The ancient wooden caravan creaked slowly out from the cover of the trees and stopped for a moment on the wide stretch of plain.

If there had been anyone to observe the scene they would have noticed the words sebastian darke, prince of fools painted gaily on the sides of the caravan. Those with a keener eye might also have noticed that the word "Sebastian" looked somehow different to the rest of the sentence. It had been added in a rather wobbly, amateurish hand, clearly over- painting another name that had already been there.

The sun was low on the horizon and Sebastian was obliged to shade his eyes with the flat of one hand as he gazed off into the shimmering, heat-rippled distance. The land ahead of him was flat, arid, featureless red earth, baked by the sun, with here and there the occasional bunch of scrubby grass thrusting tenaciously through the soil. He had no real idea how far it was to the city of Keladon, but a merchant he had met the previous day had warned him to expect to travel for at least three days and nights.

"It's a good distance," the merchant had told him. "And those plains are infested with Brigands. You'd better sleep with one eye open, Elf-man."

Sebastian was well used to this term, though he didn't much care for it. He was a "breed"--the son of a human father and an elvish mother. His tall stature and handsome features clearly came from his father's side of the family, but his mother's lineage was there too, reflected in the large jet-black irises of his eyes and his long, slightly pointed ears. His gangly frame was accentuated by the striped black and white costume he was wearing, complete with a tall three-pronged hat topped by jingling bells. The costume had been his father's and hung rather loosely on Sebastian, but he had steadfastly refused his mother's offers to alter it, saying that in time he would grow to fit the clothing. Fitting comfortably into the role of a jester might take a little longer.

Sebastian clicked his tongue and slapped the reins against the shaggy haunches of Max, the single buffalope that pulled the caravan. Max snorted, shook his great horned head and set off again at his usual leisurely pace. He had been in the Darke family for as long as Sebastian could remember; indeed, one of his earliest memories was of his father lifting him onto the buffalope's mighty back and leading him slowly around the paddock. Max was now of advanced years and had many gray hairs peppering the rich ginger of his shaggy hide. With each passing day he seemed to grow more cantankerous, and he had never been slow in stating his dissatisfaction.

"I don't much like the look of this," he muttered now, as he started off across the plain. "We're going to need plenty of water."

"We've got water," Sebastian told him. "Enough for at least two days. And besides, there are streams out there. That merchant said so."

Max sniffed disdainfully. "Why you'd take the word of a Berundian oil-seller is quite beyond me," he said. "A man like that would sell his grandmother for a few croats."

"You suspect everybody," Sebastian chided him. "According to you, every person we meet is some kind of villain."

"That's because they generally are. I noticed the Berundian managed to sell you some lamp oil."

"So? We needed some!"

"Not at three croats a bottle we didn't. Daylight robbery! Back at the market in Jerabim you could get a bucket of the stuff for--"

"We're not in Jerabim now," Sebastian reminded him.

They moved on in gloomy silence for a while and Sebastian found himself thinking wistfully about his hometown, the place he'd lived for all of his seventeen years. He closed...

 

Prince of Fools by Philip Caveney
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