Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“Forgive me, Highness, but I believe he does,” Dunbarth remarked confidentially. “Your mother, the Lady Nirakina, has many times pleaded with the speaker to free the slaves of Silvanesti, to no avail.”

“How do you know these things? Aren’t they private matters of the palace?”

The dwarf smiled benignly. “It is a diplomat’s purpose to listen as well as talk. Five weeks in the Quinari Palace exposes one to all sorts of gossip and idle talk. I know the love lives of your servants and who among the nobility drinks too much—not to mention the sad plight of slaves in your own capital city.” With that, Dunbarth’s smile vanished.

“It’s intolerable!” Kith-Kanan’s horse sensed his rider’s agitation and pranced around in a half-circle. “I’ll put a stop to this right now!”

He tightened the reins and turned his mount’s head. Before he could ride over to confront the supervising priests, Danbarth caught his reins and held him back.

“Don’t be hasty, my prince. The priesthoods are very powerful. They have friends at court who will speak against you.”

Kith-Kanan was indignant. “Who do you mean?”

Dunbarth’s gaze was level. “I mean your brother, the noble Sithas.”

Kith-Kanan squinted from under the brim of his hat. “My twin is not a slave driver. Why do you say this to me, my lord?”

“I only say what is true, Highness. You know the court; you know how alliances are made. Prince Sithas has become the defender of the temples. In turn, the priests support him.”

“Against whom?”

“Anyone who opposes him. The priestess Miritelisina, of the Temple of Quenesti Pah, for one. She tried to defend those who fled from the slaughter on the plains. You know of the riot?” Kith-Kanan knew Sithas’s version of the story. He indicated Dunbarth should continue.

“The riot began because Prince Sithas and the priests, along with the guildmasters, wanted to expel the poor farmers from the city. Miritelisina warned them. They misunderstood her and, believing they were to be sent back to the plains, rioted. For that the priestess was put in prison. The speaker has let her go free, but she continues her work for the poor and homeless.”

Kith-Kanan said nothing, but watched as three Kagonesti passed by with a ten-inch-thick log braced on their shoulders.

In each one he saw Anaya—the same dark eyes and hair, the same passion for freedom.

“I must speak out against this,” he said at last. “It is wrong for one of the firstborn race to own another.”

“They will not hear you, Highness,” Dunbarth said sadly.

Kith-Kanan put his horse’s head toward the palace. “They will hear me. If they don’t listen, I’ll shout at them till they do.”

They rode back at a brisk canter, avoiding the clogged streets in the center of the city and keeping to the riverside roads. By the time they reached the plaza in front of the palace, a light rain had started to fall. Mackeli was standing in the courtyard in his new squire’s livery, a studded leather jerkin and helmet. When Kith-Kanan rode up, Mackeli hurried over and held the prince’s horse while he dismounted.

“You look splendid,” Kith-Kanan said, sizing up Mackeli’s new outfit.

“Are you sure this is what squires wear?” asked the boy. He hooked a finger in the tight collar and tugged at the stiff leather. “I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a steer.”

Kith-Kanan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Wait until you put on your first real armor,” he said exuberantly. “Then you’ll feel like one of our giant turtles has swallowed you!”

The three left the horses for the servants to stable and entered the palace. Maids appeared with dry towels. Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth made perfunctory swipes at their faces, then handed the cloths back. Mackeli dried himself carefully, all the while eyeing the handmaids with frank interest. The girls, both of whom were about the boy’s age, blushed under his studied gaze,

“Come along,” Kith-Kanan scolded, dragging at Mackeli’s sleeve. Dunbarth plucked the towel from his hand and returned it to the servants.

“I wasn’t finished,” Mackeli protested.

“If you’d dried yourself any longer, you’d have taken hide and hair off, too,” observed the dwarf.

“I was looking at the girls,” Mackeli said bluntly.

“Yes, like a wolf looks at his dinner,” noted Kith-Kanan. “If you want to impress the fair sex, you’d best learn to be a little more discreet.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means, don’t stare,” advised Dunbarth. “Smile at them and say something pleasant.”

Mackeli was puzzled. “What should I say?”

Kith-Kanan put a hand to his chin and considered. “Pay them a compliment. Say, ‘what pretty eyes you have!’ or ask them their name and say, ‘what a pretty name!’ ”

“Can I touch them?” asked Mackeli innocently.

“No!” exclaimed the two in unison.

They spotted Ulvissen in the corridor, accompanied by one of the human soldiers. The Ergothian seneschal was handing the soldier a large brass tube, which the man furtively tucked into a leather bag hung from his shoulder. Ulvissen stood up straight when he saw Kith-Kanan. The soldier with the tube saluted and went on his way.

“How goes it, Master Ulvissen?” the prince asked blandly.

“Very well, Your Highness. I have dispatched a copy of the preliminary agreement we’ve made to His Imperial Majesty.”

“Just now?”

Ulvissen nodded. Behind his beard and graying hair, he looked haggard. Kith-Kanan guessed Lady Teralind had kept him up very late, preparing the dispatch.

“Would you know where my father and Prince Sithas might be?”

“I last saw them in the reception hall, where seals were being put to the copies of the agreement,” said Ulvissen courteously. He bowed.

“Thank you.” Kith-Kanan and Dunbarth walked on. Mackeli, too, drifted past the tall, elder human, looking at him with curiosity.

“How old are you?” asked Mackeli impetuously.

Ulvissen was surprised. “Forty and nine years,” he replied.

“I am sixty-one,” said the boy. “Why is it you look so much older than I?”

Kith-Kanan swung around and took Mackeli by the elbows. “Forgive him, Excellency,” said the prince. “The boy has lived all his life in the forest and knows little about manners.”

“It is nothing,” said Ulvissen. Yet he continued to watch with an intense expression as the prince and the dwarf ambassador hustled Mackeli away.

The reception hall of the palace was on the ground floor of the central tower, one floor below the Hall of Balif. Dunbarth took his leave of Kith-Kanan in the corridor outside. “My old bones need a nap,” he apologized.

Mackeli started to follow the prince, who told him to remain behind. The boy objected, but Kith-Kanan said sharply, “Find some other way to be useful. I’ll be back soon.”

When Kith-Kanan entered, the vast, round room was full of tables and stools, at which scribes were furiously writing. The entire transcript of the conference was being written out in full and copied as quickly as the master scribe could finish a page.

Sithel and Sithas stood in the center of this organized chaos, approving sheets of parchment covered with spidery handwriting. Boys darted among the tables, filling inkpots, sharpening styluses, and piling up fresh stacks of unmarked vellum. When Sithel espied him, he shoved the parchment aside and gestured for the assistant to leave.

“Father, I need to speak with you. And you, Brother,” Kith-Kanan said, gesturing to a quieter side of the hall. When they had moved, the prince asked bluntly, “Do you know that gangs of slaves are working in the city, working to rebuild the Market?”