Rise of a Merchant Prince (2 page)

Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes
Lords of mechanics, gentlemen of rakes;
Antiquity and birth are needless here;
‘Tis Impudence and money makes a peer.

—D
ANIEL
D
EFOE
The True-born Englishman, Pt. I

The soul
screamed.

The demon turned, and as its gaping maw was set in a permanent grin, the only hint of its increased delight was a slight widening of its eyes, black orbs resembling those of a shark: flat and lifeless. It studied the jar it held for a moment, its only possession.

This soul was especially active and the demon had been fortunate to find it and keep it. Placing the jar under its chin, the demon closed its eyes and felt the energy flow into it from the jar. The creature's emotional makeup knew nothing that could be called happiness, only lessened states of fear or anger, but the surge of feeling within was as close to happiness as the creature could know. Each time the soul within the jar struggled, the energy created filled the little demon's mind with new ideas.

As if suddenly concerned its toy would be taken from it by one of its more powerful brethren, the demon glanced around. The hall was one of many in the grand palace of Cibul, capital of the now destroyed Saaur race.

Then the demon remembered: destroyed save those who had fled through a magic gate. It felt its anger return, and then the emotion quickly fled. As a minor demon, it was not intelligent, only cunning, and it didn't fully understand why the escape of a small part of this nearly obliterated race was important. But it was, for the Demon Lords were even now gathered upon the plains to the east of the city of Cibul, inspecting the site of the now closed rift through which the Saaur survivors had fled.

The Lords of the Fifth Circle had attempted once to open the portal, managing to keep it open long enough to slip a tiny demon through, before it collapsed upon itself, sealing the rift between the two realms and stranding the tiny demon on the other side of the rift. There was much consultation among the greater demons on reopening that rift and gaining entrance to this new realm.

The demon wandered the halls, oblivious to the ravages around it. Tapestries that had taken a generation to weave were torn from the walls and trodden upon, soiled by dirt and blood. The demon cracked a Saaur rib bone underfoot and absently kicked it aside. At last it came to its secret room, the one it had claimed as its own while the Host of the Fifth Circle resided on this cold planet. Leaving the demon realm was a terrible experience, thought the young demon. This had been the demon's first journey to this realm, and it wasn't sure it cared much for the pain of transition.

The feasting had been glorious; never had it known such a wealth of food, even though it was limited to scraps from the feasting pits, thrown out by the mightiest of the host as they fed. But scraps or
not, the demon had devoured much and had grown. And that was creating problems for itself.

It sat down, attempting to find a comfortable position as its body changed. The feasting had continued for nearly a year and many of the lesser demons had grown. This particular demon had grown faster than most, though it still hadn't matured enough to have developed significant intelligence or a sexual identity.

Looking down at the plaything, the demon laughed, a silent gaping of jaws and sucking of wind. The mortal eye could not behold the thing within the jar. The demon, who didn't have a name yet, had been most fortunate to snare this particular soul. A great demon captain, almost a lord, had fallen to mighty magic even as the great Tugor had crushed and eaten the leader of the Saaur. One of the Saaur magic users, a powerful one, had-destroyed the demon captain, but at the cost of his own life. The little demon might not be intelligent, but it was quick, and without hesitation it had seized the fleeing soul force of the dead magic user.

The demon inspected the device again, the soul jar, and poked at it. The magic soul within rewarded it by thrashing, if something without a body could be said to thrash.

The demon shifted its weight. It knew it was getting more powerful, but the nearly nonstop feeding was at an end. The last of the Saaur were dead and devoured, and now the demon host was depending on lesser animals for food, animals with negligent soul force. There were some client races, who would breed children, some of which would go to the feasting pits, but that meant slow growth in this realm. Its
body would continue to mature, but not significantly until the next realm had been entered.

Cold, the demon thought as it glanced around the large room, ignorant of its original use: a bedroom for one of the Saaur leader's many wives. The native realm was one of wild energies and pulsing heat, where the demons of the Fifth Circle grew like wild things, devouring one another, until strong enough to escape and serve the Demon King and his lords and captains. This demon had but vague recollections of its own beginning, remembering only anger and fear, and an occasional moment of pleasure as it devoured something.

The demon settled down on the floor. With a changing body, it couldn't seem to find a comfortable position. Its back itched, and with certainty it knew wings would grow there soon, tiny at first, then growing larger as it rose in power. The demon was clever enough to know it would have to fight to gain rank, so it had better rest. It had been lucky so far, as the critical periods in its growth had come during the war on this world, and most of the host were too occupied with devouring the inhabitants of this world to contest in their own ranks.

Others were now fighting, and the losers would add strength to the winners as they were devoured; any demon without enough rank was a fair target for another save when a lord or captain demanded obedience. It was simply the way of this race, and each who fell was considered unworthy of a second thought. This demon considered that there must be a better way to gain more strength than an open challenge and outright attack. But it couldn't think of what it could be.

Glancing around what had once been a regal and richly appointed dwelling, the demon closed its eyes, but not before glancing one last time at the soul jar. Feeding might cease awhile, and with it physical growth, but it had learned during the war that physical growth, while impressive, wasn't as important as knowing things. The contents of the soul jar were a being rich in knowledge, and this little demon meant to have that knowledge. The demon placed the jar against its forehead and mentally prodded the soul, causing more thrashing, and the energy that resulted flowed into the demon. Powerful, like a drug to a mortal, the sensation was among the most glorious known to demonkind. The demon felt something new in its experience: satisfaction. Soon it would be smarter, know things, and then it would be able to use more than animal cunning to gain rank and a position of power.

And when the Demon Lords finally discovered a way to open fully the gate that had been sealed behind the fleeing Saaur, then the Demon Host of the Fifth Circle would follow and then there would be ample opportunity to feed upon the Saaur and upon whatever other intelligent, soul-bearing creatures lived upon the world of Midkemia.

A ship
swept into the harbor.

Black and dangerous, it moved like a dark hunter bearing down on its prey. Three tall masts, majestic under full sail, propelled the warship into the harbor of a great city as other ships gave way. Although she looked like a great pirate vessel from the distant Sunset Islands, her foremast flew the Royal Ensign, and all who saw the ship knew that the King's brother was returning home.

High aloft that ship, a young man worked quickly, reefing the mizzen topsail. Roo paused a moment as he tied the final reef point, and looked across the harbor at the City of Krondor.

The Prince's city spread out along the docks, rose on hills to the south, and spread out of sight to the north. The panorama was impressive as the ship sped in from the sea. The young man—eighteen years of age at the next Midsummer's festival—had thought on numerous occasions over the past year and more that he would never see the city again. Yet here he was, finishing up his watch atop the mizzen mast of
the Freeport Ranger, a ship under the command of Admiral Nicholas, brother to the King of the Kingdom of the Isles and uncle to the Prince of Krondor.

Krondor was the second most important city in the Kingdom of the Isles, the capital of the Western Realm and seat of power for the Prince of Krondor, heir to the throne of the Isles. Roo could see the multitude of small buildings scattered across the hills surrounding the harbor, the vista dominated by the Prince's palace, which sat atop a steep hill hard against the water. The majesty of the palace was in stark contrast to the rude buildings that lined the waterfront close by, warehouses and chandlers' shops, sail- and rope-makers, carpenters and sailor's inns. Second only to the Poor Quarter as a haven for thugs and thieves, the waterfront was thrown by the proximity of the palace into an even more seedy aspect.

Yet Roo was pleased to see Krondor, for now he was a free man. He glanced one last time at his work, ensuring that the sail was properly reefed, and moved quickly along the foot-rope with a sure balance learned while crossing treacherous seas for nearly two years.

Roo considered the oddity of facing his third spring in a row without a winter. The topsy-turvy seasons of the land on the other side of the world had contrived to provide Roo and his boyhood friend, Erik, with such a situation, and Roo found the notion both amusing and oddly disquieting.

He shinnied down a sheet, reaching the top of the mizzenmast ratline. Roo didn't particularly like top work, but as one of the smaller and more nimble men
in the crew, he was often told to go aloft and unfurl or reef the royals and topgallants. He scampered down the ratline and landed lightly on the deck.

Erik von Darkmoor, Roo's only friend as a boy, finished his task of tying off a yard brace to a cleat, then hurried to the rail as they sped past other ships in the harbor. A full two heads taller and twice the bulk of his friend, Erik made with Roo as unlikely a pair as any two boys could have been. While Erik was stronger than any boy in their hometown of Ravensburg, Roo was among the smallest. While Erik would never be called handsome, he wore an open and friendly expression that others found likable; Roo had no illusions about his own appearance. He was homely by any standards, with a pinched face, eyes that were narrowed and darting around as if constantly looking for threats, and a nearly permanent expression that could only be called furtive. But on those rare occasions when he smiled, or laughed, a warmth was revealed that made him far from unattractive. It was that roguish humor and willingness to brave trouble that had attracted Erik to Roo when they were children.

Erik pointed and Roo nodded at those ships moving away from their own as the
Freeport Ranger
was given right of way to the royal docks below the palace. One of the older sailors laughed and Roo turned to ask, “What?”

“Prince Nicky's going to irritate the Harbormaster again.” Erik, his hair almost bleached white by the sun, looked at the sailor, who had blue eyes that stood out in stark contrast to his sunburned face. “What do you mean?”

The sailor pointed. “There's the Harbormaster's
launch.” Roo looked to where the man pointed. “He's not slowing to pick up a pilot!”

The sailor laughed. “The Admiral is his teacher's student. Old Admiral Trask used to do the same thing, but he'd at least allow the pilot up on deck so he could personally irritate him by refusing to take a tow into the dock. Admiral Nicky's the King's brother, so he doesn't even bother with that formality.”

Roo and Erik glanced upward and saw that old sailors were standing by waiting to reef in the last sails on the Admiral's command. Roo then looked to the poop deck and saw Nicholas, formerly Prince of Krondor and presently Admiral of the King's Fleet in the West, give the signal. Instantly the old hands pulled up the heavy canvas and tied off. Within seconds Roo and the others on the deck could feel the ship's speed begin to fall off as they neared the royal docks located below the royal palace of the Prince.

The
Ranger's
motion continued to drop off, but to Roo it felt as if they were still moving into the docks too fast. The old sailor spoke as if reading his mind. “We're pushing a lot of water into the quay, and that'll push back as we come alongside the docks, slowing us down to almost a full stop, though she'll make the cleats groan a bit.” He made ready to throw a line to those waiting on the dock ahead. “Lend a hand!”

Roo and Erik each grabbed another line and waited for the command. When Nicholas shouted, “Cast away!” Roo threw to a man on the dockside, who caught the rope expertly and quickly made it fast to a large iron cleat. As the old sailor said, when the line went taut the iron cleats seemed to groan as the wooden docks were flexed, but the bow wake
returned from the stone quay and the huge ship seemed to settle in with a single rocking motion, as if it sighed in relief that it was good to be home.

Erik turned to Roo. “Wonder what the Harbormaster will say to the Admiral.”

Roo glanced aft as the Admiral made his way to the main deck, and considered the question. The first time Roo had seen the man had been at Erik's and Roo's trial for the murder of Erik's half brother, Stefan. The second time he had seen him had been when the survivors of the mercenary company to which Roo and Erik belonged had been rescued from a fishing smack outside the harbor of the city of Maharta. Having served under the Admiral on the voyage homeward, Roo's opinion was “He'll probably say nothing, go home, and get drunk.”

Erik laughed. He also knew that Nicholas was a man of calm authority, who could embarrass a subordinate to the point of tears with a stare and no words spoken, a trait he shared with Calis, the Captain of Roo and Erik's company, the Crimson Eagles.

Of the original company, numbering in the hundreds, fewer than fifty men survived—the six who had fled with Calis and some stragglers who had found their way to the City of the Serpent River before the
Freeport Ranger
had departed for Krondor. Nicholas's other ship,
Trenchard's Revenge
, had remained in the harbor at the City of the Serpent River for an extra month, in case more men from Calis's troop found their way there. Any who were not there when she weighed anchor would be considered to be dead.

The gangplank was run out, and Roo and Erik
watched as Nicholas and Calis were the first to disembark. On the dock waited Patrick, Prince of Krondor, his uncle Prince Erland—nephew and brother respectively to Nicholas—and other members of the royal court of Krondor.

Erik said, “Not much of a show, is it?”

Roo could only nod. A lot of men had died to bring back the information Nicholas carried to his nephew, the Prince. And from what Roo knew, it was scant information at best. He turned his attention to the royal family.

Nicholas, formerly Prince of Krondor until his nephew had come from the capital of the Kingdom of the Isles to assume the office, looked nothing like his brother. Erland's hair was mostly grey, but there was enough red remaining to reveal its original hue. Nicholas, likewise going grey, was a man of dark hair and intense features. Patrick, the new Prince of Krondor, was somewhere between his two uncles in appearance, darker of skin than both, but his hair was a middle brown in color. He seemed to have something of Erland's powerful build and Nicholas's intensity.

“No,” said Roo, “you're right; not much by way of ceremony.”

Erik nodded. “Then again, by now they all know there's not much glory in any of this. The Prince and his uncle are probably both anxious to hear what news Calis and Nicholas have.”

Roo sighed agreement. “None of it good. It's all bloody business and it's going to get worse.”

A friendly slap to the back caused both Roo and Erik to turn. Robert de Loungville stood behind the two young men, grinning in a way that up until
recently made both men expect the worst, but this time they knew he was merely showing the more affable side of his nature. He kept his receding hair cropped close to his skull, and he needed a shave. “Where to, lads?”

Roo jingled a purse of gold tucked into his tunic. “I think a good glass of ale, the tender touch of a bad woman, and then I'll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.”

Erik shrugged. “I've been thinking, and I want to take up your offer, Sergeant.”

“Good,” said de Loungville, sergeant of Calis's company. He had offered Erik a place in the army, but in a special command being formed by Calis, Prince Nicholas's mysterious and not-quite-human ally. “Come by Lord James's office at midday tomorrow. I'll leave word at the palace gate you're to be admitted.”

Roo studied the men on the dock. “Our Prince is an impressive-looking man.”

Erik said, “I know what you mean. He and his father both look the sort who have been in some serious places.”

De Loungville said, “Never let their rank fool you, lads. Erland and our King, and their sons after them, spent their time along the northern borders fighting goblins and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path.” He used the common name for the moredhel, the dark elves who lived on the far side of the mountains known as the Teeth of the World. “I heard that the King got into some serious business down in Kesh once, a run-in with slavers or some such thing. Whatever it was, he came out of it with a good opinion of the common man, for a king.

“We haven't had a court-bred king since King Rodric, before old King Lyam took the throne, and that was before I was born. These are tough men who've spent some time soldiering, and it'll take a few more generations before any in this family becomes soft. The Captain will see to that.” There was something in his voice that hinted at strong emotions; Roo glanced at the sergeant and tried to glean what it was, but de Loungville's expression had returned to a broad grin.

“What are you thinking?” asked Erik of Roo, his best friend since childhood.

Roo said, “Just how funny families can be.” He pointed to the group on the dock, listening carefully to Nicholas.

Erik said, “Notice our Captain.”

Roo nodded. He knew Erik meant Calis. The elflike man stood off to one side, with just enough distance between himself and the others to be apart, yet close enough to answer questions when asked.

Robert de Loungville said, “He's been my friend for twenty years. He found me serving with Daniel Troville, Lord Highcastle, and dragged me away from the border wars to go to the strangest places a man can imagine. I've been with him longer than any man in his company, eaten cold rations with him, slept beside him, watched men die in his arms, even had him carry me for two days after the fall of Hamsa, but I can't say I know the man.”

Erik asked, “Is it true he's part elf?”

De Loungville rubbed his chin. “I can't say I know the truth of that. He told me his father came from Crydee originally; a kitchen boy, he claims. He doesn't talk about his past much. Mostly he plans for
the future, and takes barracks rats like you two and turns them into soldiers. But it's worthwhile. I wasn't much more than a barracks rat myself when he found me. Worked up from that to my grand station today.” He said the last with an even broader grin, as if he were nothing more than a common sergeant and that remark a joke, but both Erik and Roo had been told he carried high court rank in addition to his military rank. “So I never asked too many personal questions. He's very much what you might call a ‘right now' sort of fellow.” De Loungville's voice lowered, as if Calis might somehow overhear from down on the dock, and his expression turned serious. “He does have those pointy ears. Still, I never heard of any such being—half-man,
half-elf—yet he can do things no other man I know can do.” He grinned again as he said, “But he's saved all our hides more times than I can count, so who's to care what his line is? Your station at birth means nothing. A man can't change that. What's important is how you live.” He slapped both young men on the shoulder. “You were worthless dogmeat when I found you, fit only for starving crows, but look at you now!”

Erik and Roo exchanged looks, then laughed. Both were wearing the same clothing they had worn when escaping the destruction of the city of Maharta, oft patched, stained beyond cleaning, reducing both men to the appearance of common street thugs.

Roo said, “We're two men in need of some fresh clothing. Save Erik's boots, we look the part of ragpickers.”

Erik glanced down and said, “And these need mending.” The boots were all he had left from the Baron of Darkmoor's legacy, a grudging admission
to Erik of his paternity, along with not denying Erik the right to call himself “von Darkmoor.” The boots were riding boots, but Erik had walked enough to wear the heels down to nearly nothing, and the leather was weather-beaten and cracked.

Sho Pi, an Isalani from the Empire of Great Kesh, came upon deck from below, carrying his own travel bag. Behind him came Nakor, also an Isalani, and the man Sho Pi had decided was destined to be his “master.” He appeared old, but moved with a spry step and quickness that both Erik and Roo knew well. He had instructed them in hand-to-hand combat, and Roo and Erik knew that the odd little man, as well as Sho Pi, was as dangerous unarmed as most men were with weapons. Roo was convinced he had never seen Nakor move as fast as possible, and wasn't sure he would welcome such a demonstration. Roo was a gifted student of the open-handed school of fighting practiced in the Isalani provinces of Kesh, only surpassed by Sho Pi and Nakor in Calis's company, but he knew either man could easily defeat him with a quick killing blow.