Prince of the Blood by Raymond Feist

assailant, and when they were in the afternoon sunlight again, discovered a cordon had been thrown up by other guards.
    Locklear bent over. “Let’s see what we have here.” He pulled back the hood and a face stared blankly up at the sky. “He’s dead.”
    James was instantly on his knees, forcing open the man’s mouth. He sniffed and said, “Poisoned himself.”
    “Who is he?” said Borric.
    “And why was he trying to kill you, Uncle Jimmy?” said Erland.
    “Not me, you idiot,” snapped James. He pointed at Borric. “He was trying to kill your brother.”
    A guard approached. “My lord, the man struck by the dart is dead. He died within seconds of his wounding.”
    Borric forced a nervous grin. “Why would anyone wish to kill me?”
    Erland joined in the strained humor. “An angry husband?”
    James said, “Not you, Borric conDoin.” He glanced around the crowd, as if seeking other assassins. “Someone tried to kill the future King of the Isles.”
    Locklear opened the man’s robe, revealing a black tunic. “James, look here.”
    Baron James peered down at the dead man. His skin was dark, even darker than Gardan’s, marking him asKeshian by ancestry, but those of Keshian ancestry were common in this part of the Kingdom. There were brown- and black-skinned people in every stratum of Krondorian society. But this man wore odd clothing: a tunic of expensive black silk and soft slippers unlike anything the young Princes had seen before.
    James inspected the dead man’s hands, and noticed a ring set with a dark gem, then looked for a necklace and found none.
    “What are you doing?” Borric asked.
    “Old habits,” was all Jimmy would answer. “He’s no Nighthawk,” he observed, mentioning the legendary Guild of Assassins. “But this may be worse.”
    “How?” asked Locklear, remembering all too well when the Nighthawks had sought to kill Arutha twenty years before.
    “He’s Keshian.”
    Locklear leaned down and inspected the ring. Ashen-faced, he stood. “Worse still. He’s a member of the Royal House of Kesh.”

    The room was silent. Those who sat in the circle of chairs moved slightly, as discomfort over the attempt upon Borric manifested itself in the creaks of leather and wood, the rustle of cloth, and the clink of jewelry.
    Duke Gardan rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “It’s preposterous. What would Kesh gain in killing a member of your family? Does the Empress wish war?”
    Erland chimed in. “She’s worked as hard as anyone to preserve the peace, or at least all the reports say that. Why would she want Borric dead? Who—”
    Borric interrupted his brother. “Whoever wants war between the Kingdom and the Empire.”
    Locklear nodded. “It’s such a shallow lie; so transparent an attempt that it is not believable.”
    “Yet …” Arutha mused aloud, “what if that assassin was chosen to fail? A dupe. What if I am supposed to withhold my envoy, keep my sons at home with me.”
    Gardan nodded. “Thereby insulting the Royal House of Kesh.”
    James, who leaned against the wall behind Arutha, said, “We’ve managed a fair job already by dispatching a member of the Empress’s house. He was a very distant cousin, true, but a cousin, nevertheless.”
    Gardan returned to rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture of frustration more than fatigue. “And what was I supposed to say to the Keshian Ambassador? ‘Oh, we’ve found this young fellow, who seems to be a member of your Royal House. We had no idea he was in Krondor. We’re sorry to tell you he’s dead. Oh, and by the way, he tried to murder Prince Borric.’ ”
    Arutha leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a tent before his face, absently flexing in a gesture that all in the room had come to recognize over the years. He glanced at last at James.
    “We could dump the body,” offered the young Baron.
    Gardan said, “I beg your pardon?”
    James stretched. “Take the body down to the bay and toss it