames. Neither wore
boots or even sandals, barefoot despite the cool night
air, a certain sign they were sailors waiting for a new
berth. Usually such men quickly lost their pay and were
bound again for sea, but from the way they had bet all

Prince of the Blood

night, the soldier was certain they were working for the
man who sat to the soldier's right.

That man sat patiently, waiting to see if the soldier
would match his bet or fold his cards, forfeiting his
chance to buy up to three new cards. The soldier had
seen his sort many times before; a rich merchant's son,
or a younger son of a minor noble, with too much time
on his hands and too little sense. He was fashionably
attired in the latest rage among the young men of
Krondor, a short pair of breeches tucked into hose, al-
lowing the pants legs above the calf to balloon out. A
simple white shirt was embroidered with pearls and
semiprecious stones, and the jacket was the new cut-
away design, a rather garish yellow, with white and
silver brocade at the wrists and collar. He was a typical
dandy. And from the look of the Rodezian slamanca
hanging from the loose baldric across his shoulder, a
dangerous man. It was a sword only used by a master or
someone seeking a quick death-in the hands of an
expert it was a fearsome weapon; in the hands of the
inexperienced it was suicide.

The man had probably lost large sums of money be-
fore and now sought to recoup his previous losses by
cheating at cards. One or the other of the sailors would
win an occasional ha...

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