Prince of a Thousand Worlds by Stefon Mears

Author:Stefon Mears [Mears, Stefon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thousand Faces Publishing

The ride through the city down almost to the docks went much faster than I expected. In fact, I suspected that other traffic — horses and other coaches, as well as foot traffic — moved aside for us.

Along the way, Cassiel made sure to point out locations of interest. Queensgrove Park, lined with its grapefruit trees. Apparently the grapefruit wasn’t native to Vol-Halá, and when the high king married then-Princess Delfina, he had a hundred grapefruit trees planted a short walk from the Heart, so she would always have fresh grapefruit available.

The fruits of those trees looked more reddish than I remembered grapefruits being, but before I could ask about that, Cassiel had moved on to explaining how Queensgrove Park was a favored place for dueling.

Duels, apparently, were perfectly legal in Vol-Halá, so long as they followed the rules.

Of course, this subject immediately distracted Cassiel from whatever other tour guide duties he might have had in mind. Instead he started recounting the proper way to challenge and answer a duel here in the capitol, along with a story of how he won his favorite horse, Thunderhead, in a rapier duel that lasted six hours.

We arrived at Daeron’s while Cassiel was demonstrating the wristwork he credited with his winning parry-riposte. And I have to admit, his wristwork was impressive. Better than my own, certainly.

Mind you, he never did mention whom he’d been dueling, or what insult or wrong had led tot he duel in the first place.

Apparently these things weren’t nearly as important as explaining how he’d won, and that Thunderhead was a brilliant coal-black stallion, smarter than most people, and strong enough to ride all day and night without tiring.

He did, finally, pause long enough for us to leave the coach and give me a good view of Daeron’s.

Daeron’s was an odd mishmash of styles. It looked as though it started life as a warehouse built of the detritus of a hundred shipwrecks.

But over time, refinements had been added. Rough wood smoothed and re-lacquered in places. Some portholes had been sealed with what looked like pitch. Others had been replaced with windows of fine glass.

But the casements of those windows were of metal, and gleamed like sea green aluminum.

“Look there and there,” Cassiel said, pointing to a couple of spots near the foundation, “That’s good gava they’ve used to reseal and strengthen the wood.” He smiled. “They’ve done it all throughout, of course, but it’s most obvious there.”

If it was, I couldn’t tell. I was about to ask how I could tell, when Cassiel called to a rough-looking sailor who stood by Daeron’s front door.

“Two princely patrons for your master, Cull. The royal table, if it’s available.”

“It is, sire,” Cull said, with a voice so smooth I did a double-take. The man’s rough clothing was stiff with saltwater. His long, reddish beard had been hacked into a rough shape, rather than trimmed, much like the hair sticking out under his watch cap. And he was built as though he should’ve

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