Jimmy the Hand
Jimmy the Hand
Raymond E. Feist
Steve Stirling
The whole of the magnificent Riftwar Cycle by bestselling author Raymond E. Feist, master of magic and adventure, now available in ebookJimmy the Hand, boy thief of Krondor, lived in the shadows of the city. The sewers were his byways and a flea-ridden, rat-infested cellar his home. Although gifted beyond his peers, he was still but a nimble street urchin, a pickpocket with potential. Until the day he met Prince Arutha.Aiding the Prince in his rescue of Princess Anita from imprisonment by Duke Guy du Bas-Tyra, Jimmy runs afoul of Black Guy's secret police. Given the choice of disappearing on his own or in a weighted barrel at the bottom of Krondor's harbor, Jimmy flees the only home he's ever known, venturing south to the relatively safe haven of Land's End. Suspecting that the rural villagers have never encountered a lad with his talent and nose for finding wealth—other people's wealth—he's fairly optimistic about his broadening horizons. But Jimmy is completely unprepared for what greets him.For Land's End is home to others who tread the crooked path, and more, to a much darker secret: a dangerous presence unknown even to the local thieves and smugglers. And Jimmy's youthful bravado and courage will plunge him deep into the maw of chaos and even—if he isn't careful—death.
RAYMOND E. FEIST
&
STEVE STIRLING
Jimmy the Hand
Copyright (#ulink_4f302c05-09b2-5383-98e6-97d92ab15cef)
Voyager An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
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Published by Voyager 2003
First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2003
Copyright ©Raymond E. Feist & Steve Stirling 2003
The Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN 9780007370238
Version: 2014-07-31
To my readers:
Without your enthusiasm I’d be selling cars for a living.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Raymond E. Feist
To Jan … and to Ray, Will, and Joel: the only guys who could have brought this off.
S.M. Stirling
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1fc73fcf-eae0-51e2-930b-d6ff0240d58b)
Title Page (#ud023e2f3-0af3-576d-a15b-4c348a635307)
Copyright (#u413704ac-a91a-55c2-94d9-4b6a6916410b)
Dedication (#ucdceb9f4-19ab-5ddb-baf9-ecba291aa20d)
Map (#u08473723-1895-50c6-866f-89abcac5cca4)
Chapter One: Escape (#u78932593-6f51-504f-906f-7e323b4bb18f)
Chapter Two: Crackdown (#u9e459f10-797d-5e47-8d5c-687a228c9a47)
Chapter Three: Aftermath (#ua0a15a0f-620c-5140-86d3-0c6eb5be38f6)
Chapter Four: Plotting (#u89521a93-d8a8-5cd9-a44f-54086605f74b)
Chapter Five: Rescue (#u3f66fe55-c5aa-5b81-8dcc-5ef18af6ec76)
Chapter Six: Journey (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven: Tragedy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight: Family (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine: Encounter (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten: The Baron (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven: Discovery (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve: Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen: Hiding (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen: Abduction (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: Discovery (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Developments (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Plan (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Magic (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: Krondor (#litres_trial_promo)
Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By The Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Map (#ulink_a9ff827d-86f5-5d6c-a062-71441f2ebe5d)
• Chapter One • Escape (#ulink_a6c29a5a-09f2-5fda-8eb8-6c5e442d4eae)
Men cursed as they grappled.
Jimmy the Hand slipped eellike between knots of fighting men on the darkened quayside. Steel glittered in torch- and lantern-light, shining in ruddy-red arcs as horsemen slashed at the elusive Mockers who strove to hold them back. Only seconds more were needed for Prince Arutha and Princess Anita to make their escape, and the fight had reached the frenzied violence of desperation. Screams of rage and pain split the night, accompanied by the iron hammering of shod hooves throwing up sparks as they smashed down on stone, to the counterpoint of the clangour of steel on steel.
Bravos and street-toughs struggled against trained soldiers, but the soldiers’ horses slipped and slithered on the slick boards and stones of the docks and the flickering light was even more uncertain than the footing. Knives stabbed upward and horses shied as hands gripped booted feet and heaved Bas-Tyran menat-arms out of the saddle. The harsh iron-and-salt smell of blood was strong even against the garbage stink of the harbour, and a horse screamed piteously as it collapsed, hamstrung. The rider’s leg was caught in the stirrup, crushed beneath his mount, and he screamed as the horse thrashed, then fell silent as ragged figures swarmed over him.
Jimmy fell flat under the slash of a sword, rolled unscathed between the flailing hooves of a war-horse scrabbling to find better footing, tripped one of the men-at-arms who was fighting dismounted against three Mockers, then dashed down the length of the dock, his feet light on the boards.
At the end of the quay he threw himself flat on the rough splintery wood to hail the longboat below:
‘Farewell!’ he called to the Princess Anita.
She turned toward his voice, her lovely face little more than a pale blur in the pre-dawn light. But he knew that her sea-green eyes would be wide with astonishment.
I’m glad I came to say goodbye, he thought, an unfamiliar sensation squeezing at his chest below the breastbone. It’s worth a little risk to life and limb.
He grinned at her, but nervously; the fight with Jocko Radburn’s men was heating up and his back felt very exposed. It wouldn’t be long before the Mockers broke and ran; standup fights weren’t their style.
Another, taller figure stood in the longboat. ‘Here,’ Prince Arutha called. ‘Use it in good health!’
A rapier in its scabbard flew up to his hand. He snatched it out of the air and rolled over, just in time to avoid a kick from one of Radburn’s bully-boys. Jimmy rolled again as the man pursued him, heavy-booted foot raised to stamp on him like an insect. Letting the sword go he reached up and grabbed toe and heel with crossed hands, giving it a vicious twist that set the bully roaring and twisting to keep it from being broken. That put him off-balance, and a kick placed with vicious precision toppled him screaming into the water. His gear dragged him under before the echoes of his scream could die.
‘Time to go!’ Jimmy panted.
Rolling up to his feet, Jimmy yanked the rapier from its scabbard and looked about for a worthy target – preferably one blocking the best escape route. Below, he could just make out the rhythmic splashing of the oars counterpoint the chaos of the battle all around him. Farewell, he said again in his heart. Then, as a pile of baled cloth blazed up: Ooops!
Lanterns began to appear on the boats around them, and watchmen from the surrounding warehouses came running, while from all around men called out: ‘What passes?’ and ‘Who goes there?’ And a growing shout: ‘Fire! Fire!’
A man in the black and gold of Bas-Tyra snatched a lantern from one of the watchmen and marched toward the end of the dock, giving Jimmy an idea of whom to attack. The soldier grinned at the sight of the thin, ragged boy before him.
‘Brought me a new sword, have you?’ he said. ‘Looks like a good one. Too good for gutter-scum whose whiskers haven’t yet seen a razor. My thanks.’
He swung a backhand cut at Jimmy, a lazy stroke with more strength than style. No doubt he imagined that he could easily smash the rapier from the young thief’s hand and then hack him down.
The finely-made blade was alive in Jimmy’s hand; heavy, but perfectly balanced, limber as a striking snake. It flashed up almost of itself and turned the clumsy stroke away with a long scringgg of metal on metal. The guardsman grunted in astonishment as the redirected force of his own stroke spun him around, then shouted in pain as Jimmy danced nimbly aside and slashed at him.
More by luck than skill, the sharp steel caught the guardsman on the wrist, parting the tough leather of his gauntlet and cutting a shallow groove in the flesh beneath. With a gasp, the man shook his wrist and took a step back, disbelief visible on his coarse features even in the darkness.
Jimmy laughed in delighted surprise. Clearly not everyone had Arutha’s skill with the blade. The hours he’d spent training with the Prince while waiting for Trevor Hull’s smugglers to find a ship for Arutha and that old pirate, Amos Trask, to steal for their escape had paid off. Jimmy felt as if the soldier moved at half Prince Arutha’s speed. He laughed again.
That laugh galvanized the soldier into action and he struck out at the young thief with blow after powerful blow.
Like a peasant threshing grain, Jimmy thought – he had little experience of matters rural, but a deep contempt for rubes.
The blows were hard and fast, but each was a copy of the one before. Instinct led him to raise the rapier, and the cuts flowed off steel blade and intricate swept guard; he had to put his left palm on his right wrist more than once, lest sheer force knock the weapon out of his hand. But he knew he was moments away from dodging to his left, thrusting hard and taking the soldier in the stomach. Arutha had always cautioned patience in judging an opponent.
An instant later Jimmy’s back met the side of a bale; glancing to either side he realized he’d been neatly trapped in a short, dead-end passage of piled cargo. The man before him grinned and made teasing thrusts with his sword.
‘Caught like the little sewer rat you are,’ he growled.
The man raised his sword and Jimmy readied himself to execute his move, confident he would be through with the soldier in another moment. Then, suddenly, a pair of grappling bodies hurtled by, each man with a hand on the wrist of the other’s knife-hand, stamping and cursing as they whirled in a circle like a fast and deadly country dance. They tumbled into the Bas-Tyran man-at-arms, throwing him forward with a cry of surprise. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He felt a mild instant of regret that he couldn’t execute his fancy passing thrust, but he couldn’t ignore such an easily acquired target. Jimmy stabbed out, and felt the needle point of the rapier sink through muscle and jar on bone, the strange sensation flowing up through the steel and hilt to shiver in his shoulder and lower back.
The man dropped his lantern with a cry that turned into a screamed curse as the glass shattered. The splattered oil blazed high, driving the wounded soldier back. He dropped his weapon and began to beat at spots of flame on his clothes, while Jimmy climbed the pile of bales like a monkey.
‘You should know better than to corner a rat!’ he called over his shoulder as he bounded down the back of the pile and struck the ground running.
He heard someone whistle the code to withdraw and saw Mockers streaming into alleys and side-streets like wisps of fog scattering before a high wind. Jimmy raced to join them, but before he ducked into an alley he turned to look out into the bay. Trevor Hull and his smugglers were diving into the water, some swimming under the docks while others made for longboats standing by in the water. Beyond them, Jimmy could make out the form of the Sea Swift turning toward the broken blockade line, canvas fluttering free and catching the light like ghost-clouds in the dark; he raised his arm to wave. He knew it was useless; the Princess would have been hurried below to safety as soon as she’d been brought aboard. But he could no more have resisted that wave than he could have not spoken that one last word to her.
The young thief turned and ran down the alley, as light on his feet as a cat and almost as keenly aware of his surroundings. He might not be a great swordsman – yet – but fleeing through the darkened alleys of Krondor was a skill he’d mastered thoroughly long before he reached the ripe old age of thirteen.
As he dodged through the byways of the city, his thoughts turned to the time he had spent with the Princess and Prince during the last few weeks. The Princess Anita was what girls were supposed to be and in his experience never were. For a boy raised in the company of whores, barmaids and pickpockets, she was … something rare, something fine, a minstrel’s tale come to breathing life. When he was near her he wanted to be better than he was.
It’s well she’s gone, then, he thought. A lad in his position couldn’t afford such noble notions.
Besides, he thought with a wry grin, she would one day marry Prince Arutha – even though he didn’t know it yet – so Jimmy had no business having such feelings for her. Not that having no business doing things had ever stopped him.
I suppose if she has to marry, and princesses do, he’s the one I’d want her to.
Jimmy liked Arutha, but it was more than that. He respected him and … yes, trusted him. The Prince made him see why men would follow a leader, follow him to war on his bare word, something he’d never thought to understand. Jimmy’s experience had been solely with men who commanded through fear or because they could deliver an advantage to those who followed. And Jimmy served at the pleasure of the Upright Man, who did both those things.
Jimmy ran his hand along the scabbard of Arutha’s rapier, his now, and smiled. Then he grew suddenly solemn. Being with them had brought something special into his life, and now it was over. But then, how many people in the Kingdom got this close to princes and princesses? And of those, how many were thieves?
Jimmy grinned. He’d done better than well in his acquaintance with royalty: two hundred in gold, a fine sword, including lessons on how to use it, and a girl to dream about. And if he missed the Princess Anita, well, at least he’d got to know her.
He headed for Mother’s with a jaunty step, ready for a light meal and a long sleep.
Best to sleep until Radburn cools off, he thought. Though that might mean he’d have to sleep until he was an old man.
Jimmy neared the large hall called Mother’s, or Mocker’s Rest, carved out among the tunnels of the sewers. To a citizen of the upper city it would have looked gloomy enough: the drip of water and the glisten of nitre on ancient stone. But it would have been little more than another junction of tunnels in the city’s sewer system, a bit larger than usual, but nothing remarkable. To the average citizen of the upper city, the eyes watching Jimmy approach the entrance to Mother’s would have gone unseen, and the daggers clutched in ready hands would have been undetected, unless at the last, fatal instant, they were driven home to protect the secret of Mocker’s Rest.
To Jimmy it was home and safety and a chance to rest. He pushed on a stone, and a loud click preceded the appearance of a small opening, as a door fashioned of canvas and wood, cleverly painted to look like rock, swung wide. He was short enough that he could walk hunched over while a taller man would have to crawl, and he quickly traversed the short passage to enter the hidden basement. A Basher stood watch and as Jimmy appeared, nodded. Jimmy was thus spared a lethal welcome. Any unknown head coming through that passage had roughly a second to intone the password, ‘There’s a party tonight at Mother’s’ before finding his brains splattered all over the stone floor.
The room was huge, carved out of three basements, all with stairs leading up to three buildings owned by the Upright Man. A whorehouse, an inn and a merchant of cheap trade-goods provided a variety of escape routes, and Jimmy could find all of them blindfolded, as could every other Mocker. The light was kept dim at all hours of the day or night, so that a quick exit into the sewers wouldn’t leave a Mocker without sight.
Jimmy nodded greetings to a few of the beggars and urchins who were awake; most slept soundly, for there were still many hours until dawn. They would all be in the market minutes after sunrise on a normal day. But today would be anything but normal. With the Prince and Princess safely away, reprisals would be the first order of business. The City Constables and the Royal Household Guard had been easy enough to cope with over the years, but this secret police installed by Guy du Bas-Tyra since he took the office of Viceroy was another story. More than one Mocker had been turned snitch to them and the mood of the room reflected it. While there was a quiet sense of triumph at having aided Princess Anita’s escape, the benefit was long-term; the Upright Man thought about things that way, Jimmy understood. Some day Princess Anita would return to Krondor – or at least Jimmy hoped so – and those who supported her and her father, Prince Erland, now had a debt to the Upright Man that he would contrive to collect in the most beneficial fashion.
But that was all for the future, for the Upright Man; for the common thief, pickpocket, or whore, there was no benefit this day. Instead, the city above would be crawling with angry spies and informants, looking to identify those who had embarrassed Jocko Radburn, head of the secret police. And he was not a man to embarrass without repercussions, Jimmy understood.
The escape of the Princess had been a secret undertaking, with only a few in the Mockers and among Trevor Hull’s smugglers knowing who was being spirited out of the city. But once the fight erupted, more than one Mocker saw the Princess’s face and her hallmark red hair and by sunrise the rumours of her escape would be making the rounds of the markets, inns and shops.
Most would feign ignorance of the deed, but everyone would know the reason for the sudden crackdown by Bas-Tyra’s soldiers and secret police.
Jimmy moved to the far wall and picked up some rags, a whetstone and a small vial of oil from the storage box near the weapons lockers. Such thoughts made his head swim. He was a boy of unknown age – perhaps fourteen, perhaps sixteen, no one knew – and such considerations were intriguing to him, yet he knew he didn’t fully understand all of it. Politics and intrigue were attractive, but in an alien way.
He made his way to a secluded corner to clean his rapier. His rapier, and a gift at that! There had been few of those in his life, making the fine weapon all the more precious. It would take the finest craftsman half a year to fashion such a thing of deadly beauty; it was as different from the crude, heavy weapons of ordinary soldiers as a war-horse was from a mule.
He pulled the blade from the scabbard again and realized to his dismay that he’d put it away bloody. He quirked his mouth wryly. Well, he’d never had such a thing before: he couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of its care immediately. On closer inspection he realized that the scabbard was held together with ivory and brass pins, and could be taken apart for cleaning and oiling.
His pleasure in his gift went up a notch, if that was possible. This was a prize!
‘Loot like that’s to be turned in for sale, so’s we can make proper shares,’ Laughing Jack said. He reached for the sword and Jimmy slid it and himself away from Jack’s hand with an eellike motion.
‘It’s not loot,’ he said. ‘It’s a gift. From Prince Arutha himself.’
‘Oooh, you’re getting gifts from princes these days are ye?’ Jack had never actually been known to smile; his nickname had been bestowed on him by Jimmy as a joke.
But he sneers better than anyone else I’ve ever met, Jimmy thought.
The Nightwarden reached for the blade again, and again the young thief slid away. As senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster he had a great deal of authority; most of the time, when appealed to, the Nightmaster would come down on Jack’s side of an argument. But Jimmy knew he was in the right, and was sure that this time the Nightmaster would side with him.
Jimmy stood defiantly. More than one member of the Mockers had promised Jimmy someday Jack would kill him over the joke of a nickname he had given the glowering man. Now Jack appeared on the verge of making that prediction come true.
Jimmy stood a full two heads shorter than the Nightwarden. He was a slight boy, nimble and with a speed of hand and foot few in the Mockers could equal, and none could surpass. His own nickname was well-earned, for no Mocker was better able to lift a purse in a crowded market without being detected. He was a handsome boy, with curly brown hair cut tight against his head. His shoulders were just promising to broaden to a man’s. His smile was infectious, and he had the knack of fun, but right now there was a hint of menace in his eyes as he stood with his hand on the pommel of the sword, ready to dispute Jack with blood if needed. His age was uncertain, perhaps thirteen years of age, perhaps fifteen, but he had already seen more danger and death in his life than most men twice his age. Softly he said, ‘It’s mine, Jack.’
‘His. Saw,’ Barmy Blake said in a voice like rock talking. The huge basher said no more, continuing on his way into the far recesses of the hall as though he’d never spoken at all.
Laughing Jack gave the basher’s retreating back an uncertain look. Blake wasn’t named Barmy for nothing; he was as unpredictable as a wild animal and capable of terrifying berserker rages. If Jack decided to make an issue of Jimmy’s right to the sword after the basher had spoken up for him the Nightwarden might well find himself in a world of pain, senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster or no. Jack turned his sneer once again on Jimmy.
‘Keep it then, but it’s to be locked up.’ He jerked his head toward the weapons lockers.
‘Soon as it’s cleaned,’ Jimmy agreed. The rules allowed for that and they both knew it.
The Nightwarden turned away and stalked off. Jimmy turned his eyes to Blake who sat by himself at a table, a tankard in his beefy paw, gazing at nothing. He didn’t bother to go and thank him; you didn’t do that with Barmy. But he made a mental note of a favour owing, more honourable and more useful by far than any spoken thanks.
‘Well, there’s a pretty thing.’
Jimmy looked up and smiled at Hotfingers Flora, so named because of her early success in stealing pies that their owners mistakenly thought were too hot to handle. Unfortunately for Flora the insensitivity that allowed her to do so made her a very poor pickpocket despite Jimmy’s best efforts. At sixteen, and pretty, she was turning to a different profession.
She sat beside him and twined her arms around his neck, slipping her legs onto his lap, and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ she purred, fluttering her eyelashes at him, one chubby hand rubbing his chest.
He laughed. ‘As if I’d keep anything valuable there,’ he said.
Flora pouted, then smiled gamely. Pulling her legs off his lap she pointed at the sword. ‘What are you going to do with that, eh?’
Jimmy gave it a swipe with the oiled cloth and held it up to glint in the torchlight. ‘I’m going to keep it,’ he said positively.
She looked at him speculatively, then glanced around the large hall. ‘There was quite a fight out there tonight,’ she said. ‘Word’s already spread the Princess and some other nobles escaped to the west.’ She made a face and then added, ‘Radburn and his bastards will be fit to be tied if that’s the truth of it. When the Duke gets back …’ She left the thought unfinished, but her expression showed a gleeful anticipation of what the Duke might do to the head of his secret police. ‘The market’ll be a quiet place with so many Mockers laying up licking their wounds.’ Flora gave him a wicked look. ‘Got any wounds you want licked, lovey?’
He laughed and gave her a friendly nudge. Inside he felt the slight tickle of excitement a rising flirtation often gave him, and flirtations with Flora often ended in bed. Flora hadn’t been Jimmy’s first, but not long after. He’d been around whores his entire life – his mother had been one – but Flora came from a better class than most; her father had been a baker before he died, so she had been raised a proper girl until she was ten. She could talk like a lady when she needed, which sometimes got her a better class of client. And she was prettier than most, with large expressive blue eyes and her light brown hair tending to curl around her face. She had a delicate chin and a nose that was ‘just so’. She also had a lovely smile. It was a shame she had no skill with her fingers, thought Jimmy, more than once; she’s just not suited to earn her living on the street.
Flora had said that she felt safe with him, and he assumed, without the slightest resentment, that it was because she was a foot taller than he was. As for himself, well, he liked Flora and he greatly enjoyed their private times together. He smiled at her blatant invitation and moved a bit closer. But then she gasped and her hand flew to her lips. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I forgot, I, um, have to meet someone in an hour.’ She snuggled against him. ‘But I can be all yours until then.’
Jimmy thought it over; first they’d have to find somewhere private, which given the lack of time they had meant somewhere uncomfortable and smelly, and Flora would have to leave early to keep her appointment … so that was far less than an hour, perhaps only a few minutes. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he and one of the girls had ripped off a quick bump in a dark corner while the others slept nearby. He’d been raised in a place where couples grabbed pleasure when and where they could all his life – but while Flora was one of his favourites, he didn’t feel the usual hot rush, just a little tingle.
He was really tired. Besides, the Princess was travelling further and further away with every moment, and his heart sank. Suddenly a few minutes in Flora’s arms was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t like feeling this sadness …
Not that I’m certain just how I do feel. But it wouldn’t be fair to inflict this strange mood on his friend.
‘Sad to say I can’t spare the time now, more’s the pity,’ he said with a grin as he put the pieces of the scabbard back together. ‘Never thought I’d live to say that.’ But now that he had said it he felt downright noble.
Flora giggled. ‘Not to worry,’ she whispered, ‘there’ll be other occasions.’
He gave her a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Oh, Flora, my flower, you are too good to me. Besides, I would probably disappoint you. All I have strength for is to look for a place to sleep tonight. I feel like I’ve been up and about since the day I was born.’
‘You may have been about, but I haven’t seen you,’ Flora grumbled. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I was thinking the same thing about you,’ Jimmy lied easily. ‘I thought you’d been hired into someone’s pleasure house.’ If he wasn’t going to take advantage of Flora’s invitation he wouldn’t suffer if she went off in a huff.
‘No,’ she said, looking away haughtily. ‘I’m doing very well on my own.’
He looked at her; the new dress was pretty, but of cheap cloth, coarsely woven and coloured with dyes that would run and turn muddy soon: nobody had wasted good alum on fixing them. She wore a pair of dainty slippers on her feet, and a spangled scarf decorated her brown hair, more new things than she’d ever owned in her life. But she looked tired and not too clean.
The shine would be off her in six months, he knew, and in a year she’d look thirty. Life in the pleasure houses of the city was no holiday, but it was worlds better than the street. At least the girls had some hope of a future.
He couldn’t forget what had happened to his mother. Murdered by a drunk just because she was on her own and so there was no one to stop him. He understood better than most that, for women, independence sometimes came at far too high a price.
‘No you’re not doing well,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re risking life and limb every time you go with someone. Look, Flora, if this is what you really want to do I’m the last person to try and stand in your way. But listen to a little friendly advice. You’re pretty enough that any house in this city would take you, and the better houses will take care of you. You speak well enough, almost like a lady, you could get hired at The White Wing, I’m thinking.’
Flora tossed her head with a ‘tsk!’, but he could tell she was listening.
‘The pleasure houses will watch your customers for you, so you don’t get sloppy drunks or bastards who’ll beat you up for fun and not pay you. Better by far than the street.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Better by far, of course, to do something else.’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘Like what? You know I’m a lousy thief. And I’m not about to pass for a beggar, now am I?’
He nudged her shoulder again and smiled. ‘C’mon, you’re a bright girl. I can get you some forged references. How do you think Carsten’s sister got work at the palace?’
Flora looked thoughtful, then she gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Does she like it?’
‘Seems to,’ Jimmy lied, having no idea himself. ‘What wouldn’t she like? She sleeps warm and in a bed of her own, with nobody else in it unless she wants him there, gets a new dress every year, good food, and paid in the bargain. Mind, she works hard, and the pay’s no royal bequest, but all in all she seems to think it’s worth it.’
His tongue itched to tell her, and she helped to rescue the Princess Anita, but he restrained himself. That would only lead to, And so did I, which wasn’t something he wanted spread around. The last thing he needed was to be on Jocko Radburn’s wanted list in a personal capacity.
Flora’s mouth opened to speak when Laughing Jack stepped up onto a bench and thence to a table and called out,
‘Listen up!’ When the crowd had quieted and every face turned to him the Nightwarden continued. ‘Word’s down from the Upright Man, hisself! All Mockers are to lie low.’ He raised his hands for silence as this announcement brought forth a torrent of muttered protest. ‘That means out of sight, here, or if you got another flop, stay inside. And you beggars and younger thieves especially. Radburn seems to like to target your kind. No boosting, at all.’ He paused and glared around the room: ‘Not without special writ from the Day- or Nightmaster. We’ll be getting some food in later, so you won’t starve, until this business is over. Any questions,’ again he passed a glare over the room, ‘keep ’em to yourselves.’ Laughing Jack stepped down and walked off to a rising chorus of speculation.
‘What about the whores?’ Flora asked, frowning.
‘For Banath’s sake, Flora,’ Jimmy said, invoking the god of thieves, ‘free food and a safe place to sleep! We’re finally getting to see something for all those shares we pay out. Why work when we can laze about like –’ he’d been about to say ‘royalty’, but changed it to, ‘– Bas-Tyra’s bully-boys. Besides, it will give you a chance to think about your future.’
With a shy smile, she nodded, pleased at the attention. ‘Oh, for …’
The Nightwarden took to the table again and said in exasperation: ‘If you’ve got another flop, leave now! Those that don’t can stay here.’ He stepped down again and this time left the hall.
‘Well,’ Jimmy said, rising, ‘I’m off to bed.’
He glanced at the rapier in his hand and decided after all to leave it in the weapons locker. A boy his age and station carrying a first-class sword down the street in what would soon be broad daylight was bound to receive unwelcome attention. The purchase price would be ten years’ wages for a tailor or potmaker, much less a common labourer or child of the streets. He could scarcely assure the watch that, no, it wasn’t stolen, a visiting prince had given it to him …
‘What about you, Hotfingers?’ he said. ‘Do you need an escort?’
‘Go on!’ she said laughing. ‘An escort!’ She swatted him on the rump. ‘Nah, I’m staying here to take advantage of the Upright Man’s generosity.’
Jimmy looked around nervously; that was a somewhat overbold statement, but no one had noticed.
‘Good night then,’ he said, and gave her a little salute with the hilt of the sword.
Flora broke into giggles at the sight. ‘Escort!’ he heard her say as he walked off.
• Chapter Two • Crackdown (#ulink_6676637c-9638-597b-b46f-fad74c893844)
Jimmy watched carefully.
Despite the early hour, the streets were rapidly filling with people. The scrawny street-sweepers with their brooms and pans were just clearing off; for a moment Jimmy thought it was a job should be paid for by the Crown. A bit of a tax on each business and all the streets would be fit for travellers rather than just some of the better boulevards in the merchants’ and wealthy quarters where those who resided paid out of their own pockets. If I was Duke of Krondor, he thought idly, that’s how I’d do it.
The sweepers were being replaced by cooks and their assistants returning from the farmers’ markets with fresh produce, fruit and poultry. Butchers’ apprentices hurried along carrying quarters of beef or sides of pork. Those tradespeople who didn’t live over their businesses were off to open their shops in the next hour, and those whose work-day started a bit later were looking for their bite to eat at the start of the day.
Wood smoke curled from chimneys and he could smell porridge cooking, sometimes a fish or sausage frying – more odours to add their bit to the ghosts of ancient cabbage that haunted the city’s poorer quarters. Wooden shoes clattered on the cobbles, bare feet slapped, hooves racketed.
The black and gold of Bas-Tyra wasn’t as visible as it had been on other mornings lately, and Jimmy smirked to himself at the thought that they were still nursing their bruises. But the few members of the old Constable’s company seemed on edge, as if trouble were coming and they didn’t know which side of it they’d land. He passed a gate where four soldiers still wearing the Prince’s tabards were huddled, talking with heads down rather than watching who passed through. Something was up and word was spreading. Jimmy knew every man on the docks the night before had been Bas-Tyra regulars or secret police.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of wandering over to the temporary barracks used by Bas-Tyra’s soldiers and taking a look at the damage, but that notion was dispelled by a rare instant of common sense. Given how touchy the guards were no doubt feeling today, any number of poor boys were liable to be spending a few days in the city dungeon. But in his case it was liable to be more than a few days and a lot more painful.
Suddenly a sergeant of the Bas-Tyra guard appeared and the Prince’s four sentries snapped lively and took their posts on either side of the gate. Jimmy watched from the sheltered vantage point of a deep doorway opposite the gate. The sergeant’s mood was dark and dangerous and when he left, the four soldiers of the Prince were studying every face that passed, looking for something. As he was about to slip away, Jimmy saw them halt one ragged fellow and start questioning him. Jimmy knew the fellow: he was not a true Mocker, but one of the threadbare poor who flitted around the edges of crime from time to time. He was a labourer named Wilkins, and Jimmy had seen him unloading smugglers’ cargo for Trevor Hull twice in the last year. One guard put the strong arm on him and marched him away.
Jimmy sank back into the doorway. If they were taking in know-nothings like Wilkins, then he was certain to be nabbed if he showed his face. Although, if he could get into the dungeons he might be able to do something for Princess Anita’s father.
If I could rescue Prince Erland, Anita would never forget me.
And it might be very profitable. He’d gained two hundred in gold for helping Prince Arutha and he’d only needed to guide him to safety. How much more could he make if it took actual effort?
The young thief stared into space for a moment, his fingers reaching out as if of their own volition to snatch up a bun from a passing vendor’s tray as she edged close to the doorway to avoid a passing horse-drawn wagon. His hand moved in a swift unhurried arc that put the pastry beneath the tail of his jacket without any flash to attract the eye as he faded back into the shelter of the doorway. The stout woman continued on, ignorant of the theft, still calling her wares. Jimmy bit into the warm bun, considering possibilities and savouring the cinnamon and honey.
He’d need to speak to Mockers who’d been in the dungeon. That would lead him to the beggars, then. Thieves never made it out of the dungeons alive and bashers, who might be let go if they were thought to be innocent drunks who’d just got out of control, were people he tried to avoid. Especially when planning something the Upright Man might not endorse.
Well, definitely wouldn’t endorse, he admitted to himself. Definitely would reject with … oh … cold fury would be a good description.
Laughing Jack’s admonition to stay out of sight and out of action wafted through his mind to be dismissed. Being cautious never won the prize, at least not in his experience, and for thirteen or so he’d had a great deal of experience.
His jaws cracked in a massive yawn, so Jimmy decided to get some sleep before he did any more planning. He waited until the three remaining guards had their attention distracted away from him, then darted out of the shadow of the doorway. He turned a corner and headed off to one of his places, one he’d actually paid for. It was nothing more than a cupboard with a tiny window and just enough space for a pallet and a rickety table with a cheap candle stand. The old couple who owned the house believed that he was a caravan master’s apprentice, which explained his frequent and sometimes lengthy absences. They charged only a few silvers a month and rarely climbed as high as his tiny room, providing him with both security and privacy. Even so, he only left a few rags of clothing there. Or, at least, that was all he left in his room so far. Up in the garret he’d found a few hiding places but had yet to use one. Now, with his gold heavy on his hip Jimmy resolved to try one out. He’d given some thought to a proper safe house, and decided for the time being poverty was his best cover; none of his fellow Mockers or any of the rare independent thieves who wandered into Krondor would suspect gold would be hidden in a hovel such as this.
He woke the old man up when he knocked and was greeted with a resentful grunt – since selling their businesses years before, the old couple slept in, often as late as seven or eight of the clock, and didn’t relish having to admit Jimmy at dawn.
The old fellow locked the door behind the boy and headed back to his room, leaving Jimmy alone in the dim and dusty front hall. Jimmy started up the stairs, noting that the place smelled worse than it had the last time he was here. This was his only semi-decent roost. If it kept deteriorating like this he’d have to move.
‘Listen to me,’ he mumbled wearily, ‘I’m starting to sound respectable myself.’
Baron Jose del Garza, acting governor of Krondor in the Duke’s absence and now, temporarily, the head of the Duke du Bas-Tyra’s secret police, sat behind the desk of the commander of the palace guard, seething and staring at the narrow, pointed window in the stonework across from him. The room smelled of ink, musty parchment, cheap wine, tallow candles and old sweat.
Had it been his pleasure, he’d have been just about anywhere else in the Kingdom than in Krondor this morning. He’d have been far happier leading the charge against the Keshian raiders troubling the Southern Marches alongside the Duke of Bas-Tyra, rather than having to oversee the business before him today.
Del Garza was a man of modest ambitions. He served at the Duke’s pleasure, and it had been Duke Guy’s wish that he administer the city in his absence, seeing that bills were paid, taxes collected, crimes were punished, and overseeing the usual details of running the principality while the Prince languished in his private quarters. It would be easy to think of the Prince’s confinement as being under arrest, but no guards were stationed outside his quarters; the man’s poor health prevented any chance of his escaping the city, and whatever else he was, the Prince was obedient to his nephew, the King. When Guy had arrived in the city with the Writ of Viceroy signed by the King, Prince Erland had graciously stepped aside.
Now del Garza sat silently cursing the day he had left his native Rodez to seek service in Bas-Tyra. Duke Guy was a hard man, but a fair one, but since coming to Krondor, del Garza had been forced to suffer the companionship of Jocko Radburn. That murderous maniac had the face of a simple peasant, but the heart of a rabid wolf. And his inability to do something as simple as keep a sixteen-year-old girl under lock and key was now threatening to turn del Garza’s life upside down.
Radburn had left del Garza in command of the secret police, and had commandeered one of the Duke’s ships, the Royal Griffin, and set off in hot pursuit less than an hour after the girl and her companions had fled the city. Now del Garza was faced with cleaning up this mess and, more importantly, positioning himself so that if Radburn failed to recover the escaped Princess, as little blame attached itself to him as possible.
A knock came and he answered, ‘Yes?’
A guard opened the door and looked through. ‘He’s coming, sir.’
Del Garza nodded, keeping his face calm as the door closed again. He had appropriated this office for a very specific interview, following which he would address his subordinates. But first, very much first, he would speak to the captain of the Paragon, a blockade ship that had just happened to drift off her position at a critical moment this morning.
He heard a man’s voice approaching, clearly raised in anger. There were no answering voices as the one who shouted came closer. A knock sounded on the closed iron-strapped wooden door and del Garza contemplated it for a short interval. There had been a momentary silence after the knock, but it was soon broken again by the protesting, expostulating voice.
‘Come,’ the acting governor said quietly.
The door opened instantly and del Garza met the eye of his subordinate as he entered the office. He saw both amusement and exasperation there and not a little disgust. For an instant del Garza wondered if the thinly-veiled contempt was directed at him, but at the last, the man glanced to the side, and del Garza realized the scorn was directed at the man who followed close behind.
Though not a small man, the secret police operative was thrust aside by a very large, very self-important one wearing the saltstained coat of a sea captain.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ the captain demanded. ‘I must protest this treatment! I am a gentleman, sir, and I was brought here under protest! I was given a missive summoning me to a meeting with the acting governor, but no sooner did we make dock than this –’ he sneered at the fellow he had shoved, ‘– brigand tells me that I am under arrest and seized my sword. My sword, sir! What possible excuse could there be for such an action?’
He stopped and stared at the man behind the desk. ‘And who, if I may ask, are you, sir?’
Del Garza stared at him while the other two guards took up position behind the Captain. Captain Alan Leighton was indeed a gentleman, the third son of a very minor nobleman whose family were willing to pay to get him out of the ancestral home; in other words, someone of less real use than the average dockwalloper or ditch-digger. And he would have been dismissed from either position for incompetence within a week. His commission and his ship had been bought for him, not earned, while better men had to wait. The Baron knew his type and despised him. He was a man who was just important enough to be a nuisance, and not important enough to have any real value.
‘I am the Governor,’ he said, his voice as flat and cold as a window in midwinter.
The captain shifted his feet and looked at him uncertainly. Del Garza was an ordinary enough looking man; rat-faced, and his dress was of simple if expensive weave.
‘Indeed?’ the Captain said dubiously.
‘Indeed,’ del Garza confirmed quietly. ‘Be seated, Captain Leighton.’ His nod indicated a stool in front of the desk.
The Captain looked at it, then at the acting governor in disbelief. ‘On that?’ he sneered. ‘The thing will collapse.’ Leighton turned to one of the guards. ‘You there, bring me a proper chair.’
Del Garza leaned forward. ‘Sit,’ he clipped out. ‘Or be seated.’
The two guards moved a step closer to the blustering seaman, ready to reach out and slam him down. For the first time Leighton actually looked at their faces; he blinked, and slowly sat down, his gaze moving from each of the men in the room to the next. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked. His voice tried to carry the bluster, but there was a quaver in it now.
In answer, del Garza rubbed one hand over the stubble on his jaw and gave him the glance that a tired man would give a buzzing fly. Every irritation and annoyance from the day he had set foot in Krondor until this morning rose up and seemed to resolve itself in the person of this pitiful excuse for a sea captain. Del Garza decided at that instant that Leighton needed to pay for them all. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he asked through clenched teeth. ‘Can’t you even begin to guess?’
Leighton gazed at him like a mouse fascinated by a snake. ‘No,’ he said at last. He leaned back, remembered just in time that he was on a stool and frowned. Leaning forward, the Captain went on the attack. ‘I say, is this some form of joke? If so it is in very poor taste and I assure you I shall complain of it to your superior.’
‘Do I look as if I’m joking?’ del Garza asked. ‘Am I smiling? Am I, or my men, laughing? Does this seem to be an atmosphere of mirth and good-fellowship to you?’
Nervous perspiration dewed the Captain’s broad brow, his eyes shifted left and right. ‘No,’ he said and shook his head. ‘I suppose not.’ He straightened. ‘But I still do not know why I am here.’
‘You have been arrested for treason.’
Leighton shot to his feet, ignoring the guards who moved yet another step closer. ‘How dare you, sir? Do you know who I am?’
‘You are the noxious toad who took a bribe to break the blockade,’ del Garza said. ‘During wartime such an act can be nothing less than treason.’
‘I did no such thing!’ the captain insisted.
The Baron smiled. ‘Do you know how many fools have tried to lie to the Duke’s agents?’ he asked. He waved his hand casually at the two burly guards and at several other men whom he knew waited outside. ‘Usually their next remark is something on the order of: Stop! Gods, please stop!’
‘I admit that my ship floated off-station,’ Leighton blustered. ‘Such things happen occasionally, there’s nothing deliberate in it. An anchor bolt rusted through and the tide caught our bow. It was merely misfortune that it happened at that particular moment. When I heard the commotion I rose from my bed, came topside and corrected the situation at once. At the very worst it was dereliction of duty, though even that would be coming it a bit high under the circumstances.’
Del Garza raised his brows and leant back in the commander’s chair with his hands clasped over his lean stomach. ‘Indeed?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Leighton said, allowing a touch of his former haughtiness to creep into his tone. ‘I tell you these things happen, ’tis no one’s fault, my good man. No one could have predicted that a ship would choose that particular moment to …’
‘We know the Upright Man bribed you.’ The acting governor waited for the explosion, but none came; the Captain merely stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a gaffed fish. Not only guilty then, but the man had no spine. ‘What was it, the gold? Or some misplaced sense of loyalty to Prince Erland’s family?’
‘We have known them a long time …’ Leighton began.
Del Garza cut him off. ‘You may as well admit it, you know. We have proof.’
The Captain shook his head silently.
‘Oh, but we do,’ del Garza insisted. ‘We have our own sources inside the Mockers, you know.’
They didn’t, of course, have either – proof, or sources. But it was obvious to the secret policeman that the Mockers had an interest in freeing the Princess Anita. It was certainly Mockers he and his men had been fighting this morning. Besides, every instinct he had told him that it was beyond unlikely that a ship would just ‘happen’ to drift off-station at precisely the wrong moment.
The lie came easily though, because if del Garza was going to have to answer for Anita’s escape – and he was – then others would answer first and far more painfully.
Leighton licked his lips. ‘You could hardly call it treason,’ he said.
Del Garza leaned forward blinking rapidly, his brows raised incredulously. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Taking a bribe deliberately to disobey orders during wartime could never be anything else.’
‘We are hardly at war with the Mockers,’ the Captain argued.
‘We are always at war with the Mockers,’ del Garza corrected, his voice flat. ‘That it has never been formally declared makes it no less a war. For if we were not at war with them, I assure you these thieves and murderers-for-hire are and have always been at war with the decent citizens of Krondor.’
‘They are hardly worthy …’ Leighton began.
‘Opponents?’ Del Garza sneered. ‘If their money is good enough for you then why shouldn’t they be considered … worthy?’
The Captain pressed his lips together and took a deep breath, then he straightened. ‘I should like to see this “proof” you claim to have.’
Del Garza chuckled, an impulse he couldn’t control. ‘Are you now going to claim innocence, after all but admitting your guilt?’
‘I have not admitted any guilt,’ the Captain said. ‘Come, come, you shall have to produce the proof at my trial.’
With a sad shake of his head the Baron asked: ‘Would you really put your family through the shame of a trial when the conclusion is inevitable? Must we prove to them and all the world your villainy?’
The colour drained from Leighton’s face. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he demanded, clearly shaken.
‘You need do nothing radical,’ del Garza said, suddenly all generosity. ‘Naturally you cannot keep your commission.’ He drew a document from a small pile and pushed it toward the captain along with a quill pen already resting in an ink stand. ‘Herein you resign your commission; just sign at the bottom of the page, and the next page as well and then we’ll send you home.’ He lifted the pen from the inkwell and proffered it to Leighton with a slight smile. ‘Your older brother wouldn’t be the first nobleman who had to find a second career for a younger brother; much less a problem than shaming the family name.’
‘That is all?’ the Captain asked, taking the pen hesitantly.
Del Garza nodded. ‘We will take care of everything else. All the arrangements,’ he clarified. He pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘If you would,’ he invited.
As one hypnotized, Leighton signed. Del Garza lifted the corner of the page to expose the one beneath.
‘Sign here as well, if you would be so kind.’
With a shaky hand the Captain signed the bottom page as well and the acting governor drew them back, sanded the signatures and shook them dry.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘But for one minor detail that concludes our business.’
Leighton mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘What is that?’ he asked.
At del Garza’s nod the three guards stepped forward; two caught hold of the captain’s arms while the third whipped a garrotte around his neck. The stool went over with a crash, and Leighton’s legs became caught up in it so that he couldn’t get his feet under him. Del Garza cocked his head, watching the consciousness of imminent death and agony flood into the man’s eyes. Soon his heels beat a brief tattoo on the floor and after a very few moments he was dead.
The Baron neatly folded and sealed the two sheets of paper. ‘Poor fellow,’ del Garza said to the guards. ‘Carry him to his quarters and arrange things there. Make sure the bracket he hangs himself from is stout; he was a fleshy sort.’ He handed the papers to the chief guard. ‘Don’t forget to leave his resignation and most important, his confession, where they’ll be easily found.’
The guard smiled as he took the papers. ‘That was neatly done, sir,’ he said. ‘Makes me feel like we’re getting a bit of our own back.’
Del Garza looked at him for long enough that the man knew the Baron wasn’t amenable to flattery, then dismissed him.
Alone, del Garza considered his choices. Leighton had to die; there was no other option. Had he remained alive, word of the Duke’s vulnerability would eventually spread. Loyalty to the Prince or avarice for Mockers’ gold, the reason for Leighton’s treason didn’t matter. What mattered was who would be looked at when Duke Guy returned from dealing with the Keshians in the Vale of Dreams.
Del Garza could put a fair amount of responsibility on Radburn’s shoulders, with justification. His iron grip on the city had bred discontent, and the way in which he ran roughshod over the Prince’s own guards and the city’s constables would be certain to drive some firmly into the Prince’s camp.
The handwriting was on the wall, as they say; Erland was dying, no matter what the healing priests and chirurgeons did to hold death at bay. With no son to inherit, Anita would be a prize for any ambitious man. And with the King having no heirs, her husband was but one step from the throne in Rillanon. So, Guy would marry Anita, and some day, sooner rather than later, del Garza judged, Guy du Bas-Tyra would become King Guy the First.
Del Garza tapped his chin with a forefinger as he wondered where he might come out in all this. He was not by nature an ambitious man, but circumstances seemed to dictate that his choice was to rise or fall; there was no standing still. Hence, he would choose to rise. Who knew? An earldom in the east, perhaps near Rodez?
But to rise, he had to avoid falling, and to do that, he had to survive Guy’s wrath when he returned and found the girl missing. He hoped Radburn would return soon with the girl in tow, or not return at all. If Jocko had the good grace to get himself killed in the attempt, everything would be his fault by the time del Garza got finished explaining things to the Duke. And that meant having lots of other guilty parties to parade before him.
‘Cray!’ he shouted, summoning the captain of the guard’s secretary. When the man appeared he said, ‘I want every commander of every unit involved with this morning’s mission, from the sergeants up, in this office in one hour.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cray said and sped off.
Del Garza sat back in the commander’s chair, enjoying the way Cray had leapt to obey, enjoying the privilege of taking over the commander’s office, enjoying the memory of the look on Leighton’s face when he had realized del Garza held the power in Krondor for the moment.
He turned his mind away from feeling any pleasure at the prospect of authority. How could he enjoy anything when his lord had been humiliated this morning? How could that wicked girl abandon her father so? And why? So that she would not have to partake of the honour of wedding the Duke du Bas-Tyra; one of the greatest, one of the noblest men in the Kingdom! How dare the little baggage treat his lord so?
Poor Prince Erland, to have such an uncaring child. Not that he was much better, for he, too, had defied his lord’s will. Well, he’d just have to suffer the fate to which his own daughter had condemned him. Del Garza considered: perhaps if the Prince was relocated to one of his draughtier dungeons, and word was leaked that he would remain there until his daughter returned …? He considered that a move to be made if Radburn didn’t return with the girl soon. If the girl had been coerced into leaving the city, it might convince her to return of her own volition, and if the Prince didn’t survive the ordeal, that was another problem that could be laid at Jocko’s feet when the Duke again graced the city.
Del Garza sighed. So much to be done, and he so much preferred routine to the unexpected. But, at least he knew the task at hand.
These … thieves, these nothings must be brought to heel, whipped into place like the dogs they were. That they should dare to steal Guy du Bas-Tyra’s rightful bride, interfering in matters they knew nothing about, and indeed should know nothing about …
With an effort del Garza calmed himself. He took deep breaths until his heart rate returned to normal. He shouldn’t waste this anger; he should harbour his fury until the men came, and then release it. Things were going to change around here; soon and forever. By the time Guy du Bas-Tyra returned from the south, Krondor would be a city in order and under firm control. Yes, he thought, in control.
He called for a parchment and pen and set his mind to the list of things that would have to be done, and first on that list was to round up as many of the Mockers as could be ferreted out of whatever dark warren hid them.
• Chapter Three • Aftermath (#ulink_169d64a5-ad72-54e3-acf8-a27fdabdae95)
The crossroads was crowded.
Hotfingers Flora was chatting and laughing with her friends while tossing saucy, flirtatious glances at every passing male when the wagon pulled up beside them. At first she didn’t give it much of a glance; the streets were busy with men on foot, porters with heavy loads, handcarts full of golden loaves of bread, cloth, boxes and bales, a sedan-chair – she cast an envious glance at the courtesan lolling within it – and any number of farmers’ wagons hauling in the city’s food.
When it stopped in front of her, she realized that this one wagon was different. It was a curious sight, with high sides and hoops over the top as though it was meant to be covered by a canvas tilt. But there were crossbars tied onto the hoops with rawhide thongs, making it look like a cage. It was driven by a pair of Bas-Tyran guards and followed by four more on foot, their hobnails a counterpoint to the clangour of iron-rimmed wheels on stone and their halberds swaying as they marched in step.
Some of her friends moved away cautiously – anything out of the ordinary was dangerous. But the majority of the girls watched with arms folded across their breasts and their eyes flicking toward the surrounding alleys, holding their ground despite their suspicion. After all, a lot of their business came from soldiers.
A sergeant descended from the wagon and approached the girls with the rolling swagger of a man who’d spent as much of his life on horseback as on foot. His corporal went to work lowering the tailgate and opening the cage door; the rest of the squad braced their polearms, the sharp hooks on the backs interlinked, a bare upright tent.
The sergeant chucked Flora under the chin and turned to grin at his men who also moved in, smiling. He smelled of sweat, leather and sour wine; she was used to that, but this man was ranker than most, and she wrinkled her nose a little. Flora tossed her head and with a slightly nervous smile asked, ‘Anything I can do for you, soldier?’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant said, leaning in close, ‘you can come with me, my little canker-blossom, you and all your friends. We’re having a party for you back at the keep.’ He took hold of her arm with a hard grip and a cruel, crook-toothed smile.
‘Well, there’s no need to be rough about it,’ Flora snapped, trying to pull away.
‘I suppose there isn’t,’ he agreed amiably. ‘But, ye see, I want to be.’
With that, he picked her up by her hair and the waist of her skirt and tossed her into the cage in a squawking cartwheel of limbs and cloth. Her knee hit something hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Before she could get to her feet, her friends were thrown in on top of her, driving the breath out of her lungs with a force that left her struggling for air. One of her teeth cut the inside of her lip with a little stab of pain, and the iron-salt-copper taste of blood filled her mouth.
‘Wait!’ she cried after an instant, sucking back her breath as she went scrambling backward out of the writhing heap. ‘We haven’t done nothing! What are you doing?’
The cries of the others were shrill around her: protests, sobs, curses and wordless shrieks of rage. She hauled herself up by the bars of the wagon in time to see two of her friends scurry down an alley with their skirts gathered up, and took heart from the sight. Word would get back to the Upright Man and something would be done about it. Flora rattled the wooden bars of the cage as hard as she could, glaring.
‘You can’t just throw us in jail for nothing!’ she shouted.
The sergeant came up to her and smacked her fingers with a mailed fist; not hard enough to break anything, but more than hard enough to hurt. ‘Oh, yes we can,’ he said, with what might have been mistaken for good humour, if you weren’t watching his eyes.
Those eyes had something in them that made her shiver and remember what Jimmy had said about the risks of freelancing.
The sergeant slapped his gloved hands together; the metal rings on their backs clinked dully. ‘So says the acting governor. We can do anything we want to trash like you, and serves you right. Now shut up and settle down like a good, sensible girl or I’ll knock your teeth out.’
Flora sucked her wounded knuckles and did as she was told. The pain was distant, less real than the way her heart pounded with fear, and her throat tried to squeeze itself shut beneath a mouth gone parchment-dry.
By the time they arrived at the keep, the cage was full to bursting and Flora was pressed tightly against the bars – which was still better than being in the middle, since at least there was open air on one side. The wagon was filled with whores and beggars and a very few of the younger pickpockets who had been doing absolutely nothing illegal when they were taken. The soldiers had even rounded up a few people who were simply poor, or who’d happened to be standing next to the wrong whore. But she’d noticed that most of those in the cage with her were Mockers. And that frightened her. Clearly Jocko Radburn was not taking the Mockers’ adventure with the Princess Anita lightly.
The gates clashed shut behind them. More Bas-Tyra guardsmen hauled them out of the wagons to join a growing file of prisoners being herded to stairways that led downward. Boots and fists and the steel-shod butts of halberds and pikes thudded on flesh; almost all the cursing came from the guards, though.
Their prisoners were mostly silent, except for the occasional cry of pain.
Jimmy had slept for a whole day and night, waking at mid-morning on the second day after the Sea Swift’s departure. He stretched luxuriously, rose and put on clean clothes – or rather, the well-aired rags he’d left in this room the last time he’d slept here – and descended the stairs. Instinct made him walk close to the wall, where the boards were less likely to creak. On the whole he liked growing up, but there was no denying it made you heavier, and he was conscientious about learning to make skill compensate for the additional poundage.
‘If ye’re lookin’ for breakfast ye can look elsewhere,’ said his landlady. She was a toothless beldame who glared at him with rheumy eyes. ‘Ye know I’ve nothing for ye at this hour.’
‘I wouldn’t think of asking you to trouble yourself,’ Jimmy said gallantly. He smiled. ‘I needed the sleep more than the breakfast anyway.’
‘At your age?’ the old woman sneered.
‘It was a long trip this time,’ Jimmy said.
And indeed it was, into a whole other world in its way. But now it was time to get back to business. First he would stop at Mocker’s Rest and see what was happening. Then he could start the planning stages of something bigger than picking pockets.
He’d been apprenticed to Long Charlie for the last few months, though that apprenticeship had been suspended the night Jimmy had caught sight of Prince Arutha attempting to flee Jocko Radburn himself.
The Prince, his Huntmaster – Martin Longbow – and Amos Trask – the legendary Trenchard the Pirate – had come secretly into the city a few days earlier before Jimmy’s encounter with the Prince. They had tried to hide their presence but from Jimmy’s point of view they stood out like red bulls in a sheep fold. By the time Jimmy had chanced across Radburn pursuing Arutha, the Upright Man had put the word out to pick up these three newcomers.
Jimmy had known something was up between the smugglers and Mockers, something beyond their usual uneasy truce, for Trevor Hull’s men had come and gone in areas of the sewer that were clearly Mockers’ territory, but as he was only a boy, albeit a very talented one, he was not privy to the secret of the Princess’s escape from the keep.
Finding Arutha had changed that, and had plunged Jimmy into the heart of a conspiracy that had ended the night before with Anita, Arutha, and his companions successfully making their escape. He had not only become a conspirator but had become a companion to both Prince Arutha and Princess Anita while they awaited their opportunity for escape. He had played his part, earned royal thanks, and found within himself a sense of something larger than himself for the first time in his young life.
Such triumphs left Jimmy in no mood to return to apprenticeship, opening practice-locks while Long Charlie looked over his shoulder. Besides, he’d long since caught the knack of lock-picking and the samples he’d seen didn’t look as if they’d offer any challenge. Frankly, the training he was getting was boring and Jimmy knew in his heart that he was meant for more exciting things. Sometimes it seemed that Charlie was just giving him tedious work to keep Jimmy out of his hair. Even before the adventure with Arutha and Anita, Jimmy had made up his mind to request a new mentor. Life is too short to wait for what I’m entitled to, he thought.
One thing he should do today was steal some more respectable-looking clothes. The ones he was wearing smelled bad, even to himself.
Or I could buy some, just for a change, he thought. But first, a money-changer.
The changer worked out of a narrow shop in an alley, denoted by a pair of scales on a sign above the door; the paint was so faded that only a hint of gold peeped through the grime. Jimmy hopped over the trickle of filth down the centre of the alley, nodded to the basher who stood just outside, polishing the brickwork with his shoulder, and pushed through the door. The basher would find a reason to delay any citizen from entering the shop whenever a Mocker was inside.
Ference, the money-changer, looked up and said, ‘Ah, Jimmy! What can I do for you?’
Jimmy reached inside his tunic and pulled out his coin pouch, and with a quick flip of his wrist, rolled half a dozen coins on the counter. The others were safely hidden on top of a ceiling beam in his room.
‘Gold?’ Ference said, looking at the thumbnail-sized coins Jimmy shoved across the smooth wood of the table.
The money-changer was a middle-aged man with a thin, lined face and the sort of squint you got from fretting about your strongbox when you should be sleeping. He dressed with the sort of sombre respectability a prosperous storekeeper might affect.
‘Getting ambitious, are you, Jimmy lad?’
‘Honestly earned,’ Jimmy said, ‘for a change.’ And it was even true, for once.
He kept a close eye on the scales as Prince Arutha’s coins turned into a jingling heap of worn and much less conspicuous silver and copper. The Upright Man’s regulations kept men like Ference moderately honest – broken arms were the usual first-time penalty for changers or fences shorting Mockers, and then it got really nasty – but it never hurt to be self-reliant.
‘There,’ the changer said at last. ‘That’ll attract a lot less attention.’
‘Just what I thought,’ Jimmy said, smiling a little to himself.
He bought a money-belt to hold it – too big a jingling purse was conspicuous too – and wandered out into the street.
‘Pork pies! Pork pies!’ he heard, and the words brought a flood of saliva into his mouth; he had missed breakfast. ‘Two of your best, Mistress Pease,’ he said grandly.
The pie-seller put down the handles of her pushcart and brought out two; they were still warm, and the smell made his nose twitch. What was more, Mistress Pease’s pork pies were actually made from pork, not of rabbit, cat, or the even less savoury concoctions you got from some vendors. He bit into one.
‘Feeling prosperous, I see,’ she said, as he handed over four coppers.
‘Hard work and clean living, Mistress,’ he replied; she shook all over as she laughed.
Well, a thin cook wouldn’t be much of an advertisement, would she? he thought.
He washed the pies down with a flagon of cider bought from a nearby vendor, and sat in the sun belching contentedly, his back against the stone-coping of a well.
He was just licking his fingers when a pebble hit the top of his head.
Ouch, he thought, and looked up.
Long Charlie’s cadaverous face peered around a gable. His hands moved: Report to Mocker’s Rest, he said in the signing can’t. Right now. No delay, no excuses.
Jimmy swigged back the rest of the cider and hastily returned his flagon to the vendor with polite thanks. Then he headed for the nearest alley.
Once in the sewers he moved at a confident jog – even through the pitch-black places, of which there were many – and passed the guards the Mockers had stationed at various locations, who seemed unusually alert today. Not that they were ever less than wide-awake; sleeping or getting drunk on guard duty could get you badly hurt or seriously dead.
The smell was homelike, though ripe; Jimmy flicked his toe aside and sent a rat more belligerent than most flying through the air. Its squeal ended with a sodden thud – you had to be careful about the ones that didn’t run away, chances were they were sick with something. Jimmy had seen a man foaming at the mouth from a rat bite and it wasn’t a sight he would quickly forget.
The Rest was like a kicked anthill, all swarming movement – although ants didn’t produce that sort of din, or wave their arms so that you nearly got clouted in the face walking through. Agitated people moved quickly from group to group; everyone seemed to be talking at once. He spied a boy he knew standing apart and went over to him. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
The boy, dubbed Larry the Ear because his were enormous, stood tense as a bowstring watching the frantic activity. He spoke to Jimmy without taking his eyes from the scene before them. ‘Bas-Tyra’s men are arresting the girls and the beggars and anyone else they can get their damned paws on,’ Larry growled. ‘They took Gerald.’
Jimmy blinked. Gerald was Larry’s younger brother, not much older than seven, if that. Jimmy had known Radburn was a vindictive swine, but arresting babies was beyond contempt.
He started to ask, ‘Was he pick …?’
‘No!’ Larry snapped, turning to glare at Jimmy. ‘He wasn’t doing nothing. He was just playin’, just bein’ a kid!’
‘Damn Radburn’s bones,’ Jimmy said quietly.
‘Damn him right enough,’ Larry said. ‘But this was del Garza. Radburn’s out of town – took ship not an hour after the Princess got away.’ Jimmy blinked. If Larry knew the Princess had been the one fleeing last night, then everyone knew it. So much for secrets. ‘Del Garza’s in charge, and he’s gone crazy mean.’
Crazy like a fox, Jimmy thought, motionless, as implications ran through his mind. Princess gone, Radburn chasing her – del Garza will want lots of people to pin the blame on when the Duke gets back. Radburn can at least say he went after them right away. What was that old saying? Victory has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan. Del Garza wants to have as many other candidates for the role of defeat’s father as he can.
‘Del Garza’s a snake from the same egg as Radburn,’ Larry said passionately. ‘He’s up to something and even if it takes hurting a little boy, he’ll do it!’
Jimmy nodded in agreement. ‘Well, we won’t let him,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s see what the Upright Man decides and if he doesn’t make the right decision, well, we’ll see.’ He punched Larry’s shoulder. ‘You with me?’
The younger lad’s eyes filled with hope and he nodded.
‘Who else do you think will take our point of view?’ Jimmy asked quietly.
‘I’ll find out,’ Larry said, swiping his dirty sleeve over his eyes, leaving dark smears behind.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Me too. But we’ll not discuss this again until we’ve found out what action will be taken.’ And he meant by del Garza as much as he did the Upright Man and his lieutenants. ‘Let’s move around, see what we can find out.’
Larry nodded and they both moved off.
‘Have any of the houses been affected?’ a fat man was asking a group of prostitutes. ‘The ones we’re behind, I mean.’
‘Not yet,’ one of the women answered, a needle-nosed woman who looked well over forty. ‘But if this doesn’t get old Jocko what he wants they’ll be next. Sitting-ducks, so to speak, that’s what they are.’
‘A lot of the gentry go to those places,’ said one of her friends. ‘They wouldn’t like having their pleasures interfered with.’
‘Oh, that’ll worry the secret police,’ needle-nose sneered. ‘They’d just love to have something like that on a gentleman of quality, or a rich merchant with a jealous wife. Mark my words, even if this does get the bastard the results he wants, that’ll be their next step anyway.’
‘True,’ the fat man agreed. ‘Once he’s begun, why should he stop?’
Jimmy had to agree. He supposed it was more surprising that the secret police hadn’t already made such a move – Radburn was clever enough to see it. For a power-mad, soulless bastard it seemed a logical step, much more so than picking up the street girls. You could learn a great deal if you had the power to squeeze the sporting houses; the walls there literally had ears – conveniently placed listening posts behind false walls in several of the richer brothels. More than one merchant gladly paid a madam a little extra every month to keep him current on what his drunken competitors said to impress their current favourite. It took nothing for Jimmy to imagine an agent of the Crown behind that listening post rather than the madam.
Even before the events of the last week, rumours were that Guy du Bas-Tyra had ambitions to be the next Prince of Krondor, and that Jocko Radburn had his cap set on being the next Duke of Krondor. Western nobles would certainly object openly in the Congress of Lords to such appointments, but western nobles with something to hide might be a great deal less vociferous in voicing those objections. Besides, the more useful results Radburn and del Garza could squeeze out of this mess, the more likely the Duke would be forgiving when he returned.
Jimmy spied Noxious Neville sitting in a corner by himself; not unusual given Neville’s aroma, which started with old sweat and worked up from there. But the beggar had been a frequent guest in Krondor’s dungeons and might have useful information. It just depended on how addled he was today.
Jimmy squatted down in front of the old beggar and waved a piece of silver back and forth, knowing it was the best way to get the old man’s attention. Gradually Neville stopped his rocking and his eyes began to follow the coin; then his hand rose and tried to capture it. Jimmy snatched it back and closed it in his fist.
‘Neville,’ he said, ‘I need some information.’
The old man stared at him. He was quite mad, but deep in his eyes a canny intelligence lurked. After all, he hadn’t starved or frozen or been kicked to death by drunks yet.
‘Whatcha wanta know?’ he asked, slurring his words.
‘Tell me about the keep’s dungeons,’ Jimmy said. ‘I want to know everything you can remember.’
Neville started to chuckle until he choked, then he coughed until Jimmy expected him to spit out a lung at any moment. Annoyed, because he suspected that the coughing was a demand for liquid relief, Jimmy nevertheless rose and acquired a mug of ale for the old beggar.
As expected, as soon as the flagon was in Neville’s gnarled hand the spasm ceased.
‘Take more’n one silver to get that much,’ the old man rasped, then took a sip.
‘How much?’ Jimmy asked.
The beggar shrugged with his whole body. ‘Twenty,’ he said, clearly knowing he’d never get it.
Jimmy got up and started to walk away.
‘Hey!’ Neville called, clearly irritated. ‘Where ya goin’?’
‘To talk to someone who isn’t crazy,’ Jimmy threw over his shoulder.
‘C’m back here,’ the beggar demanded. ‘Don-cha know how to bargain? What’ll ya give me? I’m crazy, not stupid.’
Jimmy held up the coin and Neville started rocking and grumbling inaudibly.
‘Gimme three,’ he demanded.
‘I’ve already spent two coppers on your ale,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m not throwing good money after bad. You give me something for that and if I think it’s worth more, I’ll pay more.’
‘S’fair,’ Neville said reluctantly. ‘Whatcha want to know?’
Jimmy sat before him, breathing through his mouth to avoid the old man’s prodigious stench, and asked him questions about the dungeons. How deep were they, how to get in, how many cells, how many guards, how often were the guards changed, how often were the prisoners fed, how often were the slops taken out, if they were? Noxious Neville answered every question with his eyes fixed keenly on the young thief’s face and with every answer Jimmy’s heart fell further.
‘Is there any way to get out without the guards knowing it?’ he asked finally.
Noxious Neville barked a laugh. ‘By the goddess of luck, who hates me, how should I know that?’ he demanded. ‘I never tried to get out. More trouble’n it’s worth. Four days’s the longest I’s ever there.’
Leaning closer, Jimmy asked, ‘Did you ever hear of anyone escaping?’
The old beggar began to giggle and wag a filthy finger at him. ‘Whatsa matta? Jocko steal yer sweetie?’
Jimmy made his eyes hard. ‘You’ve only got three teeth left, Neville,’ he pointed out. ‘Do you want me to break ’em for you?’
Fast as a striking snake the old man’s hand grabbed Jimmy’s arm with shocking strength.
‘Like to see you try it, I would,’ he snarled. ‘Little brat.’ He flung the young thief’s arm away from him. ‘Think I stayed alive this long by accident? Maybe Lims-Kragma, the great goddess of death, forgot about me? That what ya think? Hah! Stupid brat.’ He spat to the side.
Jimmy assumed from that that the old man was still willing to earn his silver. If he’d finished talking Neville probably would have spat on him. And then I’d have had to kill the old bastard. Or himself. The idea of being spat on by Noxious Neville was that revolting.
‘Did you,’ Jimmy repeated evenly, ‘ever hear of anyone escaping?’
The old man looked aside, shaking his head and waving the question away.
‘Is there any way in or out that the guards don’t watch?’ Jimmy asked desperately.
‘Only thing I know about is the drain in the floor of the big cell.’ He chuckled, giving Jimmy an evil look. ‘But you wouldn’t like that, it’s the hole we pissed in.’
Jimmy just stared at him, thinking hard. No, he didn’t like it, but it might have possibilities.
‘This drain, it leads directly to the sewers?’ he asked. ‘Or does the keep have a separate outfall to the harbour?’
Neville laughed again and Jimmy reflected that the old coot was getting a lot more pleasure out of this conversation than he should be.
‘How should I know?’ Neville demanded. ‘Ye think I follow me piss to see where it goes? The hole’s only this big!’ He held his hands up to indicate a circle the size of a dinner plate and Jimmy’s heart sank again.
‘Hey!’ Neville said and gave the boy a poke. ‘Maybe the Upright Man knows a way out of the prison. Why don’t ye ask him?’ And he laughed wildly.
The young thief rose and started to walk away.
‘Hey!’ the beggar screeched. ‘Where’s my money?’ He held out a skinny hand.
Jimmy flipped him the single silver he’d first offered.
‘Hey!’ Noxious Neville cried. ‘Yer s’posed to gi’ me more! That was the bargain.’
‘The bargain,’ Jimmy said coldly, ‘was that if I thought your information was worth more, I’d give you more. Give me something I can use.’
The old man made grumbling noises and glared at him, but something made Jimmy wait. ‘Leads to the sewers,’ Neville finally conceded. ‘But the tunnel’s half caved in, ain’t safe.’
‘And the drain?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Can someone get down there?’
Neville turned his head this way and that, as though protesting the continued questioning, then he nodded. ‘Drain used to be bigger,’ he admitted. ‘Filled it in a bit wi’ bits of stone and mortar they did. Shaft’s big enough for someone skinny. Give it a coupla good kicks and the drain’ll fall open, big enough for someone to crawl down if’n he don’t have too much girth.’
Light broke in Jimmy’s mind and he stared at the old beggar. ‘You’ve used it!’ he accused. ‘You used that shaft to escape!’
Neville broke out in a flurry of crazed motions meant to indicate go away and leave me alone or there’ll be trouble – a move he’d perfected over a long career of dealing with the public.
Jimmy stabbed a finger at him, unimpressed. ‘Stop it!’ He glared until the old man settled down and glared back at him. ‘Now,’ he said evenly, ‘tell me what I want to know and if it turns out to be the truth, I’ll give you this.’ He flashed a gold coin for a fraction of a second. ‘If it turns out you’re lying, you get nothing.’
A gold coin was a fortune to a man like Neville; it would get him fifty flagons of ale – a hundred if he stuck to the really vile stuff sold in the Poor Quarter. He sat sucking his gums and thinking it over.
‘Why not?’ he said at last. ‘Not like’s a secret worth keeping. I’s a thief once, ’n young. They caught me, wasn’t easy.’
Noxious Neville’s face took on a slackly reminiscent grin and just when Jimmy thought he’d have to shake him to bring him back to the here and now he began speaking again.
‘I was gonna hang.’ Neville spat again. ‘But I knew if I had time and patience I’d get out. There’s a grille,’ he said, pointing down with one dirty finger.
Jimmy glanced down automatically then grimaced and looked back at the old man.
‘Not too big, mind, but me, I could.’ Neville wriggled where he sat, arms working above his head as though squeezing through a tight space. ‘M’shoulders come apart,’ he said and gave a wheezing laugh at the young thief’s look of doubt.
Not that Jimmy hadn’t heard of such before, but it was hard to believe the human wreck before him would have such a useful attribute.
Neville slapped his knee, laughing and after a moment he went on. ‘Those days the grille wasn’t even mortared, they di’nt think anybody could get down that shaft.’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘Wished I coulda seen their faces wh’n they come fer me.’ He chuckled.
Jimmy nodded. ‘So where is it?’ he asked.
Neville stared into space, one finger tracing the air as he tried to remember the route. ‘Take the fourth shaft at Five Points,’ he said uncertainly. ‘No, no, take the second –’ He went silent, gazing. Suddenly he was more animated. ‘Go toward dockside, always go for the lower way … no, no, that leads to the fullers. Don’t want to go there.’ He huffed impatiently. ‘I know how te get there,’ he said impatiently, ‘I jes’ never had to tell anybody how to get there.’
Jimmy stood. ‘Show me then. It’ll be easier.’
The old beggar looked at him as though Jimmy had suggested he strip to his loin-cloth and dance on a table.
‘Not fer me!’ Neville said. He waved his flagon. ‘I’ve got all my comforts here.’ He looked around and waved a hand as though to indicate the cosiest surroundings in the city.
Leaning close enough to singe his nose hairs Jimmy said, ‘Four silver above the gold if you show me.’
Neville chewed his gums, looking at nothing, and didn’t answer.
Jimmy chewed his upper lip impatiently, aware that Neville held the upper hand. What he had to do now was get the upper hand back before the beggar bargained him to bankruptcy.
‘I’ll buy a half skin of wine for the trip,’ Jimmy offered. ‘You can keep what’s left once we get there.’
‘Full skin,’ Neville countered.
‘Half.’
‘Full!’ the old beggar snapped. ‘S’a bit of a slog.’
‘Done,’ Jimmy said and somewhat reluctantly, held out his hand.
Neville spat on his and clapped hold of the boy’s before Jimmy could draw away. Then laughed uproariously at the young thief’s disgusted expression.
• Chapter Four • Plotting (#ulink_4a66fd71-ccbe-50bd-8662-1bc953207477)
Jimmy slipped through the crowd.
‘Larry,’ Jimmy said.
The younger boy gave a well-concealed start and Jimmy felt a small spurt of pride. Sneaking up on guardsmen was easy, but the boy was a fellow professional.
‘I’ve found something out,’ Jimmy said, looking around the crowd to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘A way into the dungeon.’ He made a pressing gesture with his hand. ‘But there’s a problem.’
‘What problem?’
‘The only one who knows the way is Noxious Neville – so we have to take him along.’
Larry’s face went from joyful to sour, as if he’d just bitten into something unpleasant.
‘And I had to promise him a half skin of wine. Which means …’
Ol’ Neville was the type to disappear in an instant for reasons of his own, yet come back demanding the promised reward. Rewards never slipped the old man’s porous memory, even when his recall of deeds performed was vague.
They turned, watching as Neville conducted a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. Jimmy interrupted the conversation and lured Neville out of the Rest by pouring out a stream of raw red wine that Neville hastened to catch in his mouth. When they were outside Jimmy stoppered the skin.
‘Lead us,’ he said.
The old beggar smacked his lips, then rubbed his hands over his face and neck and licked up the drops of wine he collected from his fingers.
Jimmy ostentatiously swung the skin over his shoulder.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said.
‘That’s it,’ Neville said.
The three Mockers crouched, straddling the stream of foulness that ran down the centre of the sewer. Ahead, an oval opening in a wall poured its own tributary into the fetid stream; broad streaks of glistening nitre down the brick showed that the trickle had been larger once.
‘Took long enough,’ Larry said sourly.
Jimmy shrugged. Not all of Neville’s madness was an act; they’d backtracked more times than Jimmy cared to remember with the old man whining about how thirsty he was. But the young thief had been adamant; no wine until they found the place.
If he’s like this half sober, we’d never see daylight again if I’d let him get drunk.
‘Are you sure this is it?’ Jimmy asked dubiously.
As he’d said, the tunnel was partially collapsed. Rubble splayed out in an incline into the main sewer, giving them easy access, but the air that blew towards them from above was more foul than the beggar himself. Larry said, ‘Something’s died up there!’
Neville ignored the comment to answer Jimmy’s question. ‘Yes I’m sure,’ he snapped; his lips worked angrily and one discoloured snag of a tooth showed. ‘You’d been payin’ attention you’d know it!’
The old coot’s right, Jimmy acknowledged unhappily. They’d passed signs that warned they were approaching the underpinnings of the keep.
‘Phew!’ Larry said and choked as he stuck head and shoulders into the gap. ‘You can’t mean it! We can’t go in there! A snake couldn’t get in there!’
Jimmy was definitely in sympathy with Larry. He tossed the wineskin to the beggar who hurried off without demanding the rest of his pay. He grimaced as he watched Noxious Neville scurry into the darkness, then climbed the rubble and thrust the torch through a gap.
‘Look, it gets broader past here,’ he said. ‘And this rubble’s easy enough to move.’ He levered a handful aside, then wiped his hand on his breeches. Good thing I was going to buy new ones anyway.
‘We could clear enough to get through in less than an hour, even if we take care not to make any noise. After that it’s easy enough, for folk our size. We’re not looking to ride a horse through, after all.’
The torch flickered and dimmed in a slightly stronger gust of air and Jimmy pushed himself back and staggered, retching, away from the pile of rock and earth.
He shook his head, his eyes streaming. ‘You’re right, only sheer desperation would get me in there. And even then …’
Three extremely wealthy merchants sat across the desk from the acting governor of the city. The men were members of the powerful Merchants’ Guild – a body that included the most wealthy men in the city, along with representatives of the other important guilds: tanners, smiths, shipwrights, carters and others. After the authority of the Prince’s Court and the temples, the Merchants’ Guild was the most influential faction in the principality. Too many nobles in the Kingdom owed debts to or did business with the more powerful members of the Guild. Crops didn’t come to market from outlying estate farms if the teamsters didn’t drive wagons. Dock warehouses filled up with goods that were headed nowhere if the dockworkers refused to load them on the ships. Originally begun as a body to adjudicate disagreements between the different guilds and independent merchants, they had evolved over the years into a voice for the merchant class in the halls of power. The Guild’s co-operation was vital to the success of del Garza’s plans, or at the very least he needed to ensure they were not in opposition to him.
The three maintained equally supercilious expressions while their eyes, glittering in the candlelight, were fixed on del Garza’s every move. They waited for his attention with dignified restraint, ignoring the draughts that moved the wall hangings, barely moving to draw their cloaks tighter around their shoulders.
Del Garza continued to write, scratching away at an only moderately important document, fully cognizant of how rarely these gentlemen displayed such patience. He was enjoying this little exercise of power. Indeed, this was for his pleasure; the next part of the evening’s endeavours would be for his lord’s advantage.
He finished writing, sanded the document and shook it, then laid it aside and turned to look at the men seated opposite him. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, his voice coldly insincere.
Marcellus Varney, a shipper of Quegan ancestry, raised an eyebrow. He was a bull-necked man who had obviously spent his youth in hard labour. Now, in his middle years, there was still muscle under the rich man’s fat. ‘We were not invited,’ he said precisely. ‘I was under the impression that we were arrested.’ His entire attitude spoke of distaste.
‘Nevertheless,’ the acting governor said with great politeness, ‘you could have resisted.’ He tipped his head to the side and opened his hands. ‘No, no, you must allow me to thank you for your co-operation.’
‘Get on with it,’ the shipper said, his tone flat, his eyes resentful.
Del Garza glanced at each of them, then made an acquiescent gesture.
‘As you wish, gentlemen.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You are, no doubt, aware of the special orders and state of emergency I am about to declare in Krondor. I’ve submitted a copy of the order to your guild and I expect you’ve had the day to ponder it.’
The three men shifted in their chairs. It amused him; they might almost have rehearsed it, the timing was so mutual.
‘I invited you here tonight to see if there was anything I could do to gain your support. Times ahead will be difficult and I want to ensure that the most respected voices in the Merchants’ Guild speak in favour of the necessity for these acts.’ That’s got their attention, he thought with an inner smile. A little flattery beside intimidation did wonders.
The gentlemen focused on him as though they believed he cared about their opinion. Which, of course, he did, as long as it was in agreement with his.
Rufus Tuney, a grain merchant with six critically located mills around the city, grimaced, then waved a hand somewhat languidly. He was a foppish man who tended to wear excessive amounts of lace and powder, and a cloying cloud of spices and lilac scent surrounded him wherever he went. ‘The new regulations you have proposed are not without merit,’ he commented. ‘The trouble is they seem … somewhat excessive.’ He looked at the acting governor with raised brows. ‘Even if the three of us were wholeheartedly in support of your position –’ he gave a delicate shrug, ‘– of what use are a mere three votes?’
‘Do not allow that to be a consideration, gentlemen,’ del Garza said, his voice hard and flat. ‘What you must consider are your own advantages in the matter.’
Silence greeted his remark and del Garza could see them resisting the urge to glance at one another.
‘Advantage?’ Varney queried.
I expected him to be the one to ask that question.
The third merchant, a spice trader named Thaddius Fleet, shifted in his seat. He was a nondescript man, given to well-made but simple garments. ‘See here, del Garza. What exactly are you proposing?’
And del Garza had expected him to try to lead the negotiations. Sometimes it was almost too easy. He sighed. ‘Must I go into detail?’ he asked wearily. ‘Remember where you were, gentlemen, when my men requested your presence here.’ He watched that sink in. This time glances were exchanged from the corners of their eyes.
What fools these men are! He held most of their breed in contempt, but the three sitting before him now were particularly noxious. Tuney and Fleet had indulgences of which they were ashamed, which made them vulnerable. Varney had a profitable sideline selling young women and boys as slaves to Kesh, drugging them and smuggling them out in secret compartments on his ships. Once his usefulness was at an end del Garza thought it would be a blessing to the Kingdom to end his business. Slavery, except for prisoners of the Crown, was outlawed in the Kingdom.
Perhaps I’ll sell him to Great Kesh. That should certainly provide some amusement. As for the others, they were just shallow men with foolish peccadilloes. One liked to be spanked by pretty women, the other liked to pretend he was a pretty woman. They harmed no one but themselves. I’m almost grateful to them, and to Radburn for keeping such conveniently complete files. Seeing the key members of the Guild in twos and threes over the next few days would bring them nicely to heel.
‘That certainly puts things in a new light,’ Fleet said grimly. He glanced at his two companions; none needed to say anything; they all knew del Garza was in possession of information that would ruin them, and in Varney’s case, send him to the gallows.
After a moment’s silence del Garza said impatiently: ‘And by this new light can you see your way clear to supporting my decrees? After all, Baron Radburn will be returning soon. I assure you he will be far less concerned with the Guild’s position on these matters than I am.’
‘I … believe so,’ said Tuney.
‘Good. Then I can count on all of your votes?’ Del Garza stared at them until each one of them had nodded and mumbled an affirmative. ‘Excellent! I won’t keep you further, gentlemen.’ He gave them a bland smile as he took a document from a pile to his left and placed it before him. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’
He rang a small hand-bell and the door to the office opened. A guard waited without. Del Garza turned his attention to the document, apparently unaware of their existence.
The three merchants looked at one another in disbelief. They were not accustomed to being dismissed like that. As they rose from their seats they dared to cast upon del Garza’s down-turned head the kind of looks that promised evil reprisal.
The acting governor timed the scene, so that when he looked up he caught those expressions, and smiled. The threat in that smile was much more powerful, and they knew it.
‘Oyez, oyez,’ the crier intoned.
Jimmy the Hand stopped in the shadows of a doorway, carefully inconspicuous. A man-at-arms in black and gold accompanied the crier, and his eyes were objectionably active. Two days had passed since his trip to the sewers with Noxious Neville and Larry the Ear, but he’d only just cast off the mild case of the runs that had followed, and he was in no mood to be chased.
‘By the proclamation of the acting governor of the City of Krondor, the following changes have been made to current law: Street prostitution will now be considered a crime equal to robbery and burglary, and for which the same penalties will apply. All bawdy houses and brothels in the city must obtain Crown licence to operate. Begging has also been declared a crime and will now be punished with no less than fifty lashes.’
He went on to the formal conclusion of ‘by my hand this day of’ and so on, but Jimmy had ceased listening.
Licensing the brothels meant the Duke’s agents and soldiers would be searching the buildings and registering the girls. That was not important.
But burglary and robbery were hanging offences and fifty lashes would kill any but the strongest of men. He drew back into the alley in a daze. That meant that everyone they’d already caught – Flora and Gerald and the rest – were doomed. He turned and hastened through the maze of alleys to the nearest sewer entrance. It was now just a matter of days before they died.
‘The acting governor has had his proclamation,’ he muttered to himself, swinging down on a grating and dropping soundlessly to the slimy brick. ‘Let’s see what the Upright Man has to say.’
Mocker’s Rest was packed; Jimmy had never seen so many people there, and he could barely hear himself speak. The mood was frightened, but the faces around him were blank and hard. There wasn’t a Mocker here who didn’t have a friend or relative already in the cells. Jimmy wondered if the prisoners knew what awaited them.
He slipped between bodies and found that no one had any news except that of the announcement. No one knew what the Upright Man intended to do about it, nor had anyone seen the Daymaster for hours, and it was two hours yet before the Nightmaster was due. Meanwhile, no one dared go out, especially not the women and the beggars.
Jimmy spied Larry the Ear clinging to the V of one of the ceiling braces, crouched like a gargoyle, and made his way toward him. When he finally stood below Larry’s perch and their eyes met it was like the shaking of hands, sharing the same thought without speaking. The younger boy’s jaw set hard and he swallowed nervously, then he looked up and saw something that caused him to stiffen.
‘What is it?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Laughing Jack,’ Larry called down.
Others heard and turned to where the boy was staring, silence spreading like ripples through the shadows as word spread of the Nightmaster’s lieutenant’s approach. By the time the Nightwarden took a stance upon a table, the big room was silent except for the occasional cough and the sound of dripping water. Laughing Jack turned in a circle looking at all of them, his expression even more grim than usual.
‘You’ve all got word,’ he bellowed. ‘So I won’t repeat the edict. Orders are to do nothing. Leave the matter to the Upright Man and lay low as much as possible. Understood?’
For a long moment the crowd was silent, resentment building like a wave.
‘Well?’ Jack demanded, glaring.
A few voices murmured here and there, but mostly the Mockers stared, expecting more, and with their silence demanding it.
‘Well aren’t you a fine bunch?’ Laughing Jack sneered. ‘No faith, at all?’ he shouted. ‘Where would most of you be without the Upright Man? Huh? I’ll tell you, most of you would have been dead by now. It’s easy to be loyal during the good times. Easy to follow the rules and do what’s expected when everything’s running right. But when times are hard, that’s when you especially got to follow orders. Loyalty will carry us all through the hard times.’ He swept them all with a hard look. ‘So what’s it going to be? Follow orders, or get tossed out in the streets so the guards’ll find you?’
Confused silence greeted this question. There was a roar of affirmation waiting to happen but the Mockers looked at one another uneasily, wondering how to avoid sounding as if being kicked into the streets was what they wanted.
‘Well, when you put it like that,’ Jimmy muttered. ‘Upright Man!’ he shouted, punching his fist in the air.
The crowd went wild and took up the cry, bellowing until mortar began to rain from the ceiling and Laughing Jack held up his hands for silence.
‘Get to your roosts and your flops,’ he commanded. ‘Keep your heads low and wait for orders. One thing I can promise is that we won’t take this lying down, but nobody does nothing until you hear otherwise.’
There was another burst of applause at that which quickly died when Laughing Jack stepped off his makeshift stage. Jimmy looked up at Larry and jerked his head toward the door then moved off, knowing the younger boy would follow as he could.
Jimmy led the way out of the sewers and through a maze of back alleys, most sodden, some clean, until he came to a fence of cedar posts set in stone. He climbed it and stepped briefly onto a window ledge, then grasped a hole left by a crumbling brick and hoisted himself up to where he could step onto the window’s ledge. Balancing, he reached up to grasp the eaves. He chinned himself up, his toes finding the space in the brickwork that allowed him to push himself upward until he could wriggle onto the tiled roof.
Then he silently moved over so that Larry could climb up beside him; neither of them was breathing hard, since the sky-routes were as familiar to them as a staircase to the attic would be to a householder.
They were on the roof of a noisy dockside tavern – the tiles beneath them fairly vibrated, as sailors the worse for wine made an attempt at song – but they still made as little noise as possible, moving into the dark shadow of a dormer window. Jimmy risked a quick glance in the window and found the room unoccupied. He lay down on his back looking up at the stars and listening for any sounds of pursuit. Larry sat quietly beside him, apparently doing the same.
‘I think,’ Larry whispered at last, sounding very unhappy, ‘that the Upright Man will call del Garza’s bluff.’
Jimmy nodded, then realizing it was too dark to be seen grunted in agreement.
‘The only trouble is,’ the younger boy continued fiercely, ‘he isn’t bluffing. Why should he? Nobody’s going to complain if he hangs a dozen Mockers. A hundred even!’
Jimmy shushed him, for he’d nearly shouted that last. Larry muttered an apology and Jimmy gave the boy’s arm a brief, sympathetic punch. But he agreed with Larry’s sentiments. The acting governor would put the Upright Man in the worst position possible before he consented to negotiate, if he ever did.
In the history of the Thieves’ Guild, the Mockers and Crown had never sat down across a table, but over the decades since the Guild had been founded, the Mockers had reached accommodations with the Prince of Krondor on several occasions. A word dropped by a merchant with connections in court, a trader having business on both sides of the law carrying a message, and from time to time a difficult situation might be avoided. The Mockers gave up their own when caught dead to rights; that was understood by every thief, basher and beggar. But occasionally an overzealous constable had the wrong lad scheduled for the gallows, or a harmless working girl or beggar arrested for a more serious crime, and from time to time trades were arranged. More than one Mocker was tossed out of gaol suddenly after the Sheriff of Krondor got clear proof of innocence – usually the location of the true malefactor, sometimes in hiding, at other times dead. On other occasions a gang without the Upright Man’s sanction was turned over to the Sheriff’s men, saving them the trouble of arresting them.
Larry said, ‘The Upright Man’s not going to do anything, is he?’
‘Being in the position he was in, I don’t think he can risk aggravating the situation further. I think we’ve got nothing to offer del Garza,’ said Jimmy. ‘As I see it, the only thing that could make him happy would be to see Radburn return with the Princess in tow. And as she’s halfway to Crydee with Prince Arutha by now, I don’t imagine that’s going to happen. So, if he hangs a lot of us, at least he can say he tried to do something when Black Guy comes back. And if Radburn gets himself killed along the way, then del Garza can put all the blame on him and make himself look like he was trying. Our lads and lasses are in a bad position, no doubt.’
Jimmy fell silent for a moment: he knew it wasn’t just a bad position, but a fatal one. Finally, he said, ‘It’s up to us.’
He heard a stifled sob and saw the glitter of Larry’s eyes as the boy turned toward him. ‘They might kill us,’ he warned.
Jimmy chuckled. ‘Del Garza’s men will definitely kill us if we don’t do something. As for the Upright Man …’ He paused to watch a star shoot across the sky and to consider what the Upright Man might do. ‘We won’t be rewarded, that’s certain, we’ll probably have to take a beating for disobeying orders. But if we succeed in getting everybody out …’
‘Everybody!’ Larry’s voice squeaked.
‘Well, yeah. Why not?’
‘I just want to get my brother out.’
‘No, that’s not enough!’ Jimmy said, sitting up. ‘You want to get your brother out; I understand that, but if we can get the others out safely, too, that would be great. Wouldn’t it?’
There was silence for a moment, then, ‘Ye-ah?’
‘And it would make us heroes to everyone in the Guild. We’d be too popular to have our throats cut.’
‘Well, I guess.’
Not the rousing confirmation Jimmy had been hoping for, but it would do. He stood up.
‘First, let’s go and look over that place Noxious Neville showed us. Once we know what we’re dealing with we can make plans. Then we’ll see.’ He started off, followed by a reluctant Larry the Ear.
‘See what?’ the boy asked.
‘See whether the Upright Man will kill us or not,’ Jimmy said cheerfully.
Jimmy wore a vinegar-soaked rag tied over his nose and mouth and was still fighting the urge to gag from the stench. They’d removed a lot of the rubble from the blockage, but not all of it; the people they were to rescue were mostly small and certainly thinner than when they’d been arrested. The two boys laboured quietly and quickly, and then it was time for one of them to climb up the vertical shaft that Neville had told them about. Jimmy glanced at Larry, who was nervous, green, and on the verge of being sick, and didn’t even think of suggesting the younger boy go. Jimmy took a deep breath through his mouth, as if he was about to plunge under water, and stuck his head into the opening. Then he pulled himself up.
It wasn’t quite as tight as he’d expected from the old man’s description, but then maybe the old beggar had worn some meat on his bones when he was young. And the walls were an easy climb, seeming to be a natural cleft in the rock below the keep, with plenty of nooks and crannies for fingers and toes. Even the girls would be able to manage it.
So far the only problem was that it was very slimy with things best not thought about and stank enough to shrivel the hairs in his nostrils, even through the sharp vinegar smell. He kept promising an offering to the Goddess Ruthia, Mistress of Luck, if she would let him get through this without anyone pissing on him. The higher he climbed the more extravagant the offerings became.
He heard a voice above his head and froze, but whoever it was passed by. He thanked the Lady of Luck and glanced up. He wouldn’t have been able to go any further anyway. Just above him they had mortared small stones to the side of the shaft for a depth of about four feet from the top, narrowing it to just the size of his head.
Jimmy climbed down rapidly, his heart sinking. He’d imagined chipping away the extra stones around the grate, and had worried about how they’d cover the sound. He’d never imagined them continuing for four feet! Maybe ol’ Neville hadn’t known about it, maybe he didn’t think it mattered, but it was certainly a big complication.
Jimmy imagined the wrath visited upon the gaoler when the escape of a prisoner – maybe it was Noxious Neville back-in-the-day – had been discovered. So either the heavily chastened gaoler or his newly-appointed successor had seen fit to ensure it didn’t happen again. For a giddy moment he wondered how the current gaoler was going to tell del Garza and the Sheriff that dozens of Mockers had fled in one night. Then he put aside the amusing fantasy and returned to the problem at hand: how to get rid of a lot of brick and mortar in a hurry.
Larry was waiting down below the partially-collapsed tunnel.
‘Well?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘I need a bath,’ Jimmy said. It wasn’t something he said very often and he’d never said it so sincerely.
‘Me, too,’ Larry agreed. Then asked, ‘So?’
‘There’s a problem,’ Jimmy said. ‘A collar of stonework that narrows the opening so you couldn’t pass a cat through it. It’s pretty deep, too. Let me think about it.’
‘We can’t go in here!’ Larry the Ear hissed in Jimmy’s ear. ‘This place is too respectable!’
It was; a two-storey building with more chimneys than a house, the sort of place where people respectable enough to want to wash regularly came, but who were not well-to-do enough to afford the equipment. It had a door warden; a thick-set man with a grey beard and a knotted club of vinestock beside it, who looked like a retired trooper.
Jimmy grabbed Larry and pulled him close so he couldn’t be overheard. ‘We need to get clean. Del Garza’s men are out looking for sewer rats. Right now, we not only look like them, but we smell like them. We have to get clean, and it would help if we didn’t look like Mockers for a little while. That’s why we’re here, instead of trying to get clean using someone’s rain barrel or washing off in the Old Square Fountain.’ He turned to look at the door warden. ‘Just pretend you’re someone and keep quiet.’
Jimmy walked up to the man. The door warden’s nose wrinkled – Well, I can’t blame him, thought Jimmy – and his eyes narrowed; a thick-knuckled hand went to the vinewood club.
Wordlessly, Jimmy held up a silver coin the size of his thumbnail. I’ve known this sort of thing to work, he thought, schooling his face to look embarrassed and supercilious at the same time. I’ve just never been able to afford bathing in a proper bathhouse, before.
He’d never been much of one for bathing in general, either; but associating with lords and princesses, even for a short while, tended to alter your standards. He discovered that enduring a bucket of cold water and some soap every day or two earned him approval from the Princess Anita, and that had been worth it. He had also discovered he itched a lot less and felt better afterwards.
‘My good man, we need to bathe,’ he said, shaping the tones of an upper-class accent. ‘And to buy fresh clothing.’
‘Ye certainly need the bath,’ the man grumbled. ‘Lousy too, no doubt.’
‘Not in the least. We’ve been out on a …’ Jimmy let his expression grow sheepish. ‘Well, we’d rather our parents didn’t find out, and …’ He finished in a rush: ‘You can have this yourself?’
Suspicion gave way to contempt as Jimmy handed over the coin; which was fine with him.
‘We were attacked by street boys,’ Jimmy chattered on – overexplaining made guilt look more plausible. ‘They stole our clothes and pushed us in a sty. The maid at home gave us some coins to get cleaned up. Please, sir, my mother is very strict and she’ll be very, very angry if we go home in this condition.’ Jimmy had always been good at mimicry, and the time spent with Prince Arutha and Princess Anita had given him a wealth of new ways to speak when he needed. He sounded plausible in the role of the son of a minor noble or rich merchant. As long as Larry remembered to keep his mouth shut.
He and Larry had more than enough scrapes and bruises to make their story seem authentic. Knocking about in dark sewers and climbing walls and houses had added a good share of cuts as well.
‘Go on through,’ the door warden said. ‘You can use the baths, but rinse off good first. You’ll have to find your own clothes – this isn’t a tailor’s shop, lads.’
They went through; the door warden spoke a few words in the ear of the woman who sat by bathers’ clothes so they wouldn’t be lifted, and her scowl cleared a bit.
‘I’ll not put those wipe-rags near honest folk’s clothing,’ she said.
‘Take them away and burn them,’ Jimmy instructed, as he and Larry stripped. That was in character; even rags were worth something, and the woman would undoubtedly get a few coppers for them. She nodded and smiled, and Jimmy knew that later that night she would be boiling them clean and selling them to a rag peddler by this time tomorrow.
‘You, boy,’ Jimmy said, beginning to enjoy himself. One of the attendants put down his broom and came over.
‘My brother and I will require new garments,’ Jimmy said loftily. He looked at the boy before him and estimated that he was just between his and Larry’s size. ‘I need you to buy us some new things. Trousers, shirts and linen,’ he instructed. ‘Something just too large to fit you for me, and something just too small to fit you for my brother. We’ll have to do without shoes and stockings, I suppose.’ He glanced at Larry who nodded, a supercilious expression on his face. ‘The colours should be muted,’ he went on, sighing at the confused expression on the boy’s face. ‘Nothing red or orange or patterned,’ he explained.
He counted out five small silvers, more than enough for the items. ‘You may keep the change,’ Jimmy said, ensuring that it would be. ‘And if you hurry back, you shall have this.’ He held up two more silver coins.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy said, tugging his forelock, and rushed off.
‘Shall we enjoy the steam room while we wait?’
Larry sniffed his arm and made a face. ‘Yes!’ he said fervently.
Clean and dressed, the two of them headed for the Poor Quarter. They looked respectable enough, like apprentices, perhaps, except for their lack of shoes, so it was reasonable to think themselves fairly safe in the respectable parts of town. But under the circumstances they couldn’t make themselves feel safe, a fact never far from their minds.
In the Poor Quarter their new clothes might raise a passing eyebrow, but it would be obvious from their attitude that they belonged and that the first glance wouldn’t be followed by a second.
Ordinarily, that is. But then, under ordinary circumstances there would be street children and beggars everywhere, and not a few whores plying their trade. Now, as the two boys walked along they found the streets nearly deserted. The few people walking about were mostly grown men, their eyes constantly moving, and from them Jimmy and Larry received a great deal of attention. It felt as if they were surrounded by the secret police.
‘I can’t take this,’ Larry said. ‘I keep expectin’ someone to grab my neck. I’m goin’ to the Rest.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘Not me. I’ve had enough of sewers for one day. I’m for a drink.’
The younger boy shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’ He looked at Jimmy for a moment. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and it was almost a question.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’ He made it sound like a promise.
They separated then, without so much as a backward glance; Larry disappearing into the gloom of an alleyway, Jimmy walking along the street.
As he walked, Jimmy thought.
The mortared collar needs to go, and we’ve got to do it some way that won’t draw the guards. That was easier said than done. Drugs? he wondered. It would have to be something potent, to make them oblivious to the noise of stonework.
But there was no way to get to the guards without going to gaol, wherein getting at the guards was problematic at best.
Deep down an idea stirred. Too formless yet to grasp, Jimmy let it go and simply followed his feet, trying not to think at all. He’d found that sometimes ideas were like that, they’d flee if you pursued them, but they just might come to you if you just left them be.
He walked along, hands in his pockets, eyes on his bare toes, listening to the sounds around him for quite a while, and quite a way. Finally he stopped and looked up to find himself before a tavern. There wasn’t a sign, unless you counted the anatomically-based scratchings on the once-plastered wall, but there was a withered bunch of branches pinned above the door. That let out the noise of voices, the smell of rushes not changed in a long time, and much spilled beer.
Ah, yes, he grinned, and went in. Where else? My feet are smarter than my head tonight; they’ve led me straight to the place I want. It wasn’t until this moment that Jimmy realized that what he really needed was magic. How else were they going to do it? And where else in Krondor would he find a magician willing to help him? Nowhere else.
And there was only one magician within a week’s travel who wouldn’t ask too many questions first, or tell someone else: Asher.
The few magicians in the principality with enough power or wealth to avoid being hunted down by locals for perceived curses – dead calves, curdled milk, crops to fail – all tended to keep to themselves. There was a three-storey stone house with a courtyard, near the southeastern gate to the city, that was reputed to be the occasional home of a powerful mage, but each time Jimmy had passed it, he could detect no signs of life. From time to time word would spread through the city that a travelling magician was stopping at this or that inn, and whether they were willing to trade services or magical goods for gold, but that was a rare event.
No, Asher was unique: a magician and a drunk. And from what was rumoured, one who also liked to gamble and enjoy the company of women less than half his age. So he kept permanent residence in the part of the city where no one had calves to stillbirth, milk to curdle, or crops to fail. With so few prosperous undertakings in the Poor Quarter, there was scarcely any reason to seek someone else to blame for failure. Failure was a daily fact of life here.
The tavern had seen better days; the booth-like ‘snugs’ tucked into the corner were too fancy for its present clientele, most of whom sat on their knife scabbards as they threw dice, to keep themselves conscious of where the hilts were.
Jimmy looked into the farthest corner in the place and his grin grew wider. But then finding Alban Asher in this tavern was as reliable as finding bad ale in a dirty mug. Jimmy had never seen him anywhere but in his cobwebbed corner. For all the young thief knew he’d grown roots there. But then, Asher didn’t need to go anywhere. The world came to him. Despite being an old sot, compulsive gambler and womanizer, if he was sober enough, the spells he sold worked very well indeed. Jimmy had heard of a few failures, but they were more a disappointment than a disaster. Certainly not enough to put off any potential business. Besides, where else would one go in the principality to find a magician willing to sell magic for enough gold to get drunk on, sit down at a card game, or convince a young girl to bed someone her grandfather’s age?
Jimmy got himself a mug of ale and acquired a cup of the tavern’s best wine. Which smelled raw enough to strip tar, and though he wasn’t the most fastidious fellow in the city, he had no intention of actually drinking the ale he’d bought. Going over to the magician’s table Jimmy placed the wine before him and sat in the other seat, watching the formless heap of black robes across from him.
It took a moment for the man to come to life, but the scent of the wine eventually evoked a response. A clawlike hand reached out of a sleeve and lifted the cup; the magician took a sip and made a guttural, approving sound. Jimmy’s throat closed when he thought of what the man must usually imbibe. The magician hiccupped and then gave a powerful belch, chuckling evilly at Jimmy’s expression when the vapours hit him.
Jimmy sat, waiting.
It was impossible to guess Asher’s age. For one thing, the tavern was dark, and this corner of it darker still; for another, the magician’s head was surrounded by a bush of sandy hair. His beard, moustache, eyebrows and head-hair were all as thick and impenetrable as a bramble bush. As for his face, all that could be seen were a bulbous nose almost the same shade as the wine and the gleam of his eyes beneath his shaggy brows. It was suspected he might be as young as sixty summers, but then again, some suggested he was ninety and being kept alive by dark spells. All Jimmy knew from rumours was that the magician existed in a state of seeming indifference to the world around him unless he was drinking, gambling or whoring. And by all reports when the drinking wasn’t excessive, he was fairly successful with the gambling and whoring.
‘Ye want somethin’,’ Alban Asher the magician said in a matter-of-fact tone. His voice was deep and raspy. Even sitting down he was weaving, indicating that he was already well into the bottle.
‘Yessir,’ Jimmy confirmed cheerfully. ‘I’ll pay extra for secrecy.’
After a moment Asher chuckled in a way that spoke of pure greed. With a gesture he encouraged Jimmy to continue.
‘I need one or two spells that I can carry away with me and set off where and when I want,’ the young thief said.
‘Love spells,’ Asher said, nodding sagely. ‘Boys yer age’re all after love spells.’ He chuckled salaciously and touched one grubby finger to his nose.
Jimmy supposed that he winked, but couldn’t tell. ‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘not a love spell.’
‘Boys yer age …’ the magician began, sounding annoyed.
‘Definitely not a love spell,’ Jimmy repeated.
I prefer my girls to have a choice in the matter, he thought. It’s a matter of pride. Not that there was any point in trying to explain that to someone oblivious to the concept.
‘I’ve got a mortared wall I need to take down but I don’t want to break my back. Have you got anything for that?’
Asher stabbed a finger at him. ‘Yer a thief!’ he snarled in a rather loud whisper.
Jimmy rolled his eyes. ‘Thieves don’t knock down walls,’ he pointed out.
The mass of hair bunched around the magician’s nose in what Jimmy assumed was a frown. ‘Mmm, true,’ Asher agreed, blinking like an owl suddenly confronting a lantern light. ‘Got somethin’ might work.’ He rubbed his chin ruminatively. ‘Somethin’ about it though …’
‘I’ll take it,’ Jimmy said quickly, sure now that the magician was drunk. ‘I also need something to knock people out.’
‘Ah!’ Asher said and chuckled. ‘Girls! I knew it!’ Then he chuckled some more.
Jimmy had noticed that Asher had the most nuanced chuckle he’d ever heard. In this case it indicated that the magician’s relations with women when he hadn’t enough gold for whores wouldn’t bear close scrutiny.
‘No, no girls,’ Jimmy said. ‘Men, big, heavy men, so if size is an issue you should plan for that.’
‘Men?’ the magician said as though he’d never heard of them before. After a moment he shrugged. ‘Ah, well, takes all kinds. I’ve got somethin’ – I c’n make it stronger. It’s that wall spell …’
His voice faded off and he looked over Jimmy’s head so steadily the boy thief turned around to look. There was no one there but the tavern keeper, dozing behind the bar, and a man weeping into his beer. That would normally have attracted derisive attention had anyone else been present, except that the man looked to weigh about half what a heavy cavalryman’s horse did, and had a scar like a young gully from the point of his jaw up over one empty eye-socket, not to mention layers of slick tissue half an inch thick over the knuckles of both hands.
Jimmy looked at the magician out of the corner of his eye, then back at the bar. If Asher wanted more wine he’d have to wait until they’d finished their negotiations and the goods had changed hands.
‘What’s wrong with the wall spell?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Doesn’t it work?’
‘Oh, aye, it works,’ Asher said slowly. He shook his head as though that might dislodge something in his mind. ‘There’s jist, somethin’ …’ He reached out with thumb and forefinger, as if to grasp something.
‘Is it dangerous?’ Jimmy asked, his voice sounding as though he could be.
The magician blew out his cheeks. ‘Only if ye’re not supposed to use it!’ he said. ‘It works! It works very well, I tell ye.’
‘What about the knock-out spell?’ Jimmy asked.
With a dismissive wave of his hand Asher plopped a small bag onto the table. ‘Hardly magic at all,’ he said. ‘But you want it for big strapping fellows, instead of skinny little girls …’ He paused, looked at Jimmy for a moment as if trying to understand something totally alien to his imagination, then said, ‘Never mind. Give me a moment.’ He closed his eyes, waved his hand over the bag and muttered for a few minutes.
The hair on the back of Jimmy’s neck rose. What he called his ‘bump of trouble’ let him know that Asher was indeed using magic. Since he could remember, Jimmy possessed a near supernatural ability to sense approaching danger or the presence of magic being used.
Asher finished, and said, ‘Now it’s stronger.’ He pushed the pouch toward Jimmy. ‘Take a pinch and blow it into the face o’ the one ye’re tryin’ to knock down and down he’ll go!’
‘And the wall?’
The magician grunted. Turning, he grabbed a sack behind his chair and hoisted it onto the filthy table. He opened it and began to rummage around inside, digging deeper and deeper until he was halfway into the bag. Things rattled and clinked as Asher sorted through them, occasionally chuckling, as though being reminded of some nasty trick he intended to play as soon as he got the time. ‘Ah!’ he said at last and withdrew his head; he slung the sack back behind his chair and put a tiny bottle sealed with lead on the table between them. ‘There ye are,’ he said proudly.
Jimmy peered at it. It was only as big as the first joint of his little finger and as far as he could tell in the dim light it was completely empty. He reached out to take a closer look at it but the magician’s hand came down over it before he could touch the bottle.
‘Ah!’ Asher said in warning. ‘We an’t discussed price yet.’
‘There’s nothing in that bottle,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘Ah, but there is,’ the magician whispered. ‘One tiny drop. ’Tis all ye need to start the mortar turnin’ to sand. Don’t get it on yersel’ whatever ye do,’ he warned. ‘Put it on yer wall and the job is done! Doesn’t matter where – top, bottom, middle – because as long as stone and mortar are connected, it’ll do the job.’ He sat back. Judging from the position of his whiskers, he was smiling.
‘How much?’ Jimmy wasn’t absolutely certain about any of this, but it was still the best idea he’d had.
Really the only idea beside a hammer and chisel and a lot of prayers to Ruthia that the guards go deaf. Still, he wasn’t about to take the magician’s first price.
‘What’s it worth to ye?’ Asher demanded.
With a cheerful smile Jimmy suggested, ‘Let’s have another drop to ease our bargaining. Innkeeper!’ he shouted, waking the man. ‘Two more of the same!’
It was closing in on dawn when Jimmy left the tavern with his prizes. He held the bottle up and squinted at it against the light of a flickering lantern; the air was chilly and damp, and smelled the way it usually did in the blighted gap between night and morning, as discouraged as the young thief felt.
Still looks like nothing. But, the old man doesn’t have that sort of reputation. Asher was a lot of things, but in the years he had been plying his trade in Krondor, no one had accused him of cheating on a deal, which in the Poor Quarter was the next best thing to a Royal Death Warrant.
He hadn’t got a bargain by any means. Though even making painful inroads into Prince Arutha’s gold, he would never have been able to afford this much magic if the man hadn’t been a complete sot. Not my problem, not my fault. But the price was fair, so he shouldn’t have to worry about waking up covered in boils anytime soon. At least, the price was fair if there was actually something inside the bottle.
Something I mustn’t get on myself, he thought. A worrying idea if you thought it through. How did you pour out something that didn’t appear to exist? Very carefully, he supposed.
Think positively, he told himself. I’ve got the means to save Larry’s brother and Flora and the rest of them. Probably. Which means we’re all better off than we were before.
Now all they had to do was do it.
• Chapter Five • Rescue (#ulink_5754d341-87a9-5f80-8ab8-d31ac19f80e3)
Larry’s eyes grew wide.
‘Alban Asher is a drunk!’ His small face showed more panic than disapproval and his tone was more surprised than angry.
Just think how you’d react if Larry had come to you with this stuff, Jimmy reminded himself. He’s not trying to hit you, and not even walking away.
‘You can’t be serious!’ the younger boy went on.
‘We’re desperate,’ Jimmy pointed out, making a shushing gesture; the Rest wasn’t as crowded as it had been after the new laws were announced, but it was still busier than usual: a lot of people, normally on the streets, were sleeping. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ he went on. Jimmy had heard that saying somewhere and liked the sound of it: he usually did, when something made for a good excuse.
‘Desperate, not stupid!’ Larry insisted.
‘Desperate measures often look stupid before they’re carried out,’ Jimmy said. ‘It’s a historical fact, you can look it up in the royal archives.’
‘I can’t get into the royal archives, and besides I can’t read!’ the younger boy shouted. His face was bright red and tears of frustration brightened his eyes. ‘But if I could I bet I could prove you wrong!’ He thumped his back against a wall and slid down to sit in a heap on the floor. ‘What are we gonna do?’ he wailed.
‘First,’ Jimmy said, leaning over him, ‘you can stop shouting, people are starting to stare.’
Actually, no one was looking. But then Mockers, being thieves and scoundrels, rarely stared; but they always eavesdropped and he couldn’t afford to be overheard. Nevertheless, saying so seemed to stiffen Larry’s spine. Jimmy had often noticed that nonsense at the right moment could do wonders, if it was the right nonsense.
‘Sorry,’ the boy said gruffly. ‘It’s just …’
‘Larry,’ Jimmy said, leaning close, ‘if you’ve got a better idea tell it to me. I want to hear it.’
His friend hung his head and slowly shook it.
‘All right. Look, if we get no further by using this we’re no further behind either. And even if Asher is a drunk he’s got the reputation for knowing his craft.’ He gave the boy a pat on the shoulder and a crooked grin. ‘If he didn’t someone from the Guild would have cut his throat by now. Which means he wouldn’t be working for me.’
Larry gave him a weak smile.
‘Have you got the rope?’ Jimmy asked.
The boy nodded. ‘Stowed it in the tunnel just behind the collapse and piled some rocks over it.’
‘Good.’ It must be well hidden, Jimmy thought. He had left a bunch of rags and a bottle of vinegar there before coming to Mocker’s Rest and he hadn’t seen it. ‘Well, let’s do it then,’ he said and started off.
Larry’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head and he caught up with the other thief quickly. ‘Now?’ he whispered.
‘The sooner the better,’ Jimmy said wisely. ‘And why not?’
Larry shook his head. ‘It’s daytime!’ he protested.
‘So, they won’t be expecting us,’ Jimmy replied, with a wink.
‘But there’ll be more guards, won’t there?’
‘Why should there be? Are the iron bars less sturdy during the day?’
‘No, I mean, they’re awake, in the keep walking around and acting like guards.’
Jimmy stopped abruptly and glared down at the younger boy. ‘You want to do this or not?’
‘Do!’ Larry said, nodding vigorously.
Looking him in the eye Jimmy said, ‘Then let’s do it!’
He strode off without looking back. After a brief silence, Jimmy smiled to hear Larry’s footsteps following. This would work and then he’d be a legend among the Mockers forever after. He carefully kept himself from thinking of the alternative – most of them involved ropes, sharp things or red-hot things, or things that were sharp and red-hot and applied to the tender parts of his body.
Jimmy the Hand was still less than fourteen years, more or less, and like most youngsters he felt as if he’d live forever. But like most Mockers he’d seen a great deal of death during those years; not enough to grant him a sense of his own mortality, but enough to teach him caution.
It was all Jimmy could do to force himself back into the half-collapsed tunnel and up the shaft that led into the main cell of Krondor’s dungeon. He’d spent most of his young life wandering reeking sewers and stinking alleyways so he was used to the stench and the velvet-deep darkness. But if a smell could be terrifying, this was. The stink seemed to creep up on him. It had hair and teeth and mean little eyes, it had a personality all of its own, a very bad personality that bore down on his spirit with an almost physical weight. But by telling himself that he’d never have to do this again Jimmy was able to meet the challenge. Tying the vinegar-soaked rag over his face, he put the bundle of rags and bottle of vinegar into his shirt for the others. He knew a fit of retching on the way down might land someone at the bottom of the shaft a lot faster and in much worse shape than they needed to be. Not that the vinegar smell helped a lot, but anything was better than a bare face here.
He pulled on some gloves, slung the knotted rope across his chest and began climbing.
It went faster this time because he knew what to expect, but his prayers to Ruthia were no less fervent. Once he reached the blockage he braced his feet and shoulders against the walls of the shaft, pulled off one glove, worked the tiny bottle from the pouch tied to his belt and broke the lead seal with his fingernail. Then he looked for a place to spill out the invisible drop.
The mortar just above him was quite smooth and Jimmy remembered Asher’s warning not to get the stuff on himself. Higher up, as though the mason was getting bored with the job or finding it harder to reach with his trowel, the work was messier, with little shelves and projections of cement making a good spot for the spell to be poured. But that meant pushing his arm and shoulder up close against that slimy hole. The very idea sent a surge of nausea through him, so he took a few slow, deep breaths, forcing himself to ignore the Smell and focused his mind on the goal.
Free the Mockers. Become famous. All the girls will admire you … once you’ve taken a bath.
Gradually his stomach calmed itself.
Part of the problem was that he still hadn’t been able to see anything in the bottle and his faith in the drunken magician wasn’t all that strong, in spite of what he’d said to Larry. He was more afraid they might fail than that they’d be caught and hanged.
‘Do it,’ he grumbled, gritting his teeth. As he’d said himself, it wasn’t as if there was anything better available.
Jimmy bit his lips and thrust his arm into the hole, aiming for a large projection he thought he could reach, but aiming blind since his arm cut off what little light filtered down from the cell above.
Dear Ruthia, he prayed, please don’t let me get this on myself. He braced his shoulders hard against the wall, quickly pulled the tiny stopper from the small vial, and tilted it away from his left hand, pressing the open mouth of the container against the mortar. He held it motionless for a long count of seconds, wondering how he was supposed to tell when the vial was empty. Finally, he assumed it had to be.
It was done, except for the waiting to see if the spell would work. He held his breath, pressed himself against the sides of the shaft walls, wondering what to expect.
He missed the first few grains of falling mortar but then a stone fell, hitting him on the thigh. It hadn’t occurred to him that there would be falling stones; then he remembered the iron grate above and hurriedly climbed back down again, some little part of him wailing in discontent. He’d have to go up again after all.
In less than a minute the heavy iron grate that had covered the shaft fell down with a crash on top of the dislodged stones and the heap of sand that had once been sturdy mortar.
Jimmy noted a cracked stone beneath it and blew out a relieved breath. Then he re-wet the rag he pulled over his mouth and nose with vinegar, rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles and began climbing again. He found a ring of faces waiting for him when he got to the top and hands reached out to pull him up. He blinked for a moment; even the twilight dimness of the big cell seemed bright, after the passageways below. Feet rustled in the damp straw that covered the floor, and he could feel more than see the inmates gathering around him.
‘Jimmy!’
That was Flora’s voice; she elbowed her way through the crush and embraced him, recoiling instantly, her eyes wide, her pretty mouth contorted into a rictus of disgust. Considering the condition of the dungeon and its inhabitants, that said a great deal.
‘I know,’ he apologized quietly. ‘Quiet, unless you want the guards here! The smell can’t be helped.’ He pulled out the bundle of rags and the vinegar. ‘This will cut the smell, but it’s the only way out we could find.’
‘I can’t get down there,’ a legless beggar said.
‘Get down where?’ asked one of the blind ones.
‘Anyone who needs help getting down we can lower them with this rope,’ Jimmy said.
He slung it off and looked around for something to anchor it to, settling on the bars of the cell. He glanced anxiously out into the dim corridor but saw no one.
Good. If the excitement caused by his arrival hadn’t brought the guards running they were probably safe. At least for now. But then, why pay attention to a dungeon with no exit?
‘Why are you doing this?’ Flora asked him in a whisper. She smiled and shook her head, clearly embarrassed for him. ‘They aren’t going to keep us in here forever, you know.’
‘No they’re not,’ Jimmy said grimly. ‘Tomorrow or the next day they’re planning to hang the lot of you girls, and the beggars get fifty lashes apiece.’
Flora stared at him in horror. ‘What for?’ she asked. ‘What are we supposed to have done?’
‘Only what you’ve always done,’ he told her. ‘It’s just they changed the law.’
She closed her mouth and her eyes grew cool. ‘Because of the Princess,’ she said.
‘Or just because del Garza’s crazy,’ Jimmy said with a grin. ‘Doesn’t matter. In a few minutes there’ll be nobody left for him to hang. Unless he wants to hang his own guards for letting you go.’
She returned his smile slowly, a wicked glint growing in her eyes.
‘Well, then. Let’s get to work, shall we?’
Once they heard the news, the other Mockers and even the few strangers pitched in eagerly. When the rope was tied firmly, Jimmy said, ‘As soon as you get to the sewers, scatter. Don’t wait around, unless you’re helping those who can’t get away alone. By the time I get down last, I want you all gone. Make your way as best you can to your flops or back to Mocker’s Rest, but be careful. Once they find you all gone, things in the city are going to get even worse for a while.’ Jimmy sent Gerald, Larry the Ear’s young brother, down first. Mostly to soothe Larry’s fears, partly to show the girls and everyone else how easy the climb was. Except for the Smell. Wisely, he didn’t dwell on that part. And once the escapees encountered it they certainly weren’t going to climb back up, although if they’d known what was facing them some of them might have preferred hanging.
Finally it was just Jimmy and Flora. He turned to her with an excited grin.
‘There’s something I want to do before I go.’ Flora looked puzzled, but nodded for him to go on. ‘Rumours are flying that del Garza put Prince Erland in the dungeon. Do you have any idea where they’d keep him?’ he asked.
‘How would I know?’
‘But he must be somewhere near here, right?’ Jimmy asked.
Crossing her arms, she stared at him for a long moment. ‘I suppose so. If the rumours said he was in the dungeons, that would be here.’ She cocked her head. ‘Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?’
He nodded eagerly, his grin growing wider, if that was possible. ‘I’m going to get him out.’
Flora’s eyes widened. ‘Are you crazy?’ she hissed, shaking her head as though trying to dislodge something. ‘I can’t even imagine what they’d do if you did that.’ Her eyes widened further. ‘The Upright Man!’ Flora covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Del Garza might not catch you, but the Upright Man certainly would!’
‘He’d probably be very pleased indeed,’ Jimmy said confidently. A lot more confidently than he actually felt. The Upright Man doesn’t confide in me, either.
She lowered her hand and licked her lips. ‘You really mean to do this, don’t you?’
‘Why not?’ he countered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘What better chance will anyone have? What patriotic citizen of Krondor could pass it up?’
‘All right,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ll help you.’
That took him aback; he hadn’t meant to convert her. ‘I can handle it,’ he said firmly. ‘No need for you to risk getting caught again.’
‘He’s supposed to be ill, Jimmy. You may need some help with him.’
She gave him a steady look until he nodded reluctantly. Then he went to work on the cell’s lock. It was tougher than he’d expected, but then, it was supposed to keep common prisoners in, not lock-crackers with a full set of picks. He worked the tumblers by feel, by the tension of the wire struts bending under his fingers, and for the first time blessed Long Charlie for all those tedious drills. Flora stood beside him, her body taut with fear, keeping an eye out for the guards. Then the last probe sprang back; there was a click sound from within the heavy lock-plate, and they both winced at the protesting squeal of the hinges.
‘Which way?’ he wondered aloud.
‘They brought us in that way,’ Flora said, nodding left down a corridor of mortared stone; what little light there was came from a round sun-well in the ceiling, no bigger than the diameter of a man’s head.
‘There were two large cells before this one, but little else. So I think we should go this way.’ She pointed to the right and then quickly moved off.
‘Better let me go first,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ve got something I can use in case we meet anyone.’
Flora raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object.
Jimmy moved ahead of her, feeling awkward because while what he’d said was true the real reason he wanted to be first was, well …
Because I want to be first. And he suspected Flora knew it.
The corridor they followed was dark and narrow. Jimmy couldn’t imagine why it was laid out this way, unless the proposed inhabitants were supposed to be owls and cats. He thought that it actually worked to their advantage though, providing them with cover when they needed to look around a corner, to see if the way was clear. So far, there was no one here to notice them. Every cell they’d checked on their way was empty.
Which surprised him; he’d been sure del Garza was jailing anyone he felt like throwing into the dungeon. And given Jocko Radburn’s personality, Jimmy had been sure he’d find half the city behind bars. At least the official half.
He was getting impatient; they’d been walking so long it felt as if they must be all the way on the other side of the keep by now.
Then the flickering light of a torch outside a cell up ahead revealed the presence of a guard. A Bas-Tyran from his black and gold uniform and nearly asleep, even standing up and leaning on his halberd, judging from the way his helmeted head kept nodding off and then jerking up again. Sleeping standing up seemed to be one of the basic military skills.
Jimmy squatted, waving Flora down too; they were behind a quarter-turn in the passageway’s meander. Then he dug the small bag he’d purchased from Asher out of his pouch and unknotted the string. That was when it occurred to him that he had no idea how much of the stuff to use. His mouth twisted in exasperation. He’d been thinking about the wrong thing; how much he’d pay, rather than how much to use and how long it would last. Too late now.
He decided to sneak up on the nodding guard and blow just a pinch into the man’s face. He’d keep on doing that until the guard collapsed. Jimmy gave a mental shrug. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. After all, things had gone pretty well so far using trial and error.
He turned to Flora and silently cautioned her to stay put. She nodded and made a shooing gesture. When he’d turned away Jimmy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, a gesture he’d never dream of making to her face; but he hated being told what to do. Especially when it was his idea to do it in the first place.
Focus, he told himself and did so.
He went forward swiftly but without hurry, moving on the balls of his bare feet like a cat. The guard was in the head-nodding phase of his waking doze: Jimmy took a pinch of the magician’s powder and blew it into his face just as he jerked it up again. With a loud, pig-like snort, the guard dropped like a sack of potatoes and the young thief barely caught the man’s polearm before it, too, crashed to the floor.
Flora moved up beside him and the two of them stared at the fallen soldier in astonishment.
‘What did you use?’ Flora whispered.
‘Something I got from a magician,’ Jimmy told her in a more normal voice. He snatched the keys from the guard’s belt. ‘Something I’ve got to get more of. Useful stuff!’ He took the bag out of his tunic and handed it to her. ‘Here, you keep it. If someone comes, blow a pinch into his face and make sure you don’t breathe any of the powder yourself.’ She nodded and put the small bag inside her bodice. ‘Come on, let’s open that door.’
The tiny cell was pitch-black, until they brought the torch in with them. It was colder than the corridor outside and smelled of mould and human waste.
On the floor was a thin pallet of filthy straw and on the pallet, beneath a single ragged blanket, lay a man. His face was waxen pale, eyes and cheeks deeply sunken and his breathing rasped and gurgled as if each one was a struggle.
Flora breathed an ‘Ooooh’ of sympathy and crouched by the man’s side. She took one of his hands in hers and immediately began to chafe it. ‘He’s so cold, Jimmy.’ She turned and looked up at him. ‘Go and get that guard’s cloak.’
Jimmy raised his brows; he hadn’t expected her to start nursing anybody. But if this was the Prince he’d need to be a lot more active than he was if they were to get him out of here. He placed the torch in an iron bracket by the door and went to do as she’d asked.
When he returned she said, ‘Let’s get some of that under him. This straw’s no protection at all from the floor.’
Jimmy nodded, but he was dismayed to find the man still unconscious. How were they going to know they had the right prisoner if he couldn’t tell them? The young thief had only ever seen the Prince from a distance and he’d been healthier then, by far, than this man.
He slipped an arm under the prisoner’s head and shoulders and heaved, almost sending him flying, for he weighed nothing at all, as if his body was made of sticks and air.
‘Well, if we have to carry him we can,’ he muttered.
‘But, Jimmy, he’s so ill,’ Flora said. She tucked the cloak around her patient’s emaciated body. Then she threw up her hands in despair. ‘Just listen to his breathing, it’s pneumonia, no doubt, and he’s got a fever.’
‘And we don’t know if he’s the Prince,’ Jimmy said grimly.
‘Who are you children?’ the man whispered, and he opened his fever-bright eyes upon them.
Then he coughed, long and hard, curling into himself until the spasm passed, his face contorted with pain. When it was over he lay back with a careful sigh. His two would-be rescuers watched him with wincing sympathy that turned to solemn looks when he opened his eyes again.
‘Well?’
‘We’re Mockers,’ Jimmy said. ‘Who are you?’
The man formed the word Mockers with his lips, but didn’t say it. Then he grinned, a truly terrible expression on his pale and wasted features. ‘I,’ he said breathlessly, carefully separating his words, ‘am Prince Erland of Krondor.’
They could see the pride in the man, even under these sordid conditions.
‘Have you got anything to drink?’ Flora asked. ‘His lips are so dry.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’ll check the guard.’
He was back in a moment and handing a flask to Flora.
‘I think it’s wine,’ he said.
Flora lifted the Prince’s head and brought the flask to his lips.
‘Thank you,’ Erland said after a long drink. He raised his brows. ‘That was rather good, and I haven’t had anything since they moved me down here this morning.’
It might have been his imagination but it seemed to Jimmy that the Prince’s colour was better. Erland indicated that he would like more and Flora gave it to him.
‘We’ve come to get you out of here, uh, your highness,’ Jimmy said. At least he thought highness was the right thing to call him. He was pretty sure that your majesty was totally wrong.
But the Prince shook his head. ‘There’s little point.’ He smiled at them. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts, young Mockers. But,’ he paused to catch his breath, ‘I will not live much longer.’ He cleared his throat and the fear that he might cough was in his eyes. When no such fit took place he continued speaking. ‘I have been ill for a long time, and I am tired. Putting me here will only hasten my death, but death is coming, no matter where I am.’ He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘The priests and chirurgeons have done all they can, but there is a sickness inside my lungs that is slowly eating away at me.’ His face was so drawn and pale, Jimmy would have thought him confined for years, not hours, so he judged the Prince a man very much close to death. ‘Much too tired to make the effort to escape. But you should.’ He smiled at them.
Jimmy knew the Prince was right for somehow he could see the man’s death in his worn face.
‘Your wife!’ Flora said. ‘We could help her escape.’
‘She’s under guard up in our apartment,’ Erland said. ‘You could never reach her.’ He took a long, slow breath, trying to avoid another coughing fit. ‘Del Garza ordered me put here when my daughter fled the castle. She’s hiding somewhere in the city. He thinks that by threatening me with a cold death, she’ll return without him tearing apart the city and starting a civil riot.’
‘No, sir,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s not in the city. She’s three days or more gone by ship to Crydee, with Prince Arutha.’
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Raymond E. Feist
Steve Stirling
The whole of the magnificent Riftwar Cycle by bestselling author Raymond E. Feist, master of magic and adventure, now available in ebookJimmy the Hand, boy thief of Krondor, lived in the shadows of the city. The sewers were his byways and a flea-ridden, rat-infested cellar his home. Although gifted beyond his peers, he was still but a nimble street urchin, a pickpocket with potential. Until the day he met Prince Arutha.Aiding the Prince in his rescue of Princess Anita from imprisonment by Duke Guy du Bas-Tyra, Jimmy runs afoul of Black Guy's secret police. Given the choice of disappearing on his own or in a weighted barrel at the bottom of Krondor's harbor, Jimmy flees the only home he's ever known, venturing south to the relatively safe haven of Land's End. Suspecting that the rural villagers have never encountered a lad with his talent and nose for finding wealth—other people's wealth—he's fairly optimistic about his broadening horizons. But Jimmy is completely unprepared for what greets him.For Land's End is home to others who tread the crooked path, and more, to a much darker secret: a dangerous presence unknown even to the local thieves and smugglers. And Jimmy's youthful bravado and courage will plunge him deep into the maw of chaos and even—if he isn't careful—death.
RAYMOND E. FEIST
&
STEVE STIRLING
Jimmy the Hand
Copyright (#ulink_4f302c05-09b2-5383-98e6-97d92ab15cef)
Voyager An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpervoyagerbooks.com (http://www.harpervoyagerbooks.com)
Published by Voyager 2003
First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2003
Copyright ©Raymond E. Feist & Steve Stirling 2003
The Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN 9780007370238
Version: 2014-07-31
To my readers:
Without your enthusiasm I’d be selling cars for a living.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Raymond E. Feist
To Jan … and to Ray, Will, and Joel: the only guys who could have brought this off.
S.M. Stirling
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1fc73fcf-eae0-51e2-930b-d6ff0240d58b)
Title Page (#ud023e2f3-0af3-576d-a15b-4c348a635307)
Copyright (#u413704ac-a91a-55c2-94d9-4b6a6916410b)
Dedication (#ucdceb9f4-19ab-5ddb-baf9-ecba291aa20d)
Map (#u08473723-1895-50c6-866f-89abcac5cca4)
Chapter One: Escape (#u78932593-6f51-504f-906f-7e323b4bb18f)
Chapter Two: Crackdown (#u9e459f10-797d-5e47-8d5c-687a228c9a47)
Chapter Three: Aftermath (#ua0a15a0f-620c-5140-86d3-0c6eb5be38f6)
Chapter Four: Plotting (#u89521a93-d8a8-5cd9-a44f-54086605f74b)
Chapter Five: Rescue (#u3f66fe55-c5aa-5b81-8dcc-5ef18af6ec76)
Chapter Six: Journey (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven: Tragedy (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight: Family (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine: Encounter (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten: The Baron (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven: Discovery (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve: Escape (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen: Hiding (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen: Abduction (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: Discovery (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Developments (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Plan (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Magic (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: Krondor (#litres_trial_promo)
Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By The Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Map (#ulink_a9ff827d-86f5-5d6c-a062-71441f2ebe5d)
• Chapter One • Escape (#ulink_a6c29a5a-09f2-5fda-8eb8-6c5e442d4eae)
Men cursed as they grappled.
Jimmy the Hand slipped eellike between knots of fighting men on the darkened quayside. Steel glittered in torch- and lantern-light, shining in ruddy-red arcs as horsemen slashed at the elusive Mockers who strove to hold them back. Only seconds more were needed for Prince Arutha and Princess Anita to make their escape, and the fight had reached the frenzied violence of desperation. Screams of rage and pain split the night, accompanied by the iron hammering of shod hooves throwing up sparks as they smashed down on stone, to the counterpoint of the clangour of steel on steel.
Bravos and street-toughs struggled against trained soldiers, but the soldiers’ horses slipped and slithered on the slick boards and stones of the docks and the flickering light was even more uncertain than the footing. Knives stabbed upward and horses shied as hands gripped booted feet and heaved Bas-Tyran menat-arms out of the saddle. The harsh iron-and-salt smell of blood was strong even against the garbage stink of the harbour, and a horse screamed piteously as it collapsed, hamstrung. The rider’s leg was caught in the stirrup, crushed beneath his mount, and he screamed as the horse thrashed, then fell silent as ragged figures swarmed over him.
Jimmy fell flat under the slash of a sword, rolled unscathed between the flailing hooves of a war-horse scrabbling to find better footing, tripped one of the men-at-arms who was fighting dismounted against three Mockers, then dashed down the length of the dock, his feet light on the boards.
At the end of the quay he threw himself flat on the rough splintery wood to hail the longboat below:
‘Farewell!’ he called to the Princess Anita.
She turned toward his voice, her lovely face little more than a pale blur in the pre-dawn light. But he knew that her sea-green eyes would be wide with astonishment.
I’m glad I came to say goodbye, he thought, an unfamiliar sensation squeezing at his chest below the breastbone. It’s worth a little risk to life and limb.
He grinned at her, but nervously; the fight with Jocko Radburn’s men was heating up and his back felt very exposed. It wouldn’t be long before the Mockers broke and ran; standup fights weren’t their style.
Another, taller figure stood in the longboat. ‘Here,’ Prince Arutha called. ‘Use it in good health!’
A rapier in its scabbard flew up to his hand. He snatched it out of the air and rolled over, just in time to avoid a kick from one of Radburn’s bully-boys. Jimmy rolled again as the man pursued him, heavy-booted foot raised to stamp on him like an insect. Letting the sword go he reached up and grabbed toe and heel with crossed hands, giving it a vicious twist that set the bully roaring and twisting to keep it from being broken. That put him off-balance, and a kick placed with vicious precision toppled him screaming into the water. His gear dragged him under before the echoes of his scream could die.
‘Time to go!’ Jimmy panted.
Rolling up to his feet, Jimmy yanked the rapier from its scabbard and looked about for a worthy target – preferably one blocking the best escape route. Below, he could just make out the rhythmic splashing of the oars counterpoint the chaos of the battle all around him. Farewell, he said again in his heart. Then, as a pile of baled cloth blazed up: Ooops!
Lanterns began to appear on the boats around them, and watchmen from the surrounding warehouses came running, while from all around men called out: ‘What passes?’ and ‘Who goes there?’ And a growing shout: ‘Fire! Fire!’
A man in the black and gold of Bas-Tyra snatched a lantern from one of the watchmen and marched toward the end of the dock, giving Jimmy an idea of whom to attack. The soldier grinned at the sight of the thin, ragged boy before him.
‘Brought me a new sword, have you?’ he said. ‘Looks like a good one. Too good for gutter-scum whose whiskers haven’t yet seen a razor. My thanks.’
He swung a backhand cut at Jimmy, a lazy stroke with more strength than style. No doubt he imagined that he could easily smash the rapier from the young thief’s hand and then hack him down.
The finely-made blade was alive in Jimmy’s hand; heavy, but perfectly balanced, limber as a striking snake. It flashed up almost of itself and turned the clumsy stroke away with a long scringgg of metal on metal. The guardsman grunted in astonishment as the redirected force of his own stroke spun him around, then shouted in pain as Jimmy danced nimbly aside and slashed at him.
More by luck than skill, the sharp steel caught the guardsman on the wrist, parting the tough leather of his gauntlet and cutting a shallow groove in the flesh beneath. With a gasp, the man shook his wrist and took a step back, disbelief visible on his coarse features even in the darkness.
Jimmy laughed in delighted surprise. Clearly not everyone had Arutha’s skill with the blade. The hours he’d spent training with the Prince while waiting for Trevor Hull’s smugglers to find a ship for Arutha and that old pirate, Amos Trask, to steal for their escape had paid off. Jimmy felt as if the soldier moved at half Prince Arutha’s speed. He laughed again.
That laugh galvanized the soldier into action and he struck out at the young thief with blow after powerful blow.
Like a peasant threshing grain, Jimmy thought – he had little experience of matters rural, but a deep contempt for rubes.
The blows were hard and fast, but each was a copy of the one before. Instinct led him to raise the rapier, and the cuts flowed off steel blade and intricate swept guard; he had to put his left palm on his right wrist more than once, lest sheer force knock the weapon out of his hand. But he knew he was moments away from dodging to his left, thrusting hard and taking the soldier in the stomach. Arutha had always cautioned patience in judging an opponent.
An instant later Jimmy’s back met the side of a bale; glancing to either side he realized he’d been neatly trapped in a short, dead-end passage of piled cargo. The man before him grinned and made teasing thrusts with his sword.
‘Caught like the little sewer rat you are,’ he growled.
The man raised his sword and Jimmy readied himself to execute his move, confident he would be through with the soldier in another moment. Then, suddenly, a pair of grappling bodies hurtled by, each man with a hand on the wrist of the other’s knife-hand, stamping and cursing as they whirled in a circle like a fast and deadly country dance. They tumbled into the Bas-Tyran man-at-arms, throwing him forward with a cry of surprise. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He felt a mild instant of regret that he couldn’t execute his fancy passing thrust, but he couldn’t ignore such an easily acquired target. Jimmy stabbed out, and felt the needle point of the rapier sink through muscle and jar on bone, the strange sensation flowing up through the steel and hilt to shiver in his shoulder and lower back.
The man dropped his lantern with a cry that turned into a screamed curse as the glass shattered. The splattered oil blazed high, driving the wounded soldier back. He dropped his weapon and began to beat at spots of flame on his clothes, while Jimmy climbed the pile of bales like a monkey.
‘You should know better than to corner a rat!’ he called over his shoulder as he bounded down the back of the pile and struck the ground running.
He heard someone whistle the code to withdraw and saw Mockers streaming into alleys and side-streets like wisps of fog scattering before a high wind. Jimmy raced to join them, but before he ducked into an alley he turned to look out into the bay. Trevor Hull and his smugglers were diving into the water, some swimming under the docks while others made for longboats standing by in the water. Beyond them, Jimmy could make out the form of the Sea Swift turning toward the broken blockade line, canvas fluttering free and catching the light like ghost-clouds in the dark; he raised his arm to wave. He knew it was useless; the Princess would have been hurried below to safety as soon as she’d been brought aboard. But he could no more have resisted that wave than he could have not spoken that one last word to her.
The young thief turned and ran down the alley, as light on his feet as a cat and almost as keenly aware of his surroundings. He might not be a great swordsman – yet – but fleeing through the darkened alleys of Krondor was a skill he’d mastered thoroughly long before he reached the ripe old age of thirteen.
As he dodged through the byways of the city, his thoughts turned to the time he had spent with the Princess and Prince during the last few weeks. The Princess Anita was what girls were supposed to be and in his experience never were. For a boy raised in the company of whores, barmaids and pickpockets, she was … something rare, something fine, a minstrel’s tale come to breathing life. When he was near her he wanted to be better than he was.
It’s well she’s gone, then, he thought. A lad in his position couldn’t afford such noble notions.
Besides, he thought with a wry grin, she would one day marry Prince Arutha – even though he didn’t know it yet – so Jimmy had no business having such feelings for her. Not that having no business doing things had ever stopped him.
I suppose if she has to marry, and princesses do, he’s the one I’d want her to.
Jimmy liked Arutha, but it was more than that. He respected him and … yes, trusted him. The Prince made him see why men would follow a leader, follow him to war on his bare word, something he’d never thought to understand. Jimmy’s experience had been solely with men who commanded through fear or because they could deliver an advantage to those who followed. And Jimmy served at the pleasure of the Upright Man, who did both those things.
Jimmy ran his hand along the scabbard of Arutha’s rapier, his now, and smiled. Then he grew suddenly solemn. Being with them had brought something special into his life, and now it was over. But then, how many people in the Kingdom got this close to princes and princesses? And of those, how many were thieves?
Jimmy grinned. He’d done better than well in his acquaintance with royalty: two hundred in gold, a fine sword, including lessons on how to use it, and a girl to dream about. And if he missed the Princess Anita, well, at least he’d got to know her.
He headed for Mother’s with a jaunty step, ready for a light meal and a long sleep.
Best to sleep until Radburn cools off, he thought. Though that might mean he’d have to sleep until he was an old man.
Jimmy neared the large hall called Mother’s, or Mocker’s Rest, carved out among the tunnels of the sewers. To a citizen of the upper city it would have looked gloomy enough: the drip of water and the glisten of nitre on ancient stone. But it would have been little more than another junction of tunnels in the city’s sewer system, a bit larger than usual, but nothing remarkable. To the average citizen of the upper city, the eyes watching Jimmy approach the entrance to Mother’s would have gone unseen, and the daggers clutched in ready hands would have been undetected, unless at the last, fatal instant, they were driven home to protect the secret of Mocker’s Rest.
To Jimmy it was home and safety and a chance to rest. He pushed on a stone, and a loud click preceded the appearance of a small opening, as a door fashioned of canvas and wood, cleverly painted to look like rock, swung wide. He was short enough that he could walk hunched over while a taller man would have to crawl, and he quickly traversed the short passage to enter the hidden basement. A Basher stood watch and as Jimmy appeared, nodded. Jimmy was thus spared a lethal welcome. Any unknown head coming through that passage had roughly a second to intone the password, ‘There’s a party tonight at Mother’s’ before finding his brains splattered all over the stone floor.
The room was huge, carved out of three basements, all with stairs leading up to three buildings owned by the Upright Man. A whorehouse, an inn and a merchant of cheap trade-goods provided a variety of escape routes, and Jimmy could find all of them blindfolded, as could every other Mocker. The light was kept dim at all hours of the day or night, so that a quick exit into the sewers wouldn’t leave a Mocker without sight.
Jimmy nodded greetings to a few of the beggars and urchins who were awake; most slept soundly, for there were still many hours until dawn. They would all be in the market minutes after sunrise on a normal day. But today would be anything but normal. With the Prince and Princess safely away, reprisals would be the first order of business. The City Constables and the Royal Household Guard had been easy enough to cope with over the years, but this secret police installed by Guy du Bas-Tyra since he took the office of Viceroy was another story. More than one Mocker had been turned snitch to them and the mood of the room reflected it. While there was a quiet sense of triumph at having aided Princess Anita’s escape, the benefit was long-term; the Upright Man thought about things that way, Jimmy understood. Some day Princess Anita would return to Krondor – or at least Jimmy hoped so – and those who supported her and her father, Prince Erland, now had a debt to the Upright Man that he would contrive to collect in the most beneficial fashion.
But that was all for the future, for the Upright Man; for the common thief, pickpocket, or whore, there was no benefit this day. Instead, the city above would be crawling with angry spies and informants, looking to identify those who had embarrassed Jocko Radburn, head of the secret police. And he was not a man to embarrass without repercussions, Jimmy understood.
The escape of the Princess had been a secret undertaking, with only a few in the Mockers and among Trevor Hull’s smugglers knowing who was being spirited out of the city. But once the fight erupted, more than one Mocker saw the Princess’s face and her hallmark red hair and by sunrise the rumours of her escape would be making the rounds of the markets, inns and shops.
Most would feign ignorance of the deed, but everyone would know the reason for the sudden crackdown by Bas-Tyra’s soldiers and secret police.
Jimmy moved to the far wall and picked up some rags, a whetstone and a small vial of oil from the storage box near the weapons lockers. Such thoughts made his head swim. He was a boy of unknown age – perhaps fourteen, perhaps sixteen, no one knew – and such considerations were intriguing to him, yet he knew he didn’t fully understand all of it. Politics and intrigue were attractive, but in an alien way.
He made his way to a secluded corner to clean his rapier. His rapier, and a gift at that! There had been few of those in his life, making the fine weapon all the more precious. It would take the finest craftsman half a year to fashion such a thing of deadly beauty; it was as different from the crude, heavy weapons of ordinary soldiers as a war-horse was from a mule.
He pulled the blade from the scabbard again and realized to his dismay that he’d put it away bloody. He quirked his mouth wryly. Well, he’d never had such a thing before: he couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of its care immediately. On closer inspection he realized that the scabbard was held together with ivory and brass pins, and could be taken apart for cleaning and oiling.
His pleasure in his gift went up a notch, if that was possible. This was a prize!
‘Loot like that’s to be turned in for sale, so’s we can make proper shares,’ Laughing Jack said. He reached for the sword and Jimmy slid it and himself away from Jack’s hand with an eellike motion.
‘It’s not loot,’ he said. ‘It’s a gift. From Prince Arutha himself.’
‘Oooh, you’re getting gifts from princes these days are ye?’ Jack had never actually been known to smile; his nickname had been bestowed on him by Jimmy as a joke.
But he sneers better than anyone else I’ve ever met, Jimmy thought.
The Nightwarden reached for the blade again, and again the young thief slid away. As senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster he had a great deal of authority; most of the time, when appealed to, the Nightmaster would come down on Jack’s side of an argument. But Jimmy knew he was in the right, and was sure that this time the Nightmaster would side with him.
Jimmy stood defiantly. More than one member of the Mockers had promised Jimmy someday Jack would kill him over the joke of a nickname he had given the glowering man. Now Jack appeared on the verge of making that prediction come true.
Jimmy stood a full two heads shorter than the Nightwarden. He was a slight boy, nimble and with a speed of hand and foot few in the Mockers could equal, and none could surpass. His own nickname was well-earned, for no Mocker was better able to lift a purse in a crowded market without being detected. He was a handsome boy, with curly brown hair cut tight against his head. His shoulders were just promising to broaden to a man’s. His smile was infectious, and he had the knack of fun, but right now there was a hint of menace in his eyes as he stood with his hand on the pommel of the sword, ready to dispute Jack with blood if needed. His age was uncertain, perhaps thirteen years of age, perhaps fifteen, but he had already seen more danger and death in his life than most men twice his age. Softly he said, ‘It’s mine, Jack.’
‘His. Saw,’ Barmy Blake said in a voice like rock talking. The huge basher said no more, continuing on his way into the far recesses of the hall as though he’d never spoken at all.
Laughing Jack gave the basher’s retreating back an uncertain look. Blake wasn’t named Barmy for nothing; he was as unpredictable as a wild animal and capable of terrifying berserker rages. If Jack decided to make an issue of Jimmy’s right to the sword after the basher had spoken up for him the Nightwarden might well find himself in a world of pain, senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster or no. Jack turned his sneer once again on Jimmy.
‘Keep it then, but it’s to be locked up.’ He jerked his head toward the weapons lockers.
‘Soon as it’s cleaned,’ Jimmy agreed. The rules allowed for that and they both knew it.
The Nightwarden turned away and stalked off. Jimmy turned his eyes to Blake who sat by himself at a table, a tankard in his beefy paw, gazing at nothing. He didn’t bother to go and thank him; you didn’t do that with Barmy. But he made a mental note of a favour owing, more honourable and more useful by far than any spoken thanks.
‘Well, there’s a pretty thing.’
Jimmy looked up and smiled at Hotfingers Flora, so named because of her early success in stealing pies that their owners mistakenly thought were too hot to handle. Unfortunately for Flora the insensitivity that allowed her to do so made her a very poor pickpocket despite Jimmy’s best efforts. At sixteen, and pretty, she was turning to a different profession.
She sat beside him and twined her arms around his neck, slipping her legs onto his lap, and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Hello, Jimmy,’ she purred, fluttering her eyelashes at him, one chubby hand rubbing his chest.
He laughed. ‘As if I’d keep anything valuable there,’ he said.
Flora pouted, then smiled gamely. Pulling her legs off his lap she pointed at the sword. ‘What are you going to do with that, eh?’
Jimmy gave it a swipe with the oiled cloth and held it up to glint in the torchlight. ‘I’m going to keep it,’ he said positively.
She looked at him speculatively, then glanced around the large hall. ‘There was quite a fight out there tonight,’ she said. ‘Word’s already spread the Princess and some other nobles escaped to the west.’ She made a face and then added, ‘Radburn and his bastards will be fit to be tied if that’s the truth of it. When the Duke gets back …’ She left the thought unfinished, but her expression showed a gleeful anticipation of what the Duke might do to the head of his secret police. ‘The market’ll be a quiet place with so many Mockers laying up licking their wounds.’ Flora gave him a wicked look. ‘Got any wounds you want licked, lovey?’
He laughed and gave her a friendly nudge. Inside he felt the slight tickle of excitement a rising flirtation often gave him, and flirtations with Flora often ended in bed. Flora hadn’t been Jimmy’s first, but not long after. He’d been around whores his entire life – his mother had been one – but Flora came from a better class than most; her father had been a baker before he died, so she had been raised a proper girl until she was ten. She could talk like a lady when she needed, which sometimes got her a better class of client. And she was prettier than most, with large expressive blue eyes and her light brown hair tending to curl around her face. She had a delicate chin and a nose that was ‘just so’. She also had a lovely smile. It was a shame she had no skill with her fingers, thought Jimmy, more than once; she’s just not suited to earn her living on the street.
Flora had said that she felt safe with him, and he assumed, without the slightest resentment, that it was because she was a foot taller than he was. As for himself, well, he liked Flora and he greatly enjoyed their private times together. He smiled at her blatant invitation and moved a bit closer. But then she gasped and her hand flew to her lips. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I forgot, I, um, have to meet someone in an hour.’ She snuggled against him. ‘But I can be all yours until then.’
Jimmy thought it over; first they’d have to find somewhere private, which given the lack of time they had meant somewhere uncomfortable and smelly, and Flora would have to leave early to keep her appointment … so that was far less than an hour, perhaps only a few minutes. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time he and one of the girls had ripped off a quick bump in a dark corner while the others slept nearby. He’d been raised in a place where couples grabbed pleasure when and where they could all his life – but while Flora was one of his favourites, he didn’t feel the usual hot rush, just a little tingle.
He was really tired. Besides, the Princess was travelling further and further away with every moment, and his heart sank. Suddenly a few minutes in Flora’s arms was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t like feeling this sadness …
Not that I’m certain just how I do feel. But it wouldn’t be fair to inflict this strange mood on his friend.
‘Sad to say I can’t spare the time now, more’s the pity,’ he said with a grin as he put the pieces of the scabbard back together. ‘Never thought I’d live to say that.’ But now that he had said it he felt downright noble.
Flora giggled. ‘Not to worry,’ she whispered, ‘there’ll be other occasions.’
He gave her a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Oh, Flora, my flower, you are too good to me. Besides, I would probably disappoint you. All I have strength for is to look for a place to sleep tonight. I feel like I’ve been up and about since the day I was born.’
‘You may have been about, but I haven’t seen you,’ Flora grumbled. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I was thinking the same thing about you,’ Jimmy lied easily. ‘I thought you’d been hired into someone’s pleasure house.’ If he wasn’t going to take advantage of Flora’s invitation he wouldn’t suffer if she went off in a huff.
‘No,’ she said, looking away haughtily. ‘I’m doing very well on my own.’
He looked at her; the new dress was pretty, but of cheap cloth, coarsely woven and coloured with dyes that would run and turn muddy soon: nobody had wasted good alum on fixing them. She wore a pair of dainty slippers on her feet, and a spangled scarf decorated her brown hair, more new things than she’d ever owned in her life. But she looked tired and not too clean.
The shine would be off her in six months, he knew, and in a year she’d look thirty. Life in the pleasure houses of the city was no holiday, but it was worlds better than the street. At least the girls had some hope of a future.
He couldn’t forget what had happened to his mother. Murdered by a drunk just because she was on her own and so there was no one to stop him. He understood better than most that, for women, independence sometimes came at far too high a price.
‘No you’re not doing well,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re risking life and limb every time you go with someone. Look, Flora, if this is what you really want to do I’m the last person to try and stand in your way. But listen to a little friendly advice. You’re pretty enough that any house in this city would take you, and the better houses will take care of you. You speak well enough, almost like a lady, you could get hired at The White Wing, I’m thinking.’
Flora tossed her head with a ‘tsk!’, but he could tell she was listening.
‘The pleasure houses will watch your customers for you, so you don’t get sloppy drunks or bastards who’ll beat you up for fun and not pay you. Better by far than the street.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Better by far, of course, to do something else.’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘Like what? You know I’m a lousy thief. And I’m not about to pass for a beggar, now am I?’
He nudged her shoulder again and smiled. ‘C’mon, you’re a bright girl. I can get you some forged references. How do you think Carsten’s sister got work at the palace?’
Flora looked thoughtful, then she gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Does she like it?’
‘Seems to,’ Jimmy lied, having no idea himself. ‘What wouldn’t she like? She sleeps warm and in a bed of her own, with nobody else in it unless she wants him there, gets a new dress every year, good food, and paid in the bargain. Mind, she works hard, and the pay’s no royal bequest, but all in all she seems to think it’s worth it.’
His tongue itched to tell her, and she helped to rescue the Princess Anita, but he restrained himself. That would only lead to, And so did I, which wasn’t something he wanted spread around. The last thing he needed was to be on Jocko Radburn’s wanted list in a personal capacity.
Flora’s mouth opened to speak when Laughing Jack stepped up onto a bench and thence to a table and called out,
‘Listen up!’ When the crowd had quieted and every face turned to him the Nightwarden continued. ‘Word’s down from the Upright Man, hisself! All Mockers are to lie low.’ He raised his hands for silence as this announcement brought forth a torrent of muttered protest. ‘That means out of sight, here, or if you got another flop, stay inside. And you beggars and younger thieves especially. Radburn seems to like to target your kind. No boosting, at all.’ He paused and glared around the room: ‘Not without special writ from the Day- or Nightmaster. We’ll be getting some food in later, so you won’t starve, until this business is over. Any questions,’ again he passed a glare over the room, ‘keep ’em to yourselves.’ Laughing Jack stepped down and walked off to a rising chorus of speculation.
‘What about the whores?’ Flora asked, frowning.
‘For Banath’s sake, Flora,’ Jimmy said, invoking the god of thieves, ‘free food and a safe place to sleep! We’re finally getting to see something for all those shares we pay out. Why work when we can laze about like –’ he’d been about to say ‘royalty’, but changed it to, ‘– Bas-Tyra’s bully-boys. Besides, it will give you a chance to think about your future.’
With a shy smile, she nodded, pleased at the attention. ‘Oh, for …’
The Nightwarden took to the table again and said in exasperation: ‘If you’ve got another flop, leave now! Those that don’t can stay here.’ He stepped down again and this time left the hall.
‘Well,’ Jimmy said, rising, ‘I’m off to bed.’
He glanced at the rapier in his hand and decided after all to leave it in the weapons locker. A boy his age and station carrying a first-class sword down the street in what would soon be broad daylight was bound to receive unwelcome attention. The purchase price would be ten years’ wages for a tailor or potmaker, much less a common labourer or child of the streets. He could scarcely assure the watch that, no, it wasn’t stolen, a visiting prince had given it to him …
‘What about you, Hotfingers?’ he said. ‘Do you need an escort?’
‘Go on!’ she said laughing. ‘An escort!’ She swatted him on the rump. ‘Nah, I’m staying here to take advantage of the Upright Man’s generosity.’
Jimmy looked around nervously; that was a somewhat overbold statement, but no one had noticed.
‘Good night then,’ he said, and gave her a little salute with the hilt of the sword.
Flora broke into giggles at the sight. ‘Escort!’ he heard her say as he walked off.
• Chapter Two • Crackdown (#ulink_6676637c-9638-597b-b46f-fad74c893844)
Jimmy watched carefully.
Despite the early hour, the streets were rapidly filling with people. The scrawny street-sweepers with their brooms and pans were just clearing off; for a moment Jimmy thought it was a job should be paid for by the Crown. A bit of a tax on each business and all the streets would be fit for travellers rather than just some of the better boulevards in the merchants’ and wealthy quarters where those who resided paid out of their own pockets. If I was Duke of Krondor, he thought idly, that’s how I’d do it.
The sweepers were being replaced by cooks and their assistants returning from the farmers’ markets with fresh produce, fruit and poultry. Butchers’ apprentices hurried along carrying quarters of beef or sides of pork. Those tradespeople who didn’t live over their businesses were off to open their shops in the next hour, and those whose work-day started a bit later were looking for their bite to eat at the start of the day.
Wood smoke curled from chimneys and he could smell porridge cooking, sometimes a fish or sausage frying – more odours to add their bit to the ghosts of ancient cabbage that haunted the city’s poorer quarters. Wooden shoes clattered on the cobbles, bare feet slapped, hooves racketed.
The black and gold of Bas-Tyra wasn’t as visible as it had been on other mornings lately, and Jimmy smirked to himself at the thought that they were still nursing their bruises. But the few members of the old Constable’s company seemed on edge, as if trouble were coming and they didn’t know which side of it they’d land. He passed a gate where four soldiers still wearing the Prince’s tabards were huddled, talking with heads down rather than watching who passed through. Something was up and word was spreading. Jimmy knew every man on the docks the night before had been Bas-Tyra regulars or secret police.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of wandering over to the temporary barracks used by Bas-Tyra’s soldiers and taking a look at the damage, but that notion was dispelled by a rare instant of common sense. Given how touchy the guards were no doubt feeling today, any number of poor boys were liable to be spending a few days in the city dungeon. But in his case it was liable to be more than a few days and a lot more painful.
Suddenly a sergeant of the Bas-Tyra guard appeared and the Prince’s four sentries snapped lively and took their posts on either side of the gate. Jimmy watched from the sheltered vantage point of a deep doorway opposite the gate. The sergeant’s mood was dark and dangerous and when he left, the four soldiers of the Prince were studying every face that passed, looking for something. As he was about to slip away, Jimmy saw them halt one ragged fellow and start questioning him. Jimmy knew the fellow: he was not a true Mocker, but one of the threadbare poor who flitted around the edges of crime from time to time. He was a labourer named Wilkins, and Jimmy had seen him unloading smugglers’ cargo for Trevor Hull twice in the last year. One guard put the strong arm on him and marched him away.
Jimmy sank back into the doorway. If they were taking in know-nothings like Wilkins, then he was certain to be nabbed if he showed his face. Although, if he could get into the dungeons he might be able to do something for Princess Anita’s father.
If I could rescue Prince Erland, Anita would never forget me.
And it might be very profitable. He’d gained two hundred in gold for helping Prince Arutha and he’d only needed to guide him to safety. How much more could he make if it took actual effort?
The young thief stared into space for a moment, his fingers reaching out as if of their own volition to snatch up a bun from a passing vendor’s tray as she edged close to the doorway to avoid a passing horse-drawn wagon. His hand moved in a swift unhurried arc that put the pastry beneath the tail of his jacket without any flash to attract the eye as he faded back into the shelter of the doorway. The stout woman continued on, ignorant of the theft, still calling her wares. Jimmy bit into the warm bun, considering possibilities and savouring the cinnamon and honey.
He’d need to speak to Mockers who’d been in the dungeon. That would lead him to the beggars, then. Thieves never made it out of the dungeons alive and bashers, who might be let go if they were thought to be innocent drunks who’d just got out of control, were people he tried to avoid. Especially when planning something the Upright Man might not endorse.
Well, definitely wouldn’t endorse, he admitted to himself. Definitely would reject with … oh … cold fury would be a good description.
Laughing Jack’s admonition to stay out of sight and out of action wafted through his mind to be dismissed. Being cautious never won the prize, at least not in his experience, and for thirteen or so he’d had a great deal of experience.
His jaws cracked in a massive yawn, so Jimmy decided to get some sleep before he did any more planning. He waited until the three remaining guards had their attention distracted away from him, then darted out of the shadow of the doorway. He turned a corner and headed off to one of his places, one he’d actually paid for. It was nothing more than a cupboard with a tiny window and just enough space for a pallet and a rickety table with a cheap candle stand. The old couple who owned the house believed that he was a caravan master’s apprentice, which explained his frequent and sometimes lengthy absences. They charged only a few silvers a month and rarely climbed as high as his tiny room, providing him with both security and privacy. Even so, he only left a few rags of clothing there. Or, at least, that was all he left in his room so far. Up in the garret he’d found a few hiding places but had yet to use one. Now, with his gold heavy on his hip Jimmy resolved to try one out. He’d given some thought to a proper safe house, and decided for the time being poverty was his best cover; none of his fellow Mockers or any of the rare independent thieves who wandered into Krondor would suspect gold would be hidden in a hovel such as this.
He woke the old man up when he knocked and was greeted with a resentful grunt – since selling their businesses years before, the old couple slept in, often as late as seven or eight of the clock, and didn’t relish having to admit Jimmy at dawn.
The old fellow locked the door behind the boy and headed back to his room, leaving Jimmy alone in the dim and dusty front hall. Jimmy started up the stairs, noting that the place smelled worse than it had the last time he was here. This was his only semi-decent roost. If it kept deteriorating like this he’d have to move.
‘Listen to me,’ he mumbled wearily, ‘I’m starting to sound respectable myself.’
Baron Jose del Garza, acting governor of Krondor in the Duke’s absence and now, temporarily, the head of the Duke du Bas-Tyra’s secret police, sat behind the desk of the commander of the palace guard, seething and staring at the narrow, pointed window in the stonework across from him. The room smelled of ink, musty parchment, cheap wine, tallow candles and old sweat.
Had it been his pleasure, he’d have been just about anywhere else in the Kingdom than in Krondor this morning. He’d have been far happier leading the charge against the Keshian raiders troubling the Southern Marches alongside the Duke of Bas-Tyra, rather than having to oversee the business before him today.
Del Garza was a man of modest ambitions. He served at the Duke’s pleasure, and it had been Duke Guy’s wish that he administer the city in his absence, seeing that bills were paid, taxes collected, crimes were punished, and overseeing the usual details of running the principality while the Prince languished in his private quarters. It would be easy to think of the Prince’s confinement as being under arrest, but no guards were stationed outside his quarters; the man’s poor health prevented any chance of his escaping the city, and whatever else he was, the Prince was obedient to his nephew, the King. When Guy had arrived in the city with the Writ of Viceroy signed by the King, Prince Erland had graciously stepped aside.
Now del Garza sat silently cursing the day he had left his native Rodez to seek service in Bas-Tyra. Duke Guy was a hard man, but a fair one, but since coming to Krondor, del Garza had been forced to suffer the companionship of Jocko Radburn. That murderous maniac had the face of a simple peasant, but the heart of a rabid wolf. And his inability to do something as simple as keep a sixteen-year-old girl under lock and key was now threatening to turn del Garza’s life upside down.
Radburn had left del Garza in command of the secret police, and had commandeered one of the Duke’s ships, the Royal Griffin, and set off in hot pursuit less than an hour after the girl and her companions had fled the city. Now del Garza was faced with cleaning up this mess and, more importantly, positioning himself so that if Radburn failed to recover the escaped Princess, as little blame attached itself to him as possible.
A knock came and he answered, ‘Yes?’
A guard opened the door and looked through. ‘He’s coming, sir.’
Del Garza nodded, keeping his face calm as the door closed again. He had appropriated this office for a very specific interview, following which he would address his subordinates. But first, very much first, he would speak to the captain of the Paragon, a blockade ship that had just happened to drift off her position at a critical moment this morning.
He heard a man’s voice approaching, clearly raised in anger. There were no answering voices as the one who shouted came closer. A knock sounded on the closed iron-strapped wooden door and del Garza contemplated it for a short interval. There had been a momentary silence after the knock, but it was soon broken again by the protesting, expostulating voice.
‘Come,’ the acting governor said quietly.
The door opened instantly and del Garza met the eye of his subordinate as he entered the office. He saw both amusement and exasperation there and not a little disgust. For an instant del Garza wondered if the thinly-veiled contempt was directed at him, but at the last, the man glanced to the side, and del Garza realized the scorn was directed at the man who followed close behind.
Though not a small man, the secret police operative was thrust aside by a very large, very self-important one wearing the saltstained coat of a sea captain.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ the captain demanded. ‘I must protest this treatment! I am a gentleman, sir, and I was brought here under protest! I was given a missive summoning me to a meeting with the acting governor, but no sooner did we make dock than this –’ he sneered at the fellow he had shoved, ‘– brigand tells me that I am under arrest and seized my sword. My sword, sir! What possible excuse could there be for such an action?’
He stopped and stared at the man behind the desk. ‘And who, if I may ask, are you, sir?’
Del Garza stared at him while the other two guards took up position behind the Captain. Captain Alan Leighton was indeed a gentleman, the third son of a very minor nobleman whose family were willing to pay to get him out of the ancestral home; in other words, someone of less real use than the average dockwalloper or ditch-digger. And he would have been dismissed from either position for incompetence within a week. His commission and his ship had been bought for him, not earned, while better men had to wait. The Baron knew his type and despised him. He was a man who was just important enough to be a nuisance, and not important enough to have any real value.
‘I am the Governor,’ he said, his voice as flat and cold as a window in midwinter.
The captain shifted his feet and looked at him uncertainly. Del Garza was an ordinary enough looking man; rat-faced, and his dress was of simple if expensive weave.
‘Indeed?’ the Captain said dubiously.
‘Indeed,’ del Garza confirmed quietly. ‘Be seated, Captain Leighton.’ His nod indicated a stool in front of the desk.
The Captain looked at it, then at the acting governor in disbelief. ‘On that?’ he sneered. ‘The thing will collapse.’ Leighton turned to one of the guards. ‘You there, bring me a proper chair.’
Del Garza leaned forward. ‘Sit,’ he clipped out. ‘Or be seated.’
The two guards moved a step closer to the blustering seaman, ready to reach out and slam him down. For the first time Leighton actually looked at their faces; he blinked, and slowly sat down, his gaze moving from each of the men in the room to the next. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked. His voice tried to carry the bluster, but there was a quaver in it now.
In answer, del Garza rubbed one hand over the stubble on his jaw and gave him the glance that a tired man would give a buzzing fly. Every irritation and annoyance from the day he had set foot in Krondor until this morning rose up and seemed to resolve itself in the person of this pitiful excuse for a sea captain. Del Garza decided at that instant that Leighton needed to pay for them all. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he asked through clenched teeth. ‘Can’t you even begin to guess?’
Leighton gazed at him like a mouse fascinated by a snake. ‘No,’ he said at last. He leaned back, remembered just in time that he was on a stool and frowned. Leaning forward, the Captain went on the attack. ‘I say, is this some form of joke? If so it is in very poor taste and I assure you I shall complain of it to your superior.’
‘Do I look as if I’m joking?’ del Garza asked. ‘Am I smiling? Am I, or my men, laughing? Does this seem to be an atmosphere of mirth and good-fellowship to you?’
Nervous perspiration dewed the Captain’s broad brow, his eyes shifted left and right. ‘No,’ he said and shook his head. ‘I suppose not.’ He straightened. ‘But I still do not know why I am here.’
‘You have been arrested for treason.’
Leighton shot to his feet, ignoring the guards who moved yet another step closer. ‘How dare you, sir? Do you know who I am?’
‘You are the noxious toad who took a bribe to break the blockade,’ del Garza said. ‘During wartime such an act can be nothing less than treason.’
‘I did no such thing!’ the captain insisted.
The Baron smiled. ‘Do you know how many fools have tried to lie to the Duke’s agents?’ he asked. He waved his hand casually at the two burly guards and at several other men whom he knew waited outside. ‘Usually their next remark is something on the order of: Stop! Gods, please stop!’
‘I admit that my ship floated off-station,’ Leighton blustered. ‘Such things happen occasionally, there’s nothing deliberate in it. An anchor bolt rusted through and the tide caught our bow. It was merely misfortune that it happened at that particular moment. When I heard the commotion I rose from my bed, came topside and corrected the situation at once. At the very worst it was dereliction of duty, though even that would be coming it a bit high under the circumstances.’
Del Garza raised his brows and leant back in the commander’s chair with his hands clasped over his lean stomach. ‘Indeed?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Leighton said, allowing a touch of his former haughtiness to creep into his tone. ‘I tell you these things happen, ’tis no one’s fault, my good man. No one could have predicted that a ship would choose that particular moment to …’
‘We know the Upright Man bribed you.’ The acting governor waited for the explosion, but none came; the Captain merely stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a gaffed fish. Not only guilty then, but the man had no spine. ‘What was it, the gold? Or some misplaced sense of loyalty to Prince Erland’s family?’
‘We have known them a long time …’ Leighton began.
Del Garza cut him off. ‘You may as well admit it, you know. We have proof.’
The Captain shook his head silently.
‘Oh, but we do,’ del Garza insisted. ‘We have our own sources inside the Mockers, you know.’
They didn’t, of course, have either – proof, or sources. But it was obvious to the secret policeman that the Mockers had an interest in freeing the Princess Anita. It was certainly Mockers he and his men had been fighting this morning. Besides, every instinct he had told him that it was beyond unlikely that a ship would just ‘happen’ to drift off-station at precisely the wrong moment.
The lie came easily though, because if del Garza was going to have to answer for Anita’s escape – and he was – then others would answer first and far more painfully.
Leighton licked his lips. ‘You could hardly call it treason,’ he said.
Del Garza leaned forward blinking rapidly, his brows raised incredulously. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Taking a bribe deliberately to disobey orders during wartime could never be anything else.’
‘We are hardly at war with the Mockers,’ the Captain argued.
‘We are always at war with the Mockers,’ del Garza corrected, his voice flat. ‘That it has never been formally declared makes it no less a war. For if we were not at war with them, I assure you these thieves and murderers-for-hire are and have always been at war with the decent citizens of Krondor.’
‘They are hardly worthy …’ Leighton began.
‘Opponents?’ Del Garza sneered. ‘If their money is good enough for you then why shouldn’t they be considered … worthy?’
The Captain pressed his lips together and took a deep breath, then he straightened. ‘I should like to see this “proof” you claim to have.’
Del Garza chuckled, an impulse he couldn’t control. ‘Are you now going to claim innocence, after all but admitting your guilt?’
‘I have not admitted any guilt,’ the Captain said. ‘Come, come, you shall have to produce the proof at my trial.’
With a sad shake of his head the Baron asked: ‘Would you really put your family through the shame of a trial when the conclusion is inevitable? Must we prove to them and all the world your villainy?’
The colour drained from Leighton’s face. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he demanded, clearly shaken.
‘You need do nothing radical,’ del Garza said, suddenly all generosity. ‘Naturally you cannot keep your commission.’ He drew a document from a small pile and pushed it toward the captain along with a quill pen already resting in an ink stand. ‘Herein you resign your commission; just sign at the bottom of the page, and the next page as well and then we’ll send you home.’ He lifted the pen from the inkwell and proffered it to Leighton with a slight smile. ‘Your older brother wouldn’t be the first nobleman who had to find a second career for a younger brother; much less a problem than shaming the family name.’
‘That is all?’ the Captain asked, taking the pen hesitantly.
Del Garza nodded. ‘We will take care of everything else. All the arrangements,’ he clarified. He pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘If you would,’ he invited.
As one hypnotized, Leighton signed. Del Garza lifted the corner of the page to expose the one beneath.
‘Sign here as well, if you would be so kind.’
With a shaky hand the Captain signed the bottom page as well and the acting governor drew them back, sanded the signatures and shook them dry.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘But for one minor detail that concludes our business.’
Leighton mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘What is that?’ he asked.
At del Garza’s nod the three guards stepped forward; two caught hold of the captain’s arms while the third whipped a garrotte around his neck. The stool went over with a crash, and Leighton’s legs became caught up in it so that he couldn’t get his feet under him. Del Garza cocked his head, watching the consciousness of imminent death and agony flood into the man’s eyes. Soon his heels beat a brief tattoo on the floor and after a very few moments he was dead.
The Baron neatly folded and sealed the two sheets of paper. ‘Poor fellow,’ del Garza said to the guards. ‘Carry him to his quarters and arrange things there. Make sure the bracket he hangs himself from is stout; he was a fleshy sort.’ He handed the papers to the chief guard. ‘Don’t forget to leave his resignation and most important, his confession, where they’ll be easily found.’
The guard smiled as he took the papers. ‘That was neatly done, sir,’ he said. ‘Makes me feel like we’re getting a bit of our own back.’
Del Garza looked at him for long enough that the man knew the Baron wasn’t amenable to flattery, then dismissed him.
Alone, del Garza considered his choices. Leighton had to die; there was no other option. Had he remained alive, word of the Duke’s vulnerability would eventually spread. Loyalty to the Prince or avarice for Mockers’ gold, the reason for Leighton’s treason didn’t matter. What mattered was who would be looked at when Duke Guy returned from dealing with the Keshians in the Vale of Dreams.
Del Garza could put a fair amount of responsibility on Radburn’s shoulders, with justification. His iron grip on the city had bred discontent, and the way in which he ran roughshod over the Prince’s own guards and the city’s constables would be certain to drive some firmly into the Prince’s camp.
The handwriting was on the wall, as they say; Erland was dying, no matter what the healing priests and chirurgeons did to hold death at bay. With no son to inherit, Anita would be a prize for any ambitious man. And with the King having no heirs, her husband was but one step from the throne in Rillanon. So, Guy would marry Anita, and some day, sooner rather than later, del Garza judged, Guy du Bas-Tyra would become King Guy the First.
Del Garza tapped his chin with a forefinger as he wondered where he might come out in all this. He was not by nature an ambitious man, but circumstances seemed to dictate that his choice was to rise or fall; there was no standing still. Hence, he would choose to rise. Who knew? An earldom in the east, perhaps near Rodez?
But to rise, he had to avoid falling, and to do that, he had to survive Guy’s wrath when he returned and found the girl missing. He hoped Radburn would return soon with the girl in tow, or not return at all. If Jocko had the good grace to get himself killed in the attempt, everything would be his fault by the time del Garza got finished explaining things to the Duke. And that meant having lots of other guilty parties to parade before him.
‘Cray!’ he shouted, summoning the captain of the guard’s secretary. When the man appeared he said, ‘I want every commander of every unit involved with this morning’s mission, from the sergeants up, in this office in one hour.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cray said and sped off.
Del Garza sat back in the commander’s chair, enjoying the way Cray had leapt to obey, enjoying the privilege of taking over the commander’s office, enjoying the memory of the look on Leighton’s face when he had realized del Garza held the power in Krondor for the moment.
He turned his mind away from feeling any pleasure at the prospect of authority. How could he enjoy anything when his lord had been humiliated this morning? How could that wicked girl abandon her father so? And why? So that she would not have to partake of the honour of wedding the Duke du Bas-Tyra; one of the greatest, one of the noblest men in the Kingdom! How dare the little baggage treat his lord so?
Poor Prince Erland, to have such an uncaring child. Not that he was much better, for he, too, had defied his lord’s will. Well, he’d just have to suffer the fate to which his own daughter had condemned him. Del Garza considered: perhaps if the Prince was relocated to one of his draughtier dungeons, and word was leaked that he would remain there until his daughter returned …? He considered that a move to be made if Radburn didn’t return with the girl soon. If the girl had been coerced into leaving the city, it might convince her to return of her own volition, and if the Prince didn’t survive the ordeal, that was another problem that could be laid at Jocko’s feet when the Duke again graced the city.
Del Garza sighed. So much to be done, and he so much preferred routine to the unexpected. But, at least he knew the task at hand.
These … thieves, these nothings must be brought to heel, whipped into place like the dogs they were. That they should dare to steal Guy du Bas-Tyra’s rightful bride, interfering in matters they knew nothing about, and indeed should know nothing about …
With an effort del Garza calmed himself. He took deep breaths until his heart rate returned to normal. He shouldn’t waste this anger; he should harbour his fury until the men came, and then release it. Things were going to change around here; soon and forever. By the time Guy du Bas-Tyra returned from the south, Krondor would be a city in order and under firm control. Yes, he thought, in control.
He called for a parchment and pen and set his mind to the list of things that would have to be done, and first on that list was to round up as many of the Mockers as could be ferreted out of whatever dark warren hid them.
• Chapter Three • Aftermath (#ulink_169d64a5-ad72-54e3-acf8-a27fdabdae95)
The crossroads was crowded.
Hotfingers Flora was chatting and laughing with her friends while tossing saucy, flirtatious glances at every passing male when the wagon pulled up beside them. At first she didn’t give it much of a glance; the streets were busy with men on foot, porters with heavy loads, handcarts full of golden loaves of bread, cloth, boxes and bales, a sedan-chair – she cast an envious glance at the courtesan lolling within it – and any number of farmers’ wagons hauling in the city’s food.
When it stopped in front of her, she realized that this one wagon was different. It was a curious sight, with high sides and hoops over the top as though it was meant to be covered by a canvas tilt. But there were crossbars tied onto the hoops with rawhide thongs, making it look like a cage. It was driven by a pair of Bas-Tyran guards and followed by four more on foot, their hobnails a counterpoint to the clangour of iron-rimmed wheels on stone and their halberds swaying as they marched in step.
Some of her friends moved away cautiously – anything out of the ordinary was dangerous. But the majority of the girls watched with arms folded across their breasts and their eyes flicking toward the surrounding alleys, holding their ground despite their suspicion. After all, a lot of their business came from soldiers.
A sergeant descended from the wagon and approached the girls with the rolling swagger of a man who’d spent as much of his life on horseback as on foot. His corporal went to work lowering the tailgate and opening the cage door; the rest of the squad braced their polearms, the sharp hooks on the backs interlinked, a bare upright tent.
The sergeant chucked Flora under the chin and turned to grin at his men who also moved in, smiling. He smelled of sweat, leather and sour wine; she was used to that, but this man was ranker than most, and she wrinkled her nose a little. Flora tossed her head and with a slightly nervous smile asked, ‘Anything I can do for you, soldier?’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant said, leaning in close, ‘you can come with me, my little canker-blossom, you and all your friends. We’re having a party for you back at the keep.’ He took hold of her arm with a hard grip and a cruel, crook-toothed smile.
‘Well, there’s no need to be rough about it,’ Flora snapped, trying to pull away.
‘I suppose there isn’t,’ he agreed amiably. ‘But, ye see, I want to be.’
With that, he picked her up by her hair and the waist of her skirt and tossed her into the cage in a squawking cartwheel of limbs and cloth. Her knee hit something hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Before she could get to her feet, her friends were thrown in on top of her, driving the breath out of her lungs with a force that left her struggling for air. One of her teeth cut the inside of her lip with a little stab of pain, and the iron-salt-copper taste of blood filled her mouth.
‘Wait!’ she cried after an instant, sucking back her breath as she went scrambling backward out of the writhing heap. ‘We haven’t done nothing! What are you doing?’
The cries of the others were shrill around her: protests, sobs, curses and wordless shrieks of rage. She hauled herself up by the bars of the wagon in time to see two of her friends scurry down an alley with their skirts gathered up, and took heart from the sight. Word would get back to the Upright Man and something would be done about it. Flora rattled the wooden bars of the cage as hard as she could, glaring.
‘You can’t just throw us in jail for nothing!’ she shouted.
The sergeant came up to her and smacked her fingers with a mailed fist; not hard enough to break anything, but more than hard enough to hurt. ‘Oh, yes we can,’ he said, with what might have been mistaken for good humour, if you weren’t watching his eyes.
Those eyes had something in them that made her shiver and remember what Jimmy had said about the risks of freelancing.
The sergeant slapped his gloved hands together; the metal rings on their backs clinked dully. ‘So says the acting governor. We can do anything we want to trash like you, and serves you right. Now shut up and settle down like a good, sensible girl or I’ll knock your teeth out.’
Flora sucked her wounded knuckles and did as she was told. The pain was distant, less real than the way her heart pounded with fear, and her throat tried to squeeze itself shut beneath a mouth gone parchment-dry.
By the time they arrived at the keep, the cage was full to bursting and Flora was pressed tightly against the bars – which was still better than being in the middle, since at least there was open air on one side. The wagon was filled with whores and beggars and a very few of the younger pickpockets who had been doing absolutely nothing illegal when they were taken. The soldiers had even rounded up a few people who were simply poor, or who’d happened to be standing next to the wrong whore. But she’d noticed that most of those in the cage with her were Mockers. And that frightened her. Clearly Jocko Radburn was not taking the Mockers’ adventure with the Princess Anita lightly.
The gates clashed shut behind them. More Bas-Tyra guardsmen hauled them out of the wagons to join a growing file of prisoners being herded to stairways that led downward. Boots and fists and the steel-shod butts of halberds and pikes thudded on flesh; almost all the cursing came from the guards, though.
Their prisoners were mostly silent, except for the occasional cry of pain.
Jimmy had slept for a whole day and night, waking at mid-morning on the second day after the Sea Swift’s departure. He stretched luxuriously, rose and put on clean clothes – or rather, the well-aired rags he’d left in this room the last time he’d slept here – and descended the stairs. Instinct made him walk close to the wall, where the boards were less likely to creak. On the whole he liked growing up, but there was no denying it made you heavier, and he was conscientious about learning to make skill compensate for the additional poundage.
‘If ye’re lookin’ for breakfast ye can look elsewhere,’ said his landlady. She was a toothless beldame who glared at him with rheumy eyes. ‘Ye know I’ve nothing for ye at this hour.’
‘I wouldn’t think of asking you to trouble yourself,’ Jimmy said gallantly. He smiled. ‘I needed the sleep more than the breakfast anyway.’
‘At your age?’ the old woman sneered.
‘It was a long trip this time,’ Jimmy said.
And indeed it was, into a whole other world in its way. But now it was time to get back to business. First he would stop at Mocker’s Rest and see what was happening. Then he could start the planning stages of something bigger than picking pockets.
He’d been apprenticed to Long Charlie for the last few months, though that apprenticeship had been suspended the night Jimmy had caught sight of Prince Arutha attempting to flee Jocko Radburn himself.
The Prince, his Huntmaster – Martin Longbow – and Amos Trask – the legendary Trenchard the Pirate – had come secretly into the city a few days earlier before Jimmy’s encounter with the Prince. They had tried to hide their presence but from Jimmy’s point of view they stood out like red bulls in a sheep fold. By the time Jimmy had chanced across Radburn pursuing Arutha, the Upright Man had put the word out to pick up these three newcomers.
Jimmy had known something was up between the smugglers and Mockers, something beyond their usual uneasy truce, for Trevor Hull’s men had come and gone in areas of the sewer that were clearly Mockers’ territory, but as he was only a boy, albeit a very talented one, he was not privy to the secret of the Princess’s escape from the keep.
Finding Arutha had changed that, and had plunged Jimmy into the heart of a conspiracy that had ended the night before with Anita, Arutha, and his companions successfully making their escape. He had not only become a conspirator but had become a companion to both Prince Arutha and Princess Anita while they awaited their opportunity for escape. He had played his part, earned royal thanks, and found within himself a sense of something larger than himself for the first time in his young life.
Such triumphs left Jimmy in no mood to return to apprenticeship, opening practice-locks while Long Charlie looked over his shoulder. Besides, he’d long since caught the knack of lock-picking and the samples he’d seen didn’t look as if they’d offer any challenge. Frankly, the training he was getting was boring and Jimmy knew in his heart that he was meant for more exciting things. Sometimes it seemed that Charlie was just giving him tedious work to keep Jimmy out of his hair. Even before the adventure with Arutha and Anita, Jimmy had made up his mind to request a new mentor. Life is too short to wait for what I’m entitled to, he thought.
One thing he should do today was steal some more respectable-looking clothes. The ones he was wearing smelled bad, even to himself.
Or I could buy some, just for a change, he thought. But first, a money-changer.
The changer worked out of a narrow shop in an alley, denoted by a pair of scales on a sign above the door; the paint was so faded that only a hint of gold peeped through the grime. Jimmy hopped over the trickle of filth down the centre of the alley, nodded to the basher who stood just outside, polishing the brickwork with his shoulder, and pushed through the door. The basher would find a reason to delay any citizen from entering the shop whenever a Mocker was inside.
Ference, the money-changer, looked up and said, ‘Ah, Jimmy! What can I do for you?’
Jimmy reached inside his tunic and pulled out his coin pouch, and with a quick flip of his wrist, rolled half a dozen coins on the counter. The others were safely hidden on top of a ceiling beam in his room.
‘Gold?’ Ference said, looking at the thumbnail-sized coins Jimmy shoved across the smooth wood of the table.
The money-changer was a middle-aged man with a thin, lined face and the sort of squint you got from fretting about your strongbox when you should be sleeping. He dressed with the sort of sombre respectability a prosperous storekeeper might affect.
‘Getting ambitious, are you, Jimmy lad?’
‘Honestly earned,’ Jimmy said, ‘for a change.’ And it was even true, for once.
He kept a close eye on the scales as Prince Arutha’s coins turned into a jingling heap of worn and much less conspicuous silver and copper. The Upright Man’s regulations kept men like Ference moderately honest – broken arms were the usual first-time penalty for changers or fences shorting Mockers, and then it got really nasty – but it never hurt to be self-reliant.
‘There,’ the changer said at last. ‘That’ll attract a lot less attention.’
‘Just what I thought,’ Jimmy said, smiling a little to himself.
He bought a money-belt to hold it – too big a jingling purse was conspicuous too – and wandered out into the street.
‘Pork pies! Pork pies!’ he heard, and the words brought a flood of saliva into his mouth; he had missed breakfast. ‘Two of your best, Mistress Pease,’ he said grandly.
The pie-seller put down the handles of her pushcart and brought out two; they were still warm, and the smell made his nose twitch. What was more, Mistress Pease’s pork pies were actually made from pork, not of rabbit, cat, or the even less savoury concoctions you got from some vendors. He bit into one.
‘Feeling prosperous, I see,’ she said, as he handed over four coppers.
‘Hard work and clean living, Mistress,’ he replied; she shook all over as she laughed.
Well, a thin cook wouldn’t be much of an advertisement, would she? he thought.
He washed the pies down with a flagon of cider bought from a nearby vendor, and sat in the sun belching contentedly, his back against the stone-coping of a well.
He was just licking his fingers when a pebble hit the top of his head.
Ouch, he thought, and looked up.
Long Charlie’s cadaverous face peered around a gable. His hands moved: Report to Mocker’s Rest, he said in the signing can’t. Right now. No delay, no excuses.
Jimmy swigged back the rest of the cider and hastily returned his flagon to the vendor with polite thanks. Then he headed for the nearest alley.
Once in the sewers he moved at a confident jog – even through the pitch-black places, of which there were many – and passed the guards the Mockers had stationed at various locations, who seemed unusually alert today. Not that they were ever less than wide-awake; sleeping or getting drunk on guard duty could get you badly hurt or seriously dead.
The smell was homelike, though ripe; Jimmy flicked his toe aside and sent a rat more belligerent than most flying through the air. Its squeal ended with a sodden thud – you had to be careful about the ones that didn’t run away, chances were they were sick with something. Jimmy had seen a man foaming at the mouth from a rat bite and it wasn’t a sight he would quickly forget.
The Rest was like a kicked anthill, all swarming movement – although ants didn’t produce that sort of din, or wave their arms so that you nearly got clouted in the face walking through. Agitated people moved quickly from group to group; everyone seemed to be talking at once. He spied a boy he knew standing apart and went over to him. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
The boy, dubbed Larry the Ear because his were enormous, stood tense as a bowstring watching the frantic activity. He spoke to Jimmy without taking his eyes from the scene before them. ‘Bas-Tyra’s men are arresting the girls and the beggars and anyone else they can get their damned paws on,’ Larry growled. ‘They took Gerald.’
Jimmy blinked. Gerald was Larry’s younger brother, not much older than seven, if that. Jimmy had known Radburn was a vindictive swine, but arresting babies was beyond contempt.
He started to ask, ‘Was he pick …?’
‘No!’ Larry snapped, turning to glare at Jimmy. ‘He wasn’t doing nothing. He was just playin’, just bein’ a kid!’
‘Damn Radburn’s bones,’ Jimmy said quietly.
‘Damn him right enough,’ Larry said. ‘But this was del Garza. Radburn’s out of town – took ship not an hour after the Princess got away.’ Jimmy blinked. If Larry knew the Princess had been the one fleeing last night, then everyone knew it. So much for secrets. ‘Del Garza’s in charge, and he’s gone crazy mean.’
Crazy like a fox, Jimmy thought, motionless, as implications ran through his mind. Princess gone, Radburn chasing her – del Garza will want lots of people to pin the blame on when the Duke gets back. Radburn can at least say he went after them right away. What was that old saying? Victory has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan. Del Garza wants to have as many other candidates for the role of defeat’s father as he can.
‘Del Garza’s a snake from the same egg as Radburn,’ Larry said passionately. ‘He’s up to something and even if it takes hurting a little boy, he’ll do it!’
Jimmy nodded in agreement. ‘Well, we won’t let him,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s see what the Upright Man decides and if he doesn’t make the right decision, well, we’ll see.’ He punched Larry’s shoulder. ‘You with me?’
The younger lad’s eyes filled with hope and he nodded.
‘Who else do you think will take our point of view?’ Jimmy asked quietly.
‘I’ll find out,’ Larry said, swiping his dirty sleeve over his eyes, leaving dark smears behind.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Me too. But we’ll not discuss this again until we’ve found out what action will be taken.’ And he meant by del Garza as much as he did the Upright Man and his lieutenants. ‘Let’s move around, see what we can find out.’
Larry nodded and they both moved off.
‘Have any of the houses been affected?’ a fat man was asking a group of prostitutes. ‘The ones we’re behind, I mean.’
‘Not yet,’ one of the women answered, a needle-nosed woman who looked well over forty. ‘But if this doesn’t get old Jocko what he wants they’ll be next. Sitting-ducks, so to speak, that’s what they are.’
‘A lot of the gentry go to those places,’ said one of her friends. ‘They wouldn’t like having their pleasures interfered with.’
‘Oh, that’ll worry the secret police,’ needle-nose sneered. ‘They’d just love to have something like that on a gentleman of quality, or a rich merchant with a jealous wife. Mark my words, even if this does get the bastard the results he wants, that’ll be their next step anyway.’
‘True,’ the fat man agreed. ‘Once he’s begun, why should he stop?’
Jimmy had to agree. He supposed it was more surprising that the secret police hadn’t already made such a move – Radburn was clever enough to see it. For a power-mad, soulless bastard it seemed a logical step, much more so than picking up the street girls. You could learn a great deal if you had the power to squeeze the sporting houses; the walls there literally had ears – conveniently placed listening posts behind false walls in several of the richer brothels. More than one merchant gladly paid a madam a little extra every month to keep him current on what his drunken competitors said to impress their current favourite. It took nothing for Jimmy to imagine an agent of the Crown behind that listening post rather than the madam.
Even before the events of the last week, rumours were that Guy du Bas-Tyra had ambitions to be the next Prince of Krondor, and that Jocko Radburn had his cap set on being the next Duke of Krondor. Western nobles would certainly object openly in the Congress of Lords to such appointments, but western nobles with something to hide might be a great deal less vociferous in voicing those objections. Besides, the more useful results Radburn and del Garza could squeeze out of this mess, the more likely the Duke would be forgiving when he returned.
Jimmy spied Noxious Neville sitting in a corner by himself; not unusual given Neville’s aroma, which started with old sweat and worked up from there. But the beggar had been a frequent guest in Krondor’s dungeons and might have useful information. It just depended on how addled he was today.
Jimmy squatted down in front of the old beggar and waved a piece of silver back and forth, knowing it was the best way to get the old man’s attention. Gradually Neville stopped his rocking and his eyes began to follow the coin; then his hand rose and tried to capture it. Jimmy snatched it back and closed it in his fist.
‘Neville,’ he said, ‘I need some information.’
The old man stared at him. He was quite mad, but deep in his eyes a canny intelligence lurked. After all, he hadn’t starved or frozen or been kicked to death by drunks yet.
‘Whatcha wanta know?’ he asked, slurring his words.
‘Tell me about the keep’s dungeons,’ Jimmy said. ‘I want to know everything you can remember.’
Neville started to chuckle until he choked, then he coughed until Jimmy expected him to spit out a lung at any moment. Annoyed, because he suspected that the coughing was a demand for liquid relief, Jimmy nevertheless rose and acquired a mug of ale for the old beggar.
As expected, as soon as the flagon was in Neville’s gnarled hand the spasm ceased.
‘Take more’n one silver to get that much,’ the old man rasped, then took a sip.
‘How much?’ Jimmy asked.
The beggar shrugged with his whole body. ‘Twenty,’ he said, clearly knowing he’d never get it.
Jimmy got up and started to walk away.
‘Hey!’ Neville called, clearly irritated. ‘Where ya goin’?’
‘To talk to someone who isn’t crazy,’ Jimmy threw over his shoulder.
‘C’m back here,’ the beggar demanded. ‘Don-cha know how to bargain? What’ll ya give me? I’m crazy, not stupid.’
Jimmy held up the coin and Neville started rocking and grumbling inaudibly.
‘Gimme three,’ he demanded.
‘I’ve already spent two coppers on your ale,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m not throwing good money after bad. You give me something for that and if I think it’s worth more, I’ll pay more.’
‘S’fair,’ Neville said reluctantly. ‘Whatcha want to know?’
Jimmy sat before him, breathing through his mouth to avoid the old man’s prodigious stench, and asked him questions about the dungeons. How deep were they, how to get in, how many cells, how many guards, how often were the guards changed, how often were the prisoners fed, how often were the slops taken out, if they were? Noxious Neville answered every question with his eyes fixed keenly on the young thief’s face and with every answer Jimmy’s heart fell further.
‘Is there any way to get out without the guards knowing it?’ he asked finally.
Noxious Neville barked a laugh. ‘By the goddess of luck, who hates me, how should I know that?’ he demanded. ‘I never tried to get out. More trouble’n it’s worth. Four days’s the longest I’s ever there.’
Leaning closer, Jimmy asked, ‘Did you ever hear of anyone escaping?’
The old beggar began to giggle and wag a filthy finger at him. ‘Whatsa matta? Jocko steal yer sweetie?’
Jimmy made his eyes hard. ‘You’ve only got three teeth left, Neville,’ he pointed out. ‘Do you want me to break ’em for you?’
Fast as a striking snake the old man’s hand grabbed Jimmy’s arm with shocking strength.
‘Like to see you try it, I would,’ he snarled. ‘Little brat.’ He flung the young thief’s arm away from him. ‘Think I stayed alive this long by accident? Maybe Lims-Kragma, the great goddess of death, forgot about me? That what ya think? Hah! Stupid brat.’ He spat to the side.
Jimmy assumed from that that the old man was still willing to earn his silver. If he’d finished talking Neville probably would have spat on him. And then I’d have had to kill the old bastard. Or himself. The idea of being spat on by Noxious Neville was that revolting.
‘Did you,’ Jimmy repeated evenly, ‘ever hear of anyone escaping?’
The old man looked aside, shaking his head and waving the question away.
‘Is there any way in or out that the guards don’t watch?’ Jimmy asked desperately.
‘Only thing I know about is the drain in the floor of the big cell.’ He chuckled, giving Jimmy an evil look. ‘But you wouldn’t like that, it’s the hole we pissed in.’
Jimmy just stared at him, thinking hard. No, he didn’t like it, but it might have possibilities.
‘This drain, it leads directly to the sewers?’ he asked. ‘Or does the keep have a separate outfall to the harbour?’
Neville laughed again and Jimmy reflected that the old coot was getting a lot more pleasure out of this conversation than he should be.
‘How should I know?’ Neville demanded. ‘Ye think I follow me piss to see where it goes? The hole’s only this big!’ He held his hands up to indicate a circle the size of a dinner plate and Jimmy’s heart sank again.
‘Hey!’ Neville said and gave the boy a poke. ‘Maybe the Upright Man knows a way out of the prison. Why don’t ye ask him?’ And he laughed wildly.
The young thief rose and started to walk away.
‘Hey!’ the beggar screeched. ‘Where’s my money?’ He held out a skinny hand.
Jimmy flipped him the single silver he’d first offered.
‘Hey!’ Noxious Neville cried. ‘Yer s’posed to gi’ me more! That was the bargain.’
‘The bargain,’ Jimmy said coldly, ‘was that if I thought your information was worth more, I’d give you more. Give me something I can use.’
The old man made grumbling noises and glared at him, but something made Jimmy wait. ‘Leads to the sewers,’ Neville finally conceded. ‘But the tunnel’s half caved in, ain’t safe.’
‘And the drain?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Can someone get down there?’
Neville turned his head this way and that, as though protesting the continued questioning, then he nodded. ‘Drain used to be bigger,’ he admitted. ‘Filled it in a bit wi’ bits of stone and mortar they did. Shaft’s big enough for someone skinny. Give it a coupla good kicks and the drain’ll fall open, big enough for someone to crawl down if’n he don’t have too much girth.’
Light broke in Jimmy’s mind and he stared at the old beggar. ‘You’ve used it!’ he accused. ‘You used that shaft to escape!’
Neville broke out in a flurry of crazed motions meant to indicate go away and leave me alone or there’ll be trouble – a move he’d perfected over a long career of dealing with the public.
Jimmy stabbed a finger at him, unimpressed. ‘Stop it!’ He glared until the old man settled down and glared back at him. ‘Now,’ he said evenly, ‘tell me what I want to know and if it turns out to be the truth, I’ll give you this.’ He flashed a gold coin for a fraction of a second. ‘If it turns out you’re lying, you get nothing.’
A gold coin was a fortune to a man like Neville; it would get him fifty flagons of ale – a hundred if he stuck to the really vile stuff sold in the Poor Quarter. He sat sucking his gums and thinking it over.
‘Why not?’ he said at last. ‘Not like’s a secret worth keeping. I’s a thief once, ’n young. They caught me, wasn’t easy.’
Noxious Neville’s face took on a slackly reminiscent grin and just when Jimmy thought he’d have to shake him to bring him back to the here and now he began speaking again.
‘I was gonna hang.’ Neville spat again. ‘But I knew if I had time and patience I’d get out. There’s a grille,’ he said, pointing down with one dirty finger.
Jimmy glanced down automatically then grimaced and looked back at the old man.
‘Not too big, mind, but me, I could.’ Neville wriggled where he sat, arms working above his head as though squeezing through a tight space. ‘M’shoulders come apart,’ he said and gave a wheezing laugh at the young thief’s look of doubt.
Not that Jimmy hadn’t heard of such before, but it was hard to believe the human wreck before him would have such a useful attribute.
Neville slapped his knee, laughing and after a moment he went on. ‘Those days the grille wasn’t even mortared, they di’nt think anybody could get down that shaft.’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘Wished I coulda seen their faces wh’n they come fer me.’ He chuckled.
Jimmy nodded. ‘So where is it?’ he asked.
Neville stared into space, one finger tracing the air as he tried to remember the route. ‘Take the fourth shaft at Five Points,’ he said uncertainly. ‘No, no, take the second –’ He went silent, gazing. Suddenly he was more animated. ‘Go toward dockside, always go for the lower way … no, no, that leads to the fullers. Don’t want to go there.’ He huffed impatiently. ‘I know how te get there,’ he said impatiently, ‘I jes’ never had to tell anybody how to get there.’
Jimmy stood. ‘Show me then. It’ll be easier.’
The old beggar looked at him as though Jimmy had suggested he strip to his loin-cloth and dance on a table.
‘Not fer me!’ Neville said. He waved his flagon. ‘I’ve got all my comforts here.’ He looked around and waved a hand as though to indicate the cosiest surroundings in the city.
Leaning close enough to singe his nose hairs Jimmy said, ‘Four silver above the gold if you show me.’
Neville chewed his gums, looking at nothing, and didn’t answer.
Jimmy chewed his upper lip impatiently, aware that Neville held the upper hand. What he had to do now was get the upper hand back before the beggar bargained him to bankruptcy.
‘I’ll buy a half skin of wine for the trip,’ Jimmy offered. ‘You can keep what’s left once we get there.’
‘Full skin,’ Neville countered.
‘Half.’
‘Full!’ the old beggar snapped. ‘S’a bit of a slog.’
‘Done,’ Jimmy said and somewhat reluctantly, held out his hand.
Neville spat on his and clapped hold of the boy’s before Jimmy could draw away. Then laughed uproariously at the young thief’s disgusted expression.
• Chapter Four • Plotting (#ulink_4a66fd71-ccbe-50bd-8662-1bc953207477)
Jimmy slipped through the crowd.
‘Larry,’ Jimmy said.
The younger boy gave a well-concealed start and Jimmy felt a small spurt of pride. Sneaking up on guardsmen was easy, but the boy was a fellow professional.
‘I’ve found something out,’ Jimmy said, looking around the crowd to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘A way into the dungeon.’ He made a pressing gesture with his hand. ‘But there’s a problem.’
‘What problem?’
‘The only one who knows the way is Noxious Neville – so we have to take him along.’
Larry’s face went from joyful to sour, as if he’d just bitten into something unpleasant.
‘And I had to promise him a half skin of wine. Which means …’
Ol’ Neville was the type to disappear in an instant for reasons of his own, yet come back demanding the promised reward. Rewards never slipped the old man’s porous memory, even when his recall of deeds performed was vague.
They turned, watching as Neville conducted a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. Jimmy interrupted the conversation and lured Neville out of the Rest by pouring out a stream of raw red wine that Neville hastened to catch in his mouth. When they were outside Jimmy stoppered the skin.
‘Lead us,’ he said.
The old beggar smacked his lips, then rubbed his hands over his face and neck and licked up the drops of wine he collected from his fingers.
Jimmy ostentatiously swung the skin over his shoulder.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said.
‘That’s it,’ Neville said.
The three Mockers crouched, straddling the stream of foulness that ran down the centre of the sewer. Ahead, an oval opening in a wall poured its own tributary into the fetid stream; broad streaks of glistening nitre down the brick showed that the trickle had been larger once.
‘Took long enough,’ Larry said sourly.
Jimmy shrugged. Not all of Neville’s madness was an act; they’d backtracked more times than Jimmy cared to remember with the old man whining about how thirsty he was. But the young thief had been adamant; no wine until they found the place.
If he’s like this half sober, we’d never see daylight again if I’d let him get drunk.
‘Are you sure this is it?’ Jimmy asked dubiously.
As he’d said, the tunnel was partially collapsed. Rubble splayed out in an incline into the main sewer, giving them easy access, but the air that blew towards them from above was more foul than the beggar himself. Larry said, ‘Something’s died up there!’
Neville ignored the comment to answer Jimmy’s question. ‘Yes I’m sure,’ he snapped; his lips worked angrily and one discoloured snag of a tooth showed. ‘You’d been payin’ attention you’d know it!’
The old coot’s right, Jimmy acknowledged unhappily. They’d passed signs that warned they were approaching the underpinnings of the keep.
‘Phew!’ Larry said and choked as he stuck head and shoulders into the gap. ‘You can’t mean it! We can’t go in there! A snake couldn’t get in there!’
Jimmy was definitely in sympathy with Larry. He tossed the wineskin to the beggar who hurried off without demanding the rest of his pay. He grimaced as he watched Noxious Neville scurry into the darkness, then climbed the rubble and thrust the torch through a gap.
‘Look, it gets broader past here,’ he said. ‘And this rubble’s easy enough to move.’ He levered a handful aside, then wiped his hand on his breeches. Good thing I was going to buy new ones anyway.
‘We could clear enough to get through in less than an hour, even if we take care not to make any noise. After that it’s easy enough, for folk our size. We’re not looking to ride a horse through, after all.’
The torch flickered and dimmed in a slightly stronger gust of air and Jimmy pushed himself back and staggered, retching, away from the pile of rock and earth.
He shook his head, his eyes streaming. ‘You’re right, only sheer desperation would get me in there. And even then …’
Three extremely wealthy merchants sat across the desk from the acting governor of the city. The men were members of the powerful Merchants’ Guild – a body that included the most wealthy men in the city, along with representatives of the other important guilds: tanners, smiths, shipwrights, carters and others. After the authority of the Prince’s Court and the temples, the Merchants’ Guild was the most influential faction in the principality. Too many nobles in the Kingdom owed debts to or did business with the more powerful members of the Guild. Crops didn’t come to market from outlying estate farms if the teamsters didn’t drive wagons. Dock warehouses filled up with goods that were headed nowhere if the dockworkers refused to load them on the ships. Originally begun as a body to adjudicate disagreements between the different guilds and independent merchants, they had evolved over the years into a voice for the merchant class in the halls of power. The Guild’s co-operation was vital to the success of del Garza’s plans, or at the very least he needed to ensure they were not in opposition to him.
The three maintained equally supercilious expressions while their eyes, glittering in the candlelight, were fixed on del Garza’s every move. They waited for his attention with dignified restraint, ignoring the draughts that moved the wall hangings, barely moving to draw their cloaks tighter around their shoulders.
Del Garza continued to write, scratching away at an only moderately important document, fully cognizant of how rarely these gentlemen displayed such patience. He was enjoying this little exercise of power. Indeed, this was for his pleasure; the next part of the evening’s endeavours would be for his lord’s advantage.
He finished writing, sanded the document and shook it, then laid it aside and turned to look at the men seated opposite him. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, his voice coldly insincere.
Marcellus Varney, a shipper of Quegan ancestry, raised an eyebrow. He was a bull-necked man who had obviously spent his youth in hard labour. Now, in his middle years, there was still muscle under the rich man’s fat. ‘We were not invited,’ he said precisely. ‘I was under the impression that we were arrested.’ His entire attitude spoke of distaste.
‘Nevertheless,’ the acting governor said with great politeness, ‘you could have resisted.’ He tipped his head to the side and opened his hands. ‘No, no, you must allow me to thank you for your co-operation.’
‘Get on with it,’ the shipper said, his tone flat, his eyes resentful.
Del Garza glanced at each of them, then made an acquiescent gesture.
‘As you wish, gentlemen.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You are, no doubt, aware of the special orders and state of emergency I am about to declare in Krondor. I’ve submitted a copy of the order to your guild and I expect you’ve had the day to ponder it.’
The three men shifted in their chairs. It amused him; they might almost have rehearsed it, the timing was so mutual.
‘I invited you here tonight to see if there was anything I could do to gain your support. Times ahead will be difficult and I want to ensure that the most respected voices in the Merchants’ Guild speak in favour of the necessity for these acts.’ That’s got their attention, he thought with an inner smile. A little flattery beside intimidation did wonders.
The gentlemen focused on him as though they believed he cared about their opinion. Which, of course, he did, as long as it was in agreement with his.
Rufus Tuney, a grain merchant with six critically located mills around the city, grimaced, then waved a hand somewhat languidly. He was a foppish man who tended to wear excessive amounts of lace and powder, and a cloying cloud of spices and lilac scent surrounded him wherever he went. ‘The new regulations you have proposed are not without merit,’ he commented. ‘The trouble is they seem … somewhat excessive.’ He looked at the acting governor with raised brows. ‘Even if the three of us were wholeheartedly in support of your position –’ he gave a delicate shrug, ‘– of what use are a mere three votes?’
‘Do not allow that to be a consideration, gentlemen,’ del Garza said, his voice hard and flat. ‘What you must consider are your own advantages in the matter.’
Silence greeted his remark and del Garza could see them resisting the urge to glance at one another.
‘Advantage?’ Varney queried.
I expected him to be the one to ask that question.
The third merchant, a spice trader named Thaddius Fleet, shifted in his seat. He was a nondescript man, given to well-made but simple garments. ‘See here, del Garza. What exactly are you proposing?’
And del Garza had expected him to try to lead the negotiations. Sometimes it was almost too easy. He sighed. ‘Must I go into detail?’ he asked wearily. ‘Remember where you were, gentlemen, when my men requested your presence here.’ He watched that sink in. This time glances were exchanged from the corners of their eyes.
What fools these men are! He held most of their breed in contempt, but the three sitting before him now were particularly noxious. Tuney and Fleet had indulgences of which they were ashamed, which made them vulnerable. Varney had a profitable sideline selling young women and boys as slaves to Kesh, drugging them and smuggling them out in secret compartments on his ships. Once his usefulness was at an end del Garza thought it would be a blessing to the Kingdom to end his business. Slavery, except for prisoners of the Crown, was outlawed in the Kingdom.
Perhaps I’ll sell him to Great Kesh. That should certainly provide some amusement. As for the others, they were just shallow men with foolish peccadilloes. One liked to be spanked by pretty women, the other liked to pretend he was a pretty woman. They harmed no one but themselves. I’m almost grateful to them, and to Radburn for keeping such conveniently complete files. Seeing the key members of the Guild in twos and threes over the next few days would bring them nicely to heel.
‘That certainly puts things in a new light,’ Fleet said grimly. He glanced at his two companions; none needed to say anything; they all knew del Garza was in possession of information that would ruin them, and in Varney’s case, send him to the gallows.
After a moment’s silence del Garza said impatiently: ‘And by this new light can you see your way clear to supporting my decrees? After all, Baron Radburn will be returning soon. I assure you he will be far less concerned with the Guild’s position on these matters than I am.’
‘I … believe so,’ said Tuney.
‘Good. Then I can count on all of your votes?’ Del Garza stared at them until each one of them had nodded and mumbled an affirmative. ‘Excellent! I won’t keep you further, gentlemen.’ He gave them a bland smile as he took a document from a pile to his left and placed it before him. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’
He rang a small hand-bell and the door to the office opened. A guard waited without. Del Garza turned his attention to the document, apparently unaware of their existence.
The three merchants looked at one another in disbelief. They were not accustomed to being dismissed like that. As they rose from their seats they dared to cast upon del Garza’s down-turned head the kind of looks that promised evil reprisal.
The acting governor timed the scene, so that when he looked up he caught those expressions, and smiled. The threat in that smile was much more powerful, and they knew it.
‘Oyez, oyez,’ the crier intoned.
Jimmy the Hand stopped in the shadows of a doorway, carefully inconspicuous. A man-at-arms in black and gold accompanied the crier, and his eyes were objectionably active. Two days had passed since his trip to the sewers with Noxious Neville and Larry the Ear, but he’d only just cast off the mild case of the runs that had followed, and he was in no mood to be chased.
‘By the proclamation of the acting governor of the City of Krondor, the following changes have been made to current law: Street prostitution will now be considered a crime equal to robbery and burglary, and for which the same penalties will apply. All bawdy houses and brothels in the city must obtain Crown licence to operate. Begging has also been declared a crime and will now be punished with no less than fifty lashes.’
He went on to the formal conclusion of ‘by my hand this day of’ and so on, but Jimmy had ceased listening.
Licensing the brothels meant the Duke’s agents and soldiers would be searching the buildings and registering the girls. That was not important.
But burglary and robbery were hanging offences and fifty lashes would kill any but the strongest of men. He drew back into the alley in a daze. That meant that everyone they’d already caught – Flora and Gerald and the rest – were doomed. He turned and hastened through the maze of alleys to the nearest sewer entrance. It was now just a matter of days before they died.
‘The acting governor has had his proclamation,’ he muttered to himself, swinging down on a grating and dropping soundlessly to the slimy brick. ‘Let’s see what the Upright Man has to say.’
Mocker’s Rest was packed; Jimmy had never seen so many people there, and he could barely hear himself speak. The mood was frightened, but the faces around him were blank and hard. There wasn’t a Mocker here who didn’t have a friend or relative already in the cells. Jimmy wondered if the prisoners knew what awaited them.
He slipped between bodies and found that no one had any news except that of the announcement. No one knew what the Upright Man intended to do about it, nor had anyone seen the Daymaster for hours, and it was two hours yet before the Nightmaster was due. Meanwhile, no one dared go out, especially not the women and the beggars.
Jimmy spied Larry the Ear clinging to the V of one of the ceiling braces, crouched like a gargoyle, and made his way toward him. When he finally stood below Larry’s perch and their eyes met it was like the shaking of hands, sharing the same thought without speaking. The younger boy’s jaw set hard and he swallowed nervously, then he looked up and saw something that caused him to stiffen.
‘What is it?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Laughing Jack,’ Larry called down.
Others heard and turned to where the boy was staring, silence spreading like ripples through the shadows as word spread of the Nightmaster’s lieutenant’s approach. By the time the Nightwarden took a stance upon a table, the big room was silent except for the occasional cough and the sound of dripping water. Laughing Jack turned in a circle looking at all of them, his expression even more grim than usual.
‘You’ve all got word,’ he bellowed. ‘So I won’t repeat the edict. Orders are to do nothing. Leave the matter to the Upright Man and lay low as much as possible. Understood?’
For a long moment the crowd was silent, resentment building like a wave.
‘Well?’ Jack demanded, glaring.
A few voices murmured here and there, but mostly the Mockers stared, expecting more, and with their silence demanding it.
‘Well aren’t you a fine bunch?’ Laughing Jack sneered. ‘No faith, at all?’ he shouted. ‘Where would most of you be without the Upright Man? Huh? I’ll tell you, most of you would have been dead by now. It’s easy to be loyal during the good times. Easy to follow the rules and do what’s expected when everything’s running right. But when times are hard, that’s when you especially got to follow orders. Loyalty will carry us all through the hard times.’ He swept them all with a hard look. ‘So what’s it going to be? Follow orders, or get tossed out in the streets so the guards’ll find you?’
Confused silence greeted this question. There was a roar of affirmation waiting to happen but the Mockers looked at one another uneasily, wondering how to avoid sounding as if being kicked into the streets was what they wanted.
‘Well, when you put it like that,’ Jimmy muttered. ‘Upright Man!’ he shouted, punching his fist in the air.
The crowd went wild and took up the cry, bellowing until mortar began to rain from the ceiling and Laughing Jack held up his hands for silence.
‘Get to your roosts and your flops,’ he commanded. ‘Keep your heads low and wait for orders. One thing I can promise is that we won’t take this lying down, but nobody does nothing until you hear otherwise.’
There was another burst of applause at that which quickly died when Laughing Jack stepped off his makeshift stage. Jimmy looked up at Larry and jerked his head toward the door then moved off, knowing the younger boy would follow as he could.
Jimmy led the way out of the sewers and through a maze of back alleys, most sodden, some clean, until he came to a fence of cedar posts set in stone. He climbed it and stepped briefly onto a window ledge, then grasped a hole left by a crumbling brick and hoisted himself up to where he could step onto the window’s ledge. Balancing, he reached up to grasp the eaves. He chinned himself up, his toes finding the space in the brickwork that allowed him to push himself upward until he could wriggle onto the tiled roof.
Then he silently moved over so that Larry could climb up beside him; neither of them was breathing hard, since the sky-routes were as familiar to them as a staircase to the attic would be to a householder.
They were on the roof of a noisy dockside tavern – the tiles beneath them fairly vibrated, as sailors the worse for wine made an attempt at song – but they still made as little noise as possible, moving into the dark shadow of a dormer window. Jimmy risked a quick glance in the window and found the room unoccupied. He lay down on his back looking up at the stars and listening for any sounds of pursuit. Larry sat quietly beside him, apparently doing the same.
‘I think,’ Larry whispered at last, sounding very unhappy, ‘that the Upright Man will call del Garza’s bluff.’
Jimmy nodded, then realizing it was too dark to be seen grunted in agreement.
‘The only trouble is,’ the younger boy continued fiercely, ‘he isn’t bluffing. Why should he? Nobody’s going to complain if he hangs a dozen Mockers. A hundred even!’
Jimmy shushed him, for he’d nearly shouted that last. Larry muttered an apology and Jimmy gave the boy’s arm a brief, sympathetic punch. But he agreed with Larry’s sentiments. The acting governor would put the Upright Man in the worst position possible before he consented to negotiate, if he ever did.
In the history of the Thieves’ Guild, the Mockers and Crown had never sat down across a table, but over the decades since the Guild had been founded, the Mockers had reached accommodations with the Prince of Krondor on several occasions. A word dropped by a merchant with connections in court, a trader having business on both sides of the law carrying a message, and from time to time a difficult situation might be avoided. The Mockers gave up their own when caught dead to rights; that was understood by every thief, basher and beggar. But occasionally an overzealous constable had the wrong lad scheduled for the gallows, or a harmless working girl or beggar arrested for a more serious crime, and from time to time trades were arranged. More than one Mocker was tossed out of gaol suddenly after the Sheriff of Krondor got clear proof of innocence – usually the location of the true malefactor, sometimes in hiding, at other times dead. On other occasions a gang without the Upright Man’s sanction was turned over to the Sheriff’s men, saving them the trouble of arresting them.
Larry said, ‘The Upright Man’s not going to do anything, is he?’
‘Being in the position he was in, I don’t think he can risk aggravating the situation further. I think we’ve got nothing to offer del Garza,’ said Jimmy. ‘As I see it, the only thing that could make him happy would be to see Radburn return with the Princess in tow. And as she’s halfway to Crydee with Prince Arutha by now, I don’t imagine that’s going to happen. So, if he hangs a lot of us, at least he can say he tried to do something when Black Guy comes back. And if Radburn gets himself killed along the way, then del Garza can put all the blame on him and make himself look like he was trying. Our lads and lasses are in a bad position, no doubt.’
Jimmy fell silent for a moment: he knew it wasn’t just a bad position, but a fatal one. Finally, he said, ‘It’s up to us.’
He heard a stifled sob and saw the glitter of Larry’s eyes as the boy turned toward him. ‘They might kill us,’ he warned.
Jimmy chuckled. ‘Del Garza’s men will definitely kill us if we don’t do something. As for the Upright Man …’ He paused to watch a star shoot across the sky and to consider what the Upright Man might do. ‘We won’t be rewarded, that’s certain, we’ll probably have to take a beating for disobeying orders. But if we succeed in getting everybody out …’
‘Everybody!’ Larry’s voice squeaked.
‘Well, yeah. Why not?’
‘I just want to get my brother out.’
‘No, that’s not enough!’ Jimmy said, sitting up. ‘You want to get your brother out; I understand that, but if we can get the others out safely, too, that would be great. Wouldn’t it?’
There was silence for a moment, then, ‘Ye-ah?’
‘And it would make us heroes to everyone in the Guild. We’d be too popular to have our throats cut.’
‘Well, I guess.’
Not the rousing confirmation Jimmy had been hoping for, but it would do. He stood up.
‘First, let’s go and look over that place Noxious Neville showed us. Once we know what we’re dealing with we can make plans. Then we’ll see.’ He started off, followed by a reluctant Larry the Ear.
‘See what?’ the boy asked.
‘See whether the Upright Man will kill us or not,’ Jimmy said cheerfully.
Jimmy wore a vinegar-soaked rag tied over his nose and mouth and was still fighting the urge to gag from the stench. They’d removed a lot of the rubble from the blockage, but not all of it; the people they were to rescue were mostly small and certainly thinner than when they’d been arrested. The two boys laboured quietly and quickly, and then it was time for one of them to climb up the vertical shaft that Neville had told them about. Jimmy glanced at Larry, who was nervous, green, and on the verge of being sick, and didn’t even think of suggesting the younger boy go. Jimmy took a deep breath through his mouth, as if he was about to plunge under water, and stuck his head into the opening. Then he pulled himself up.
It wasn’t quite as tight as he’d expected from the old man’s description, but then maybe the old beggar had worn some meat on his bones when he was young. And the walls were an easy climb, seeming to be a natural cleft in the rock below the keep, with plenty of nooks and crannies for fingers and toes. Even the girls would be able to manage it.
So far the only problem was that it was very slimy with things best not thought about and stank enough to shrivel the hairs in his nostrils, even through the sharp vinegar smell. He kept promising an offering to the Goddess Ruthia, Mistress of Luck, if she would let him get through this without anyone pissing on him. The higher he climbed the more extravagant the offerings became.
He heard a voice above his head and froze, but whoever it was passed by. He thanked the Lady of Luck and glanced up. He wouldn’t have been able to go any further anyway. Just above him they had mortared small stones to the side of the shaft for a depth of about four feet from the top, narrowing it to just the size of his head.
Jimmy climbed down rapidly, his heart sinking. He’d imagined chipping away the extra stones around the grate, and had worried about how they’d cover the sound. He’d never imagined them continuing for four feet! Maybe ol’ Neville hadn’t known about it, maybe he didn’t think it mattered, but it was certainly a big complication.
Jimmy imagined the wrath visited upon the gaoler when the escape of a prisoner – maybe it was Noxious Neville back-in-the-day – had been discovered. So either the heavily chastened gaoler or his newly-appointed successor had seen fit to ensure it didn’t happen again. For a giddy moment he wondered how the current gaoler was going to tell del Garza and the Sheriff that dozens of Mockers had fled in one night. Then he put aside the amusing fantasy and returned to the problem at hand: how to get rid of a lot of brick and mortar in a hurry.
Larry was waiting down below the partially-collapsed tunnel.
‘Well?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘I need a bath,’ Jimmy said. It wasn’t something he said very often and he’d never said it so sincerely.
‘Me, too,’ Larry agreed. Then asked, ‘So?’
‘There’s a problem,’ Jimmy said. ‘A collar of stonework that narrows the opening so you couldn’t pass a cat through it. It’s pretty deep, too. Let me think about it.’
‘We can’t go in here!’ Larry the Ear hissed in Jimmy’s ear. ‘This place is too respectable!’
It was; a two-storey building with more chimneys than a house, the sort of place where people respectable enough to want to wash regularly came, but who were not well-to-do enough to afford the equipment. It had a door warden; a thick-set man with a grey beard and a knotted club of vinestock beside it, who looked like a retired trooper.
Jimmy grabbed Larry and pulled him close so he couldn’t be overheard. ‘We need to get clean. Del Garza’s men are out looking for sewer rats. Right now, we not only look like them, but we smell like them. We have to get clean, and it would help if we didn’t look like Mockers for a little while. That’s why we’re here, instead of trying to get clean using someone’s rain barrel or washing off in the Old Square Fountain.’ He turned to look at the door warden. ‘Just pretend you’re someone and keep quiet.’
Jimmy walked up to the man. The door warden’s nose wrinkled – Well, I can’t blame him, thought Jimmy – and his eyes narrowed; a thick-knuckled hand went to the vinewood club.
Wordlessly, Jimmy held up a silver coin the size of his thumbnail. I’ve known this sort of thing to work, he thought, schooling his face to look embarrassed and supercilious at the same time. I’ve just never been able to afford bathing in a proper bathhouse, before.
He’d never been much of one for bathing in general, either; but associating with lords and princesses, even for a short while, tended to alter your standards. He discovered that enduring a bucket of cold water and some soap every day or two earned him approval from the Princess Anita, and that had been worth it. He had also discovered he itched a lot less and felt better afterwards.
‘My good man, we need to bathe,’ he said, shaping the tones of an upper-class accent. ‘And to buy fresh clothing.’
‘Ye certainly need the bath,’ the man grumbled. ‘Lousy too, no doubt.’
‘Not in the least. We’ve been out on a …’ Jimmy let his expression grow sheepish. ‘Well, we’d rather our parents didn’t find out, and …’ He finished in a rush: ‘You can have this yourself?’
Suspicion gave way to contempt as Jimmy handed over the coin; which was fine with him.
‘We were attacked by street boys,’ Jimmy chattered on – overexplaining made guilt look more plausible. ‘They stole our clothes and pushed us in a sty. The maid at home gave us some coins to get cleaned up. Please, sir, my mother is very strict and she’ll be very, very angry if we go home in this condition.’ Jimmy had always been good at mimicry, and the time spent with Prince Arutha and Princess Anita had given him a wealth of new ways to speak when he needed. He sounded plausible in the role of the son of a minor noble or rich merchant. As long as Larry remembered to keep his mouth shut.
He and Larry had more than enough scrapes and bruises to make their story seem authentic. Knocking about in dark sewers and climbing walls and houses had added a good share of cuts as well.
‘Go on through,’ the door warden said. ‘You can use the baths, but rinse off good first. You’ll have to find your own clothes – this isn’t a tailor’s shop, lads.’
They went through; the door warden spoke a few words in the ear of the woman who sat by bathers’ clothes so they wouldn’t be lifted, and her scowl cleared a bit.
‘I’ll not put those wipe-rags near honest folk’s clothing,’ she said.
‘Take them away and burn them,’ Jimmy instructed, as he and Larry stripped. That was in character; even rags were worth something, and the woman would undoubtedly get a few coppers for them. She nodded and smiled, and Jimmy knew that later that night she would be boiling them clean and selling them to a rag peddler by this time tomorrow.
‘You, boy,’ Jimmy said, beginning to enjoy himself. One of the attendants put down his broom and came over.
‘My brother and I will require new garments,’ Jimmy said loftily. He looked at the boy before him and estimated that he was just between his and Larry’s size. ‘I need you to buy us some new things. Trousers, shirts and linen,’ he instructed. ‘Something just too large to fit you for me, and something just too small to fit you for my brother. We’ll have to do without shoes and stockings, I suppose.’ He glanced at Larry who nodded, a supercilious expression on his face. ‘The colours should be muted,’ he went on, sighing at the confused expression on the boy’s face. ‘Nothing red or orange or patterned,’ he explained.
He counted out five small silvers, more than enough for the items. ‘You may keep the change,’ Jimmy said, ensuring that it would be. ‘And if you hurry back, you shall have this.’ He held up two more silver coins.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy said, tugging his forelock, and rushed off.
‘Shall we enjoy the steam room while we wait?’
Larry sniffed his arm and made a face. ‘Yes!’ he said fervently.
Clean and dressed, the two of them headed for the Poor Quarter. They looked respectable enough, like apprentices, perhaps, except for their lack of shoes, so it was reasonable to think themselves fairly safe in the respectable parts of town. But under the circumstances they couldn’t make themselves feel safe, a fact never far from their minds.
In the Poor Quarter their new clothes might raise a passing eyebrow, but it would be obvious from their attitude that they belonged and that the first glance wouldn’t be followed by a second.
Ordinarily, that is. But then, under ordinary circumstances there would be street children and beggars everywhere, and not a few whores plying their trade. Now, as the two boys walked along they found the streets nearly deserted. The few people walking about were mostly grown men, their eyes constantly moving, and from them Jimmy and Larry received a great deal of attention. It felt as if they were surrounded by the secret police.
‘I can’t take this,’ Larry said. ‘I keep expectin’ someone to grab my neck. I’m goin’ to the Rest.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘Not me. I’ve had enough of sewers for one day. I’m for a drink.’
The younger boy shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’ He looked at Jimmy for a moment. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and it was almost a question.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’ He made it sound like a promise.
They separated then, without so much as a backward glance; Larry disappearing into the gloom of an alleyway, Jimmy walking along the street.
As he walked, Jimmy thought.
The mortared collar needs to go, and we’ve got to do it some way that won’t draw the guards. That was easier said than done. Drugs? he wondered. It would have to be something potent, to make them oblivious to the noise of stonework.
But there was no way to get to the guards without going to gaol, wherein getting at the guards was problematic at best.
Deep down an idea stirred. Too formless yet to grasp, Jimmy let it go and simply followed his feet, trying not to think at all. He’d found that sometimes ideas were like that, they’d flee if you pursued them, but they just might come to you if you just left them be.
He walked along, hands in his pockets, eyes on his bare toes, listening to the sounds around him for quite a while, and quite a way. Finally he stopped and looked up to find himself before a tavern. There wasn’t a sign, unless you counted the anatomically-based scratchings on the once-plastered wall, but there was a withered bunch of branches pinned above the door. That let out the noise of voices, the smell of rushes not changed in a long time, and much spilled beer.
Ah, yes, he grinned, and went in. Where else? My feet are smarter than my head tonight; they’ve led me straight to the place I want. It wasn’t until this moment that Jimmy realized that what he really needed was magic. How else were they going to do it? And where else in Krondor would he find a magician willing to help him? Nowhere else.
And there was only one magician within a week’s travel who wouldn’t ask too many questions first, or tell someone else: Asher.
The few magicians in the principality with enough power or wealth to avoid being hunted down by locals for perceived curses – dead calves, curdled milk, crops to fail – all tended to keep to themselves. There was a three-storey stone house with a courtyard, near the southeastern gate to the city, that was reputed to be the occasional home of a powerful mage, but each time Jimmy had passed it, he could detect no signs of life. From time to time word would spread through the city that a travelling magician was stopping at this or that inn, and whether they were willing to trade services or magical goods for gold, but that was a rare event.
No, Asher was unique: a magician and a drunk. And from what was rumoured, one who also liked to gamble and enjoy the company of women less than half his age. So he kept permanent residence in the part of the city where no one had calves to stillbirth, milk to curdle, or crops to fail. With so few prosperous undertakings in the Poor Quarter, there was scarcely any reason to seek someone else to blame for failure. Failure was a daily fact of life here.
The tavern had seen better days; the booth-like ‘snugs’ tucked into the corner were too fancy for its present clientele, most of whom sat on their knife scabbards as they threw dice, to keep themselves conscious of where the hilts were.
Jimmy looked into the farthest corner in the place and his grin grew wider. But then finding Alban Asher in this tavern was as reliable as finding bad ale in a dirty mug. Jimmy had never seen him anywhere but in his cobwebbed corner. For all the young thief knew he’d grown roots there. But then, Asher didn’t need to go anywhere. The world came to him. Despite being an old sot, compulsive gambler and womanizer, if he was sober enough, the spells he sold worked very well indeed. Jimmy had heard of a few failures, but they were more a disappointment than a disaster. Certainly not enough to put off any potential business. Besides, where else would one go in the principality to find a magician willing to sell magic for enough gold to get drunk on, sit down at a card game, or convince a young girl to bed someone her grandfather’s age?
Jimmy got himself a mug of ale and acquired a cup of the tavern’s best wine. Which smelled raw enough to strip tar, and though he wasn’t the most fastidious fellow in the city, he had no intention of actually drinking the ale he’d bought. Going over to the magician’s table Jimmy placed the wine before him and sat in the other seat, watching the formless heap of black robes across from him.
It took a moment for the man to come to life, but the scent of the wine eventually evoked a response. A clawlike hand reached out of a sleeve and lifted the cup; the magician took a sip and made a guttural, approving sound. Jimmy’s throat closed when he thought of what the man must usually imbibe. The magician hiccupped and then gave a powerful belch, chuckling evilly at Jimmy’s expression when the vapours hit him.
Jimmy sat, waiting.
It was impossible to guess Asher’s age. For one thing, the tavern was dark, and this corner of it darker still; for another, the magician’s head was surrounded by a bush of sandy hair. His beard, moustache, eyebrows and head-hair were all as thick and impenetrable as a bramble bush. As for his face, all that could be seen were a bulbous nose almost the same shade as the wine and the gleam of his eyes beneath his shaggy brows. It was suspected he might be as young as sixty summers, but then again, some suggested he was ninety and being kept alive by dark spells. All Jimmy knew from rumours was that the magician existed in a state of seeming indifference to the world around him unless he was drinking, gambling or whoring. And by all reports when the drinking wasn’t excessive, he was fairly successful with the gambling and whoring.
‘Ye want somethin’,’ Alban Asher the magician said in a matter-of-fact tone. His voice was deep and raspy. Even sitting down he was weaving, indicating that he was already well into the bottle.
‘Yessir,’ Jimmy confirmed cheerfully. ‘I’ll pay extra for secrecy.’
After a moment Asher chuckled in a way that spoke of pure greed. With a gesture he encouraged Jimmy to continue.
‘I need one or two spells that I can carry away with me and set off where and when I want,’ the young thief said.
‘Love spells,’ Asher said, nodding sagely. ‘Boys yer age’re all after love spells.’ He chuckled salaciously and touched one grubby finger to his nose.
Jimmy supposed that he winked, but couldn’t tell. ‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘not a love spell.’
‘Boys yer age …’ the magician began, sounding annoyed.
‘Definitely not a love spell,’ Jimmy repeated.
I prefer my girls to have a choice in the matter, he thought. It’s a matter of pride. Not that there was any point in trying to explain that to someone oblivious to the concept.
‘I’ve got a mortared wall I need to take down but I don’t want to break my back. Have you got anything for that?’
Asher stabbed a finger at him. ‘Yer a thief!’ he snarled in a rather loud whisper.
Jimmy rolled his eyes. ‘Thieves don’t knock down walls,’ he pointed out.
The mass of hair bunched around the magician’s nose in what Jimmy assumed was a frown. ‘Mmm, true,’ Asher agreed, blinking like an owl suddenly confronting a lantern light. ‘Got somethin’ might work.’ He rubbed his chin ruminatively. ‘Somethin’ about it though …’
‘I’ll take it,’ Jimmy said quickly, sure now that the magician was drunk. ‘I also need something to knock people out.’
‘Ah!’ Asher said and chuckled. ‘Girls! I knew it!’ Then he chuckled some more.
Jimmy had noticed that Asher had the most nuanced chuckle he’d ever heard. In this case it indicated that the magician’s relations with women when he hadn’t enough gold for whores wouldn’t bear close scrutiny.
‘No, no girls,’ Jimmy said. ‘Men, big, heavy men, so if size is an issue you should plan for that.’
‘Men?’ the magician said as though he’d never heard of them before. After a moment he shrugged. ‘Ah, well, takes all kinds. I’ve got somethin’ – I c’n make it stronger. It’s that wall spell …’
His voice faded off and he looked over Jimmy’s head so steadily the boy thief turned around to look. There was no one there but the tavern keeper, dozing behind the bar, and a man weeping into his beer. That would normally have attracted derisive attention had anyone else been present, except that the man looked to weigh about half what a heavy cavalryman’s horse did, and had a scar like a young gully from the point of his jaw up over one empty eye-socket, not to mention layers of slick tissue half an inch thick over the knuckles of both hands.
Jimmy looked at the magician out of the corner of his eye, then back at the bar. If Asher wanted more wine he’d have to wait until they’d finished their negotiations and the goods had changed hands.
‘What’s wrong with the wall spell?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Doesn’t it work?’
‘Oh, aye, it works,’ Asher said slowly. He shook his head as though that might dislodge something in his mind. ‘There’s jist, somethin’ …’ He reached out with thumb and forefinger, as if to grasp something.
‘Is it dangerous?’ Jimmy asked, his voice sounding as though he could be.
The magician blew out his cheeks. ‘Only if ye’re not supposed to use it!’ he said. ‘It works! It works very well, I tell ye.’
‘What about the knock-out spell?’ Jimmy asked.
With a dismissive wave of his hand Asher plopped a small bag onto the table. ‘Hardly magic at all,’ he said. ‘But you want it for big strapping fellows, instead of skinny little girls …’ He paused, looked at Jimmy for a moment as if trying to understand something totally alien to his imagination, then said, ‘Never mind. Give me a moment.’ He closed his eyes, waved his hand over the bag and muttered for a few minutes.
The hair on the back of Jimmy’s neck rose. What he called his ‘bump of trouble’ let him know that Asher was indeed using magic. Since he could remember, Jimmy possessed a near supernatural ability to sense approaching danger or the presence of magic being used.
Asher finished, and said, ‘Now it’s stronger.’ He pushed the pouch toward Jimmy. ‘Take a pinch and blow it into the face o’ the one ye’re tryin’ to knock down and down he’ll go!’
‘And the wall?’
The magician grunted. Turning, he grabbed a sack behind his chair and hoisted it onto the filthy table. He opened it and began to rummage around inside, digging deeper and deeper until he was halfway into the bag. Things rattled and clinked as Asher sorted through them, occasionally chuckling, as though being reminded of some nasty trick he intended to play as soon as he got the time. ‘Ah!’ he said at last and withdrew his head; he slung the sack back behind his chair and put a tiny bottle sealed with lead on the table between them. ‘There ye are,’ he said proudly.
Jimmy peered at it. It was only as big as the first joint of his little finger and as far as he could tell in the dim light it was completely empty. He reached out to take a closer look at it but the magician’s hand came down over it before he could touch the bottle.
‘Ah!’ Asher said in warning. ‘We an’t discussed price yet.’
‘There’s nothing in that bottle,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘Ah, but there is,’ the magician whispered. ‘One tiny drop. ’Tis all ye need to start the mortar turnin’ to sand. Don’t get it on yersel’ whatever ye do,’ he warned. ‘Put it on yer wall and the job is done! Doesn’t matter where – top, bottom, middle – because as long as stone and mortar are connected, it’ll do the job.’ He sat back. Judging from the position of his whiskers, he was smiling.
‘How much?’ Jimmy wasn’t absolutely certain about any of this, but it was still the best idea he’d had.
Really the only idea beside a hammer and chisel and a lot of prayers to Ruthia that the guards go deaf. Still, he wasn’t about to take the magician’s first price.
‘What’s it worth to ye?’ Asher demanded.
With a cheerful smile Jimmy suggested, ‘Let’s have another drop to ease our bargaining. Innkeeper!’ he shouted, waking the man. ‘Two more of the same!’
It was closing in on dawn when Jimmy left the tavern with his prizes. He held the bottle up and squinted at it against the light of a flickering lantern; the air was chilly and damp, and smelled the way it usually did in the blighted gap between night and morning, as discouraged as the young thief felt.
Still looks like nothing. But, the old man doesn’t have that sort of reputation. Asher was a lot of things, but in the years he had been plying his trade in Krondor, no one had accused him of cheating on a deal, which in the Poor Quarter was the next best thing to a Royal Death Warrant.
He hadn’t got a bargain by any means. Though even making painful inroads into Prince Arutha’s gold, he would never have been able to afford this much magic if the man hadn’t been a complete sot. Not my problem, not my fault. But the price was fair, so he shouldn’t have to worry about waking up covered in boils anytime soon. At least, the price was fair if there was actually something inside the bottle.
Something I mustn’t get on myself, he thought. A worrying idea if you thought it through. How did you pour out something that didn’t appear to exist? Very carefully, he supposed.
Think positively, he told himself. I’ve got the means to save Larry’s brother and Flora and the rest of them. Probably. Which means we’re all better off than we were before.
Now all they had to do was do it.
• Chapter Five • Rescue (#ulink_5754d341-87a9-5f80-8ab8-d31ac19f80e3)
Larry’s eyes grew wide.
‘Alban Asher is a drunk!’ His small face showed more panic than disapproval and his tone was more surprised than angry.
Just think how you’d react if Larry had come to you with this stuff, Jimmy reminded himself. He’s not trying to hit you, and not even walking away.
‘You can’t be serious!’ the younger boy went on.
‘We’re desperate,’ Jimmy pointed out, making a shushing gesture; the Rest wasn’t as crowded as it had been after the new laws were announced, but it was still busier than usual: a lot of people, normally on the streets, were sleeping. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ he went on. Jimmy had heard that saying somewhere and liked the sound of it: he usually did, when something made for a good excuse.
‘Desperate, not stupid!’ Larry insisted.
‘Desperate measures often look stupid before they’re carried out,’ Jimmy said. ‘It’s a historical fact, you can look it up in the royal archives.’
‘I can’t get into the royal archives, and besides I can’t read!’ the younger boy shouted. His face was bright red and tears of frustration brightened his eyes. ‘But if I could I bet I could prove you wrong!’ He thumped his back against a wall and slid down to sit in a heap on the floor. ‘What are we gonna do?’ he wailed.
‘First,’ Jimmy said, leaning over him, ‘you can stop shouting, people are starting to stare.’
Actually, no one was looking. But then Mockers, being thieves and scoundrels, rarely stared; but they always eavesdropped and he couldn’t afford to be overheard. Nevertheless, saying so seemed to stiffen Larry’s spine. Jimmy had often noticed that nonsense at the right moment could do wonders, if it was the right nonsense.
‘Sorry,’ the boy said gruffly. ‘It’s just …’
‘Larry,’ Jimmy said, leaning close, ‘if you’ve got a better idea tell it to me. I want to hear it.’
His friend hung his head and slowly shook it.
‘All right. Look, if we get no further by using this we’re no further behind either. And even if Asher is a drunk he’s got the reputation for knowing his craft.’ He gave the boy a pat on the shoulder and a crooked grin. ‘If he didn’t someone from the Guild would have cut his throat by now. Which means he wouldn’t be working for me.’
Larry gave him a weak smile.
‘Have you got the rope?’ Jimmy asked.
The boy nodded. ‘Stowed it in the tunnel just behind the collapse and piled some rocks over it.’
‘Good.’ It must be well hidden, Jimmy thought. He had left a bunch of rags and a bottle of vinegar there before coming to Mocker’s Rest and he hadn’t seen it. ‘Well, let’s do it then,’ he said and started off.
Larry’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head and he caught up with the other thief quickly. ‘Now?’ he whispered.
‘The sooner the better,’ Jimmy said wisely. ‘And why not?’
Larry shook his head. ‘It’s daytime!’ he protested.
‘So, they won’t be expecting us,’ Jimmy replied, with a wink.
‘But there’ll be more guards, won’t there?’
‘Why should there be? Are the iron bars less sturdy during the day?’
‘No, I mean, they’re awake, in the keep walking around and acting like guards.’
Jimmy stopped abruptly and glared down at the younger boy. ‘You want to do this or not?’
‘Do!’ Larry said, nodding vigorously.
Looking him in the eye Jimmy said, ‘Then let’s do it!’
He strode off without looking back. After a brief silence, Jimmy smiled to hear Larry’s footsteps following. This would work and then he’d be a legend among the Mockers forever after. He carefully kept himself from thinking of the alternative – most of them involved ropes, sharp things or red-hot things, or things that were sharp and red-hot and applied to the tender parts of his body.
Jimmy the Hand was still less than fourteen years, more or less, and like most youngsters he felt as if he’d live forever. But like most Mockers he’d seen a great deal of death during those years; not enough to grant him a sense of his own mortality, but enough to teach him caution.
It was all Jimmy could do to force himself back into the half-collapsed tunnel and up the shaft that led into the main cell of Krondor’s dungeon. He’d spent most of his young life wandering reeking sewers and stinking alleyways so he was used to the stench and the velvet-deep darkness. But if a smell could be terrifying, this was. The stink seemed to creep up on him. It had hair and teeth and mean little eyes, it had a personality all of its own, a very bad personality that bore down on his spirit with an almost physical weight. But by telling himself that he’d never have to do this again Jimmy was able to meet the challenge. Tying the vinegar-soaked rag over his face, he put the bundle of rags and bottle of vinegar into his shirt for the others. He knew a fit of retching on the way down might land someone at the bottom of the shaft a lot faster and in much worse shape than they needed to be. Not that the vinegar smell helped a lot, but anything was better than a bare face here.
He pulled on some gloves, slung the knotted rope across his chest and began climbing.
It went faster this time because he knew what to expect, but his prayers to Ruthia were no less fervent. Once he reached the blockage he braced his feet and shoulders against the walls of the shaft, pulled off one glove, worked the tiny bottle from the pouch tied to his belt and broke the lead seal with his fingernail. Then he looked for a place to spill out the invisible drop.
The mortar just above him was quite smooth and Jimmy remembered Asher’s warning not to get the stuff on himself. Higher up, as though the mason was getting bored with the job or finding it harder to reach with his trowel, the work was messier, with little shelves and projections of cement making a good spot for the spell to be poured. But that meant pushing his arm and shoulder up close against that slimy hole. The very idea sent a surge of nausea through him, so he took a few slow, deep breaths, forcing himself to ignore the Smell and focused his mind on the goal.
Free the Mockers. Become famous. All the girls will admire you … once you’ve taken a bath.
Gradually his stomach calmed itself.
Part of the problem was that he still hadn’t been able to see anything in the bottle and his faith in the drunken magician wasn’t all that strong, in spite of what he’d said to Larry. He was more afraid they might fail than that they’d be caught and hanged.
‘Do it,’ he grumbled, gritting his teeth. As he’d said himself, it wasn’t as if there was anything better available.
Jimmy bit his lips and thrust his arm into the hole, aiming for a large projection he thought he could reach, but aiming blind since his arm cut off what little light filtered down from the cell above.
Dear Ruthia, he prayed, please don’t let me get this on myself. He braced his shoulders hard against the wall, quickly pulled the tiny stopper from the small vial, and tilted it away from his left hand, pressing the open mouth of the container against the mortar. He held it motionless for a long count of seconds, wondering how he was supposed to tell when the vial was empty. Finally, he assumed it had to be.
It was done, except for the waiting to see if the spell would work. He held his breath, pressed himself against the sides of the shaft walls, wondering what to expect.
He missed the first few grains of falling mortar but then a stone fell, hitting him on the thigh. It hadn’t occurred to him that there would be falling stones; then he remembered the iron grate above and hurriedly climbed back down again, some little part of him wailing in discontent. He’d have to go up again after all.
In less than a minute the heavy iron grate that had covered the shaft fell down with a crash on top of the dislodged stones and the heap of sand that had once been sturdy mortar.
Jimmy noted a cracked stone beneath it and blew out a relieved breath. Then he re-wet the rag he pulled over his mouth and nose with vinegar, rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles and began climbing again. He found a ring of faces waiting for him when he got to the top and hands reached out to pull him up. He blinked for a moment; even the twilight dimness of the big cell seemed bright, after the passageways below. Feet rustled in the damp straw that covered the floor, and he could feel more than see the inmates gathering around him.
‘Jimmy!’
That was Flora’s voice; she elbowed her way through the crush and embraced him, recoiling instantly, her eyes wide, her pretty mouth contorted into a rictus of disgust. Considering the condition of the dungeon and its inhabitants, that said a great deal.
‘I know,’ he apologized quietly. ‘Quiet, unless you want the guards here! The smell can’t be helped.’ He pulled out the bundle of rags and the vinegar. ‘This will cut the smell, but it’s the only way out we could find.’
‘I can’t get down there,’ a legless beggar said.
‘Get down where?’ asked one of the blind ones.
‘Anyone who needs help getting down we can lower them with this rope,’ Jimmy said.
He slung it off and looked around for something to anchor it to, settling on the bars of the cell. He glanced anxiously out into the dim corridor but saw no one.
Good. If the excitement caused by his arrival hadn’t brought the guards running they were probably safe. At least for now. But then, why pay attention to a dungeon with no exit?
‘Why are you doing this?’ Flora asked him in a whisper. She smiled and shook her head, clearly embarrassed for him. ‘They aren’t going to keep us in here forever, you know.’
‘No they’re not,’ Jimmy said grimly. ‘Tomorrow or the next day they’re planning to hang the lot of you girls, and the beggars get fifty lashes apiece.’
Flora stared at him in horror. ‘What for?’ she asked. ‘What are we supposed to have done?’
‘Only what you’ve always done,’ he told her. ‘It’s just they changed the law.’
She closed her mouth and her eyes grew cool. ‘Because of the Princess,’ she said.
‘Or just because del Garza’s crazy,’ Jimmy said with a grin. ‘Doesn’t matter. In a few minutes there’ll be nobody left for him to hang. Unless he wants to hang his own guards for letting you go.’
She returned his smile slowly, a wicked glint growing in her eyes.
‘Well, then. Let’s get to work, shall we?’
Once they heard the news, the other Mockers and even the few strangers pitched in eagerly. When the rope was tied firmly, Jimmy said, ‘As soon as you get to the sewers, scatter. Don’t wait around, unless you’re helping those who can’t get away alone. By the time I get down last, I want you all gone. Make your way as best you can to your flops or back to Mocker’s Rest, but be careful. Once they find you all gone, things in the city are going to get even worse for a while.’ Jimmy sent Gerald, Larry the Ear’s young brother, down first. Mostly to soothe Larry’s fears, partly to show the girls and everyone else how easy the climb was. Except for the Smell. Wisely, he didn’t dwell on that part. And once the escapees encountered it they certainly weren’t going to climb back up, although if they’d known what was facing them some of them might have preferred hanging.
Finally it was just Jimmy and Flora. He turned to her with an excited grin.
‘There’s something I want to do before I go.’ Flora looked puzzled, but nodded for him to go on. ‘Rumours are flying that del Garza put Prince Erland in the dungeon. Do you have any idea where they’d keep him?’ he asked.
‘How would I know?’
‘But he must be somewhere near here, right?’ Jimmy asked.
Crossing her arms, she stared at him for a long moment. ‘I suppose so. If the rumours said he was in the dungeons, that would be here.’ She cocked her head. ‘Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?’
He nodded eagerly, his grin growing wider, if that was possible. ‘I’m going to get him out.’
Flora’s eyes widened. ‘Are you crazy?’ she hissed, shaking her head as though trying to dislodge something. ‘I can’t even imagine what they’d do if you did that.’ Her eyes widened further. ‘The Upright Man!’ Flora covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Del Garza might not catch you, but the Upright Man certainly would!’
‘He’d probably be very pleased indeed,’ Jimmy said confidently. A lot more confidently than he actually felt. The Upright Man doesn’t confide in me, either.
She lowered her hand and licked her lips. ‘You really mean to do this, don’t you?’
‘Why not?’ he countered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘What better chance will anyone have? What patriotic citizen of Krondor could pass it up?’
‘All right,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ll help you.’
That took him aback; he hadn’t meant to convert her. ‘I can handle it,’ he said firmly. ‘No need for you to risk getting caught again.’
‘He’s supposed to be ill, Jimmy. You may need some help with him.’
She gave him a steady look until he nodded reluctantly. Then he went to work on the cell’s lock. It was tougher than he’d expected, but then, it was supposed to keep common prisoners in, not lock-crackers with a full set of picks. He worked the tumblers by feel, by the tension of the wire struts bending under his fingers, and for the first time blessed Long Charlie for all those tedious drills. Flora stood beside him, her body taut with fear, keeping an eye out for the guards. Then the last probe sprang back; there was a click sound from within the heavy lock-plate, and they both winced at the protesting squeal of the hinges.
‘Which way?’ he wondered aloud.
‘They brought us in that way,’ Flora said, nodding left down a corridor of mortared stone; what little light there was came from a round sun-well in the ceiling, no bigger than the diameter of a man’s head.
‘There were two large cells before this one, but little else. So I think we should go this way.’ She pointed to the right and then quickly moved off.
‘Better let me go first,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ve got something I can use in case we meet anyone.’
Flora raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object.
Jimmy moved ahead of her, feeling awkward because while what he’d said was true the real reason he wanted to be first was, well …
Because I want to be first. And he suspected Flora knew it.
The corridor they followed was dark and narrow. Jimmy couldn’t imagine why it was laid out this way, unless the proposed inhabitants were supposed to be owls and cats. He thought that it actually worked to their advantage though, providing them with cover when they needed to look around a corner, to see if the way was clear. So far, there was no one here to notice them. Every cell they’d checked on their way was empty.
Which surprised him; he’d been sure del Garza was jailing anyone he felt like throwing into the dungeon. And given Jocko Radburn’s personality, Jimmy had been sure he’d find half the city behind bars. At least the official half.
He was getting impatient; they’d been walking so long it felt as if they must be all the way on the other side of the keep by now.
Then the flickering light of a torch outside a cell up ahead revealed the presence of a guard. A Bas-Tyran from his black and gold uniform and nearly asleep, even standing up and leaning on his halberd, judging from the way his helmeted head kept nodding off and then jerking up again. Sleeping standing up seemed to be one of the basic military skills.
Jimmy squatted, waving Flora down too; they were behind a quarter-turn in the passageway’s meander. Then he dug the small bag he’d purchased from Asher out of his pouch and unknotted the string. That was when it occurred to him that he had no idea how much of the stuff to use. His mouth twisted in exasperation. He’d been thinking about the wrong thing; how much he’d pay, rather than how much to use and how long it would last. Too late now.
He decided to sneak up on the nodding guard and blow just a pinch into the man’s face. He’d keep on doing that until the guard collapsed. Jimmy gave a mental shrug. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. After all, things had gone pretty well so far using trial and error.
He turned to Flora and silently cautioned her to stay put. She nodded and made a shooing gesture. When he’d turned away Jimmy crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, a gesture he’d never dream of making to her face; but he hated being told what to do. Especially when it was his idea to do it in the first place.
Focus, he told himself and did so.
He went forward swiftly but without hurry, moving on the balls of his bare feet like a cat. The guard was in the head-nodding phase of his waking doze: Jimmy took a pinch of the magician’s powder and blew it into his face just as he jerked it up again. With a loud, pig-like snort, the guard dropped like a sack of potatoes and the young thief barely caught the man’s polearm before it, too, crashed to the floor.
Flora moved up beside him and the two of them stared at the fallen soldier in astonishment.
‘What did you use?’ Flora whispered.
‘Something I got from a magician,’ Jimmy told her in a more normal voice. He snatched the keys from the guard’s belt. ‘Something I’ve got to get more of. Useful stuff!’ He took the bag out of his tunic and handed it to her. ‘Here, you keep it. If someone comes, blow a pinch into his face and make sure you don’t breathe any of the powder yourself.’ She nodded and put the small bag inside her bodice. ‘Come on, let’s open that door.’
The tiny cell was pitch-black, until they brought the torch in with them. It was colder than the corridor outside and smelled of mould and human waste.
On the floor was a thin pallet of filthy straw and on the pallet, beneath a single ragged blanket, lay a man. His face was waxen pale, eyes and cheeks deeply sunken and his breathing rasped and gurgled as if each one was a struggle.
Flora breathed an ‘Ooooh’ of sympathy and crouched by the man’s side. She took one of his hands in hers and immediately began to chafe it. ‘He’s so cold, Jimmy.’ She turned and looked up at him. ‘Go and get that guard’s cloak.’
Jimmy raised his brows; he hadn’t expected her to start nursing anybody. But if this was the Prince he’d need to be a lot more active than he was if they were to get him out of here. He placed the torch in an iron bracket by the door and went to do as she’d asked.
When he returned she said, ‘Let’s get some of that under him. This straw’s no protection at all from the floor.’
Jimmy nodded, but he was dismayed to find the man still unconscious. How were they going to know they had the right prisoner if he couldn’t tell them? The young thief had only ever seen the Prince from a distance and he’d been healthier then, by far, than this man.
He slipped an arm under the prisoner’s head and shoulders and heaved, almost sending him flying, for he weighed nothing at all, as if his body was made of sticks and air.
‘Well, if we have to carry him we can,’ he muttered.
‘But, Jimmy, he’s so ill,’ Flora said. She tucked the cloak around her patient’s emaciated body. Then she threw up her hands in despair. ‘Just listen to his breathing, it’s pneumonia, no doubt, and he’s got a fever.’
‘And we don’t know if he’s the Prince,’ Jimmy said grimly.
‘Who are you children?’ the man whispered, and he opened his fever-bright eyes upon them.
Then he coughed, long and hard, curling into himself until the spasm passed, his face contorted with pain. When it was over he lay back with a careful sigh. His two would-be rescuers watched him with wincing sympathy that turned to solemn looks when he opened his eyes again.
‘Well?’
‘We’re Mockers,’ Jimmy said. ‘Who are you?’
The man formed the word Mockers with his lips, but didn’t say it. Then he grinned, a truly terrible expression on his pale and wasted features. ‘I,’ he said breathlessly, carefully separating his words, ‘am Prince Erland of Krondor.’
They could see the pride in the man, even under these sordid conditions.
‘Have you got anything to drink?’ Flora asked. ‘His lips are so dry.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’ll check the guard.’
He was back in a moment and handing a flask to Flora.
‘I think it’s wine,’ he said.
Flora lifted the Prince’s head and brought the flask to his lips.
‘Thank you,’ Erland said after a long drink. He raised his brows. ‘That was rather good, and I haven’t had anything since they moved me down here this morning.’
It might have been his imagination but it seemed to Jimmy that the Prince’s colour was better. Erland indicated that he would like more and Flora gave it to him.
‘We’ve come to get you out of here, uh, your highness,’ Jimmy said. At least he thought highness was the right thing to call him. He was pretty sure that your majesty was totally wrong.
But the Prince shook his head. ‘There’s little point.’ He smiled at them. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate your efforts, young Mockers. But,’ he paused to catch his breath, ‘I will not live much longer.’ He cleared his throat and the fear that he might cough was in his eyes. When no such fit took place he continued speaking. ‘I have been ill for a long time, and I am tired. Putting me here will only hasten my death, but death is coming, no matter where I am.’ He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘The priests and chirurgeons have done all they can, but there is a sickness inside my lungs that is slowly eating away at me.’ His face was so drawn and pale, Jimmy would have thought him confined for years, not hours, so he judged the Prince a man very much close to death. ‘Much too tired to make the effort to escape. But you should.’ He smiled at them.
Jimmy knew the Prince was right for somehow he could see the man’s death in his worn face.
‘Your wife!’ Flora said. ‘We could help her escape.’
‘She’s under guard up in our apartment,’ Erland said. ‘You could never reach her.’ He took a long, slow breath, trying to avoid another coughing fit. ‘Del Garza ordered me put here when my daughter fled the castle. She’s hiding somewhere in the city. He thinks that by threatening me with a cold death, she’ll return without him tearing apart the city and starting a civil riot.’
‘No, sir,’ said Jimmy. ‘She’s not in the city. She’s three days or more gone by ship to Crydee, with Prince Arutha.’
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Raymond E. Feist и Steve Stirling
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Зарубежное фэнтези
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The whole of the magnificent Riftwar Cycle by bestselling author Raymond E. Feist, master of magic and adventure, now available in ebookJimmy the Hand, boy thief of Krondor, lived in the shadows of the city. The sewers were his byways and a flea-ridden, rat-infested cellar his home. Although gifted beyond his peers, he was still but a nimble street urchin, a pickpocket with potential. Until the day he met Prince Arutha.Aiding the Prince in his rescue of Princess Anita from imprisonment by Duke Guy du Bas-Tyra, Jimmy runs afoul of Black Guy′s secret police. Given the choice of disappearing on his own or in a weighted barrel at the bottom of Krondor′s harbor, Jimmy flees the only home he′s ever known, venturing south to the relatively safe haven of Land′s End. Suspecting that the rural villagers have never encountered a lad with his talent and nose for finding wealth—other people′s wealth—he′s fairly optimistic about his broadening horizons. But Jimmy is completely unprepared for what greets him.For Land′s End is home to others who tread the crooked path, and more, to a much darker secret: a dangerous presence unknown even to the local thieves and smugglers. And Jimmy′s youthful bravado and courage will plunge him deep into the maw of chaos and even—if he isn′t careful—death.