Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 by A Tapestry of Lions (v1.0)

stiffened. "Ropes!"
                "I and others like me are sworn
to keep the rabble off the streets during Summerfair," the big man
explained. "That includes catching all the little thieves who prey on
innocent people."
                "I'm not a thief, you
ku'reshtin—"
                The big hand closed more tightly.
"Round speech for a boy, by your tone."
                "I am the Prince of
Homana!"
                The man sighed. He was very large,
and red-haired; he was also patently unimpressed by Kellin's protests.
"Save your breath, boy. It only means a night under a decent roof, instead
of some alley or doorway. And you'll be fed, so don't be complaining so much
when you're better off now than you were."
                "But I'm—" Kellin broke
off in astonishment as the men looped a rope around one wrist, then the other-
Prince or no, he was snugged tight as a gamebird. "Wait!"
                The man nodded patiently. "Come
along, then, and I'll see to it you have a decent meal and a place to sleep.
I'll free you first thing in the morning if anyone comes to fetch you."
                The furious challenge was immediate.
"If I had a lir—"
                "What? Cheysuli, too?" The
giant laughed, though not unkindly. "Well, I'm thinking not. I've never
yet seen one with green eyes, nor leathers quite so filthy."
               
               

Three
     
                Kellin did not know Mujhara well. In
fact, he knew very little about the city he would one day rule, other than the
historical implications Rogan had discussed so often; and even then he was
ignorant of details because he had not listened well.
                He wanted to do something much more
exciting than spend his days speaking of the past. The future attracted him
more, even though Rogan explained again and again that the past affected that
future; that a man learning from the past often avoided future difficulties.
                Because he was so closely
accompanied each time he left Homana-Mujhar, Kellin had come to rely on others
to direct him. Left to his own devices, he would have been lost in a moment as
he was lost now. The big red-haired man led him like a leashed dog through the
winding closes, alleys, and streets, turning this way and that, until Kellin
could not so much as tell which direction was which.
                He felt the heat of shame as he was
led unrelentingly. Don't look at me— But they did, all the people, the
Summerfair crowds thronging the closes, alleys, and streets. Kellin thought at
first if he called out to them and told them who he was, if he asked for their
support, they would give it gladly. But the first time he tried, a man laughed
at him and called him a fool for thinking they would believe such a lie; would
the Prince of Homana wear horse piss on his clothing?
                Don't look at me. But they looked.
Inwardly, Kellin died a small, quiet death, the death of dignity.
                I just want to go home.
                "Here," his captor said.
"You'll spend the night inside." The giant opened the door, took Kellin
inside, then handed over the "leash" to another man, this one
brown-haired and brown-eyed, showing missing teeth. "Tried to steal a
goodwife's basket of ribbons,"
                "No!" Kellin cried.
"I did not. I fell against her, no more, and knocked it out of her hands.
What would I want with ribbons?"
                The gap-toothed man grinned.
"To sell them, most like. At a profit, since you paid nothing for them in
the first place."
                Kellin was outraged. "I did not
steal her ribbons!"
                "Had no chance to," the
redhead laughed. "She saw to that, with her shrieking."
                Kellin drew himself up, depending on
offended dignity and superior comportment