Legends of the Riftwar (74 page)

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 inter-view, 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 salt-stained 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?'