The Chosen Prince (14 page)

They think they're being subtle, but they're not. Leander, annoyed, picks out the worst offender and goes on the attack.

“You!” he shouts at a ginger-haired lad with a face covered with freckles. “Carrot-head!”

The boy recoils. “Sire?” he says.

“Keep your eyes to yourself.”

“I will, sire.”

“Good. Now go get us some water. And when you've done that, I want you to clean my friend's boots.” The boy disappears, and all over the stable yard, the staring stops and men go back to their business.

“Thank you,” Alexos says, dropping onto a bench with a groan of relief, grateful for an excuse to sit down and rest before walking across the compound to see his father.

“Bunch of oafs,” Leander grumbles.

“You were pretty hard on that boy, you know. Everyone was staring; he wasn't the only one.”

“Yes, but he was the worst. And I understand that you don't want people bowing and scraping and all that—but his
jaw
was actually hanging open”—Leander demonstrates—“like he'd just seen a two-headed pig!”

“Well, I do put on quite a show. Ah, Nestor—what news?”

Nestor squats in front of Alexos, his elbows on his knees, so the prince won't have to rise or look up at him as they speak.

“We've been given a guest room in the officers' compound. They'll bring in cots. I'm told the room is rather small for so many. It'll be crowded.”

“That's all right. It's only for one night.”

“That's what I told them. There's still some question as to where you'll be housed, however.”

“I'll stay with everyone else.”

“I'm afraid that's up to the king.”

Alexos shuts his eyes and sighs quietly. “I see. Thank you, Nestor.”

“I'll have the baggage sent over. Shall we stay while your boots are cleaned?” They exchange a knowing smile. Nestor has not been fooled by Leander's little ruse.

“No. The rest of you can go ahead.”

“Very well, my lord. I'll leave Pitheus behind to accompany you.”

Alexos nods, though it seems ridiculous that he should need personal protection when he's surrounded by his father's army. Still, rules are rules. At least Pitheus knows to shadow him from behind, and to do it subtly.

Carrot-head is back now, quite impressively managing to carry a heavy pail of water, a net bag filled with wooden cups, and the rag and polish he'll need to clean Alexos' special riding boots. After serving out the water none of the boys really wants—they all carry waterskins when they travel, so they aren't particularly thirsty—Carrot-head kneels at the prince's feet and goes to work with a will.

“I never thought I'd actually get to meet the famous prince Alexos,” he says with an ingratiating smile, apparently hoping to make up with flattery what he's lost through rudeness.

“Famous?”
Alexos says. “For my beautiful hand at the lute, you mean? Or is it my prowess for mathematics that goes before me?”

Blood rushes to the boy's face. Leander comes in for the kill.

“Just to be clear, Carrot-head: you
still
have not
‘met' the aforementioned famous prince. You are cleaning his boots. They are not the same thing.”

“No, my lord. Of course, you are right. It's just that we are all so delighted and honored to have the prince here, that in my excitement I was presumptuous.” Then, having apologized, he is more presumptuous still. “May I humbly ask, Your Majesty, if you will grace our presence for long?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Leander snaps, quite beside himself now. “What's wrong with you? No, you
humbly
may not! It's none of your business!”

“I am terribly sorry, my lord. I only asked because we are looking after your horses, and we'll need to arrange things according to your plans. If you're off again this afternoon, we'll just wipe them down and feed and water them, but not—”

“We leave tomorrow, early,” Alexos says, tired of this conversation.

“Very good, Your Grace. We'll have them all bridled and ready to go first thing in the morning.”

“You do that,” Leander says. “And if you say another word I may have to cut out your tongue.”

The groom ducks his head and doesn't speak again, just attends to his work. And he does a good job of it, too. By the time Alexos' boots are gleaming and the groom has slunk away, he has his strength back, more or less.

“Well, I'm off,” he says without much enthusiasm.

“Shall I come with you?”

“No, I have Pitheus. And to be honest, I need some time alone to prepare myself.”

“I understand.”

“But I'd like you to stay with me tonight—wherever my father decides to put me.”

“Of course.”

“I'll send for you when it's over.”

Leander nods agreement and gives Alexos a sympathetic smile. “At least you're all buffed and shiny for your conference with the king.”

“Oh, I assure you, Leander, my father will not notice my boots.”

EKTOR IS STANDING WHEN
Alexos comes in—always a dangerous sign. The way he leans forward, his large hands gripping the corners of his worktable, he looks like a wild beast ready to pounce.

“What in the name of Zeus are you doing here?” he says. His voice is so abrasive it would have felt like an assault even without the stinging words. And for a moment Alexos is powerless to speak. Then suddenly rage is rising in his belly.

“Why, thank you, Father,” he says. “I'm delighted to see
you
as well. And how nice to find you so pleasantly housed, even here on the borderlands—every comfort, stylish decorations, my goodness!” He looks pointedly at the fresco on the wall opposite the entry door, his head cocked with feigned amazement. “And
what exactly
are
those frolicsome maidens meant to be—
wood nymphs
?”

Ektor is stunned. This sort of thing has never happened before. “I have no idea,” he says, almost defensive. “That's been there since my great-grandfather's time. It's nothing to do with me.”

“Charming, though—all that ivory skin, soft eyes, flowing hair . . .”

“Alexos!”

“And the whole day off from fighting to enjoy it all. How very nice for you.”

There is a long, cold silence while the king recovers from this unthinkable exchange. “Well, if you've come to see blood, my boy, then you ought to have been here yesterday.
By the gods
, I should have had you strangled at birth! Now sit down and tell me why you're here.”

“No need. I won't be long.”

“I said
sit
!”

Chastened and more or less returned to sanity, Alexos pulls up a chair. His father sits too, folding his hands on the table and waiting with exaggerated impatience while Alexos does his thing with the brace and leans his cane against the table.

“By ancient tradition,” Ektor says in his lecturing voice, “just as we declare a truce every night, we don't fight on the feast days of the gods. Today, as it
happens, is dedicated to Hephaestus, which now that I think of it is rather fitting—that you should arrive on
his
particular day.” This is a jibe and a cruel one. Ektor delivers it with a smile.

“Because Hephaestus is a cripple, you mean? Like me?”

“Indeed. And yet he is also immensely powerful.”

Alexos can't think of a response. Nor does he know what his father intended by that business about Hephaestus, except obviously to wound him. He speeds on to his business, the sooner to be gone.

“I've come with a simple request,” he begins. “And as I believe it's the only favor I've ever asked of you, I hope you'll do me the kindness of granting it.”

“I'll decide when I know what the favor is.”

“All right. I want one of your men transferred to the Royal Guard on special assignment to me. I assure you, Father, you won't miss him.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Who is it?”

“One of the warm bodies in your pitchfork brigade.”

“The
auxiliary
?”

“Yes. Though I'm told this particular warm body has both a homemade lance and a knife. I don't suppose that makes a difference.”

“Alexos, I can't transfer a
peasant
to the Royal Guard!”

“I would think, as king of Arcos, you could do anything you like. And since I ask you as a personal favor, the only one I have ever—”

“Oh, you are so tedious!”

“Just transfer the man and I'll go. He's nothing at all to you.”

“Does he have a name, this peasant with a lance?”

“He does. Peles of Attaros.”

The king gapes. “That fellow? The runner?”

“Yes.”

“He's in my auxiliary?”

“He is, though he's not yet eighteen. Apparently your recruiters dismissed that as a technicality. He'll be eighteen eventually—if he lives that long.”

“Bloody hell!”

“My thoughts exactly. And seeing as he was the champion of the festival races, you might make an exception in his case—bend the rules, give him some sort of promotion.”

“Ha!” The king is half amused, half amazed. “Peles of Attaros, in my auxiliary!”

“If you'll just write out the order, I'll see to the rest. I know you're a busy man.”

The king takes a tablet and stylus and hastily begins to write.

“What will you do with him when you get him home?”

“I want him to help me with my running style.”

Ektor stares at his son, appalled.

“That was a joke, Father.”

“It wasn't funny.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“That should do it,” Ektor says, handing the finished order to Alexos. “Give this to one of the officers downstairs; they'll send someone to find your man. Do you suppose he knows how to ride?”

“I doubt he's had the chance to learn. But he's a natural athlete. He'll pick it up quickly.”

“I expect so. Gods, what a beautiful runner he was!”

“Yes. I remember. Thank you, Father.” Alexos rises, eager to go.

“I hope you don't plan to leave this afternoon. The nearest shelter is six hours away.”

“We'll go first thing in the morning.”

“Good. There's a room for guests just down the hall. I'll have it set up for you.”

“That's all right. I can stay with my men.”

“Your
men
?”

“My companions, my friends.”

“Your
friends
?”

“Yes, I have friends now. Isn't that a wonder?”

Things had been going so well, with that easy talk
about Peles the beautiful runner, and now his unaccountable temper has popped up again and ruined everything.

“Are they the ones who taught you to be so rude and disrespectful?”

“No, I'm afraid I learned that all by myself.”

“I wouldn't be proud of it.”

“I'm not.” Alexos feels sick; he desperately wants to leave, but apparently his father isn't finished with him yet.

“As it happens, Alexos, you cannot refuse the king's invitation.” He states this as if it were a matter of law. Maybe it is. “You may ask one of your friends to join you if you like, in addition to your personal guard, of course. The accommodations will suffice.”

“Thank you, Father. I'll bring Leander.”

“Excellent choice. I've had my eye on that boy for a while. A little high-spirited, but he'll settle down. He's by far the best of your class, I think.”

Another jibe. Alexos consciously ignores it.

“And I would like Peles to stay with me, too. He'll be a bit confused by his sudden change of fortune. There are things I'll need to explain before we leave in the morning. And if he is to serve me, we might as well start right away.”

“That's reasonable. Anything else?”

“No. Thank you, Father. I've been insufferably rude.”

“Yes, you have.”

“I don't know what came over me.”

To his surprise, Ektor leans back in his chair and laughs.

“I do,” he says. “You're finally growing up, learning to stand on your own two feet—if you'll pardon the allusion—and speak your mind. And I must say, Alexos,
it's really about time
!”

PELES IS WAITING IN
the guest room when Alexos returns from supper. He's standing, stiff and straight, like a sentry on duty. Apparently he thought it improper to sit in the bedchamber of a prince. And his hands are clasped behind his back, as if to say that though he's been here alone for a good long while, he hasn't touched anything at all.

Now, seeing Alexos, he sinks to one knee, hand on heart, head bowed. “Your Highness,” he says.

“Welcome, Peles,” Alexos replies. “You remember Leander?”

“I do, Your Highness.” Peles, still kneeling, bows to Leander.

“And these three gentlemen constitute my personal guard: Nestor, Pitheus, and Silanos. Gentlemen,
this is Peles, champion of the festival race.”

More bowing. Subtle glances exchanged among the guards.

“Now, Peles, please sit and we will talk.”

But Peles doesn't sit. He is still kneeling. “I wish to thank you for your kindness, Your Highness,” he says. “It is quite beyond imagining.”

“You are welcome, Peles. It was my pleasure to help you. Now, since we are making a beginning and will be together much of the time from now on, I would like to make a couple of requests.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“First, please get up. And once you've done that, please sit down. Take that stool over there. It's perfectly proper, I assure you.”

When Peles is reluctantly seated, perched on the very edge of the seat, as if not wanting to take too much of it, Alexos continues. “Second, if you wouldn't mind terribly, you can dispense with the Your Highnesses—except on public occasions, of course. Do as Leander does. Follow his lead.”