Krondor the Assassins (22 page)

Half a block away was an alley. ‘‘We don’t have much time,’’

James said. ‘‘They’ll wait another two minutes, then they’ll figure we’ve tumbled to the trap.’’

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James found what he was looking for, a wooden stairway to an upper floor door. He hurried up the steps, trying not to make any more noise than necessary, and William followed close behind. To William the noise of his own heavy boots on the wooden steps was certainly loud enough to wake those inside and warn whoever waited half a block away. Yet James seemed untroubled by it. He reached the door at the top of the stairs and pointed up toward the overhanging roof.

‘‘Give me a boost,’’ James whispered.

William made a stirrup with his hands and lifted James easily upward so he was quickly sitting on the roof. James turned and reached over to help William up. ‘‘Hurry!’’ he whispered.

William grabbed James’s hand and came up easily. An instant later both were moving, crouched low, toward the far edge. James again lay down and peered over the edge. He held up his hand and showed four fingers, without taking his eyes off the men below.

William didn’t risk looking over as James retreated.

‘‘Ever jump off a roof before?’’

‘‘What, twenty feet?’’

‘‘Something like that.’’

‘‘With something to break my fall, yes.’’

James grinned. ‘‘There are four possibilities down there.’’

He pulled out his sword and sat down on the edge of the roof. He slid until he could grab the eaves with his left hand.

He held himself there for an instant, cutting the distance from his feet to the ground by nearly half, then pushed away and landed feet-first on the shoulders of the rearmost man. The ambusher smashed into the ground, either dead or unconscious, as James tucked and rolled across the hard cobbles of the street.

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William didn’t consider the bruises that move would leave, or the splinters he would collect, as he attempted to duplicate James’s feat.

His hand missed the roof, so rather than slowing down, William fell hard upon the next man below, crushing his spine as they slammed into the street. William’s head swam for an instant, but while he gathered his wits, training and reflex took over. He was sitting on a corpse; without thought he got off and rolled over into a fighter’s crouch.

As his faculties returned, William found himself with his sword out, point leveled at a frightened-looking man, who had his own sword at the ready. James was engaged with another man who was either trying to circle him to escape, or get into a better position to fight. The man James had landed on lay groaning on the cobbles.

William’s opponent, a stocky fellow with the muscles of a dockworker, lunged with his sword. William, even though still slightly dazed from his fall, easily deflected the lunge and parried. He let the man slide up on him, then threw his shoulder into him, knocking him back.

The man staggered but recovered before William could close. William blinked, trying to clear his vision, and when things cleared, he saw his opponent dropping his sword and putting up his hands, palms outward. James was standing behind him, his sword firmly pressing against the man’s spine. ‘‘That’s the lad,’’ said James. ‘‘No sense dying along with the others, is there?’’

The man said nothing. He made a small step forward as if he was trying to escape, then threw himself backward with all his weight, impaling himself on James’s sword.

William watched in shock. ‘‘What?’’

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James yanked loose his sword and caught the man as he fell. He looked into the man’s eyes, and said, ‘‘Dead.’’

‘‘Why?’’

He reached inside the man’s tunic and pulled out an amulet.

It was a dark metal, with a relief hawk inscribed upon it.

‘‘Nighthawks,’’ James said. ‘‘Again.’’ He looked around.

‘‘Wait here.’’

William said nothing as James scurried off into the night.

Time passed slowly and William wondered what James could be doing. He held his sword ready and waited. Just as he began to wonder if he should leave and find the city guards, James reappeared with a pair of city constables. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, pointing to the bodies. ‘‘I want one of you to guard them and another to hurry and get a wagon. Bring them to the palace.’’

‘‘Yes, squire,’’ said a constable. He glanced at his companion, who nodded, and turned and hurried off into the darkness.

‘‘What now?’’ asked William.

‘‘Back to the palace, as soon as the wagon gets here.’’

William watched, suddenly overwhelmed by numbing fatigue, as the constable studied the fallen assassins. James was content to remain silent, and William also felt no need to speak.

But deep inside, beneath the uncertainty about his handling of the duke’s safety, and the enormity of what they were about to undertake, he wondered if he was equal to the tasks being set before him. Taking a deep breath, he resolved that, ready or not, he would do his best, and leave it to the gods to judge his efforts worthy or not.

Arutha stood in the dark cellar as the four dead men were stripped and examined closely by a pair of soldiers. James and William waited nearby, watching.

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Every article of clothing, weapon and personal item was examined for a hint of where these men came from. As expected, the search turned up little. Each man had an identical hawk amulet on a chain. Other than weapons, a simple ring on one man, and a small pouch of gold coins on another, the men were anonymous. Nothing hinted at their origins.

Arutha pointed to one of the shirts and said, ‘‘Give that to me.’’

A soldier brought it over and Arutha looked at it closely.

‘‘I wish I had my wife’s eye for garments, but I think this is a Keshian weave.’’

James said, ‘‘The boots!’’

Arutha waved and all the dead men’s boots were brought over. Arutha, James and William inspected them and found several bootmakers’ marks.

‘‘I don’t recognize these,’’ said Arutha. ‘‘So they’re not Krondorian, I’m certain.’’

James said, ‘‘I’ll get pen and paper and copy these. By noon tomorrow I’ll know who these makers are.’’

Arutha nodded and James sent a page scurrying off. In less than five minutes he was back and he said, ‘‘Squire, I’ve just been told they’ve been looking for you all evening.’’

Arutha glanced over and said, ‘‘Who are ‘they’?’’

‘‘Jailer Morgon, sire, and his men.’’

Arutha indulged himself in a slight smile and said, ‘‘Why is the jailer looking for you, James?’’

James said, ‘‘I’ll go find out.’’ He handed the pen and paper to William and said, ‘‘Do your best.’’

James left the examination of the dead men to the Prince and hurried along after the page. They parted company when the page headed upstairs to the main floor of the palace, while 196

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James turned and headed down deeper into the dungeon. He reached the door to the jailer’s small apartment and knocked.

‘‘Who is it?’’ came the voice from the other side.

‘‘Squire James. You sent for me?’’

‘‘Oh, yes,’’ said the voice. The door opened and Morgon the Chief Jailer looked out. He was dressed for bed in a gray flannel nightshirt. ‘‘Just turning in, squire. I sent that boy to find you hours ago.’’

‘‘I was out of the palace until a while ago. What can I do for you?’’

The jailer said, ‘‘Nothing for me, but there’s a bloke down in the lock-up claims he needs to talk to you.’’ Morgon was a narrow-faced man of advancing years, but his hair had stayed almost uniformly black in all the time James had lived at the palace. He cut it straight across the forehead and down before the ears, so he looked as if he was wearing a black hat with ear flaps. ‘‘Bit odd, if you ask me. He’s been in lock-up for almost three weeks now, and hasn’t said a thing to anybody.

But his trial’s tomorrow so suddenly he’s shouting for you.’’

‘‘Do you know his name?’’

‘‘Didn’t ask,’’ said Morgon, fighting off a yawn. ‘‘Should I have?’’

‘‘I’ll go see who it is. Who’s on duty?’’

‘‘Sikes. He’ll take you to him.’’

‘‘Good night, Morgon.’’

‘‘Night, squire,’’ said the jailer, closing the door.

James hurried down the small passage that led to the stairs down into the deeper dungeon. The dungeon had two levels.

The upper level was excavated so that narrow windows in the cells let in light, and through which courtyard hangings could be watched by those in the death-cells.

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The lower level was pitch black. Here the palace dungeon was really a vast gallery with four large metal cages in it, the bars running from floor to ceiling. A cross formed by two paths divided the cells from one another. A torch at the foot of the stairs at the end of one of the walkways was the only source of light for the entire vast dungeon. A solider stood beneath the torch and turned as James came down the steps.

‘‘Squire,’’ he said in greeting.

‘‘Someone looking for me down here?’’ asked James.

‘‘Bloke in the far cell. I’ll take you there.’’

James followed as the soldier took the torch from its wall holder and led him past the first two cells, both of which were empty. The two far cells were full of men, mostly sleeping, and a few women huddled together for mutual protection in the corners. These were the brawlers, drunks and troublemakers who were guilty of enough chronic lawbreaking as to be facing the Prince’s justice. Some of the prisoners called out questions, which James ignored.

The soldier led James to the far end of the cell and James saw the large man waiting with his hands on the bars.

When he stopped before him, James heard the man say,

‘‘Glad to see you, Jimmy.’’

James said, ‘‘Ethan. I thought you long gone.’’

The former Abbot of Ishap, former basher in the Mockers, said, ‘‘As did I, but the gods have other plans for us.’’

‘‘Us?’’

With his chin he motioned over his shoulder. ‘‘I’ve got Kat and Limm with me.’’

‘‘When’s your trial?’’

‘‘Tomorrow.’’

‘‘What’s the charge?’’

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‘‘Charges. Unlawful flight, resisting arrest, battery, rioting, and probably treason as well.’’

James turned to the guard and said, ‘‘Get them out of there and bring them to my quarters.’’

‘‘Squire?’’

‘‘I said get them out of there and bring them to my quarters.

Put men outside my door until I send them back to you.’’

The guard still seemed uncertain.

‘‘Would you like me to run up to annoy the Prince for his personal signed order?’’

The guard, like almost everyone else in the garrison, knew the squire could get the Prince’s warrant if he needed to, so he thought better of delaying the inevitable and said, ‘‘I’ll get some of the boys to bring them to you.’’

‘‘See you upstairs, Ethan,’’ James said and left.

A short time later there was a knock at the door of James’s room. Graves, Kat and Limm stood before him, shackled and cuffed in irons. ‘‘Remove the irons and wait outside,’’ ordered James.

‘‘Yes, squire,’’ answered the senior guard.

After the irons were off and the door closed, James indicated a tray he had sent in before they got there, upon which was a pitcher of ale, cheese, bread and cold beef. Limm dug in without hesitation. Graves loaded up a platter for himself and Kat while she filled two flagons.

‘‘Last I saw you, Ethan, you were going to get Kat and head for Kesh.’’

Graves nodded. ‘‘That was the plan.’’

‘‘What happened?’’

Graves said, ‘‘It took me almost a week to find Kat, and then set up the move to Durbin. We were lying low, had a 199

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nice little place in the poor quarter, waiting for the day our ship was heading out. Then the murders started.’’ He looked at Limm and indicated the boy should continue the story.

Limm said, ‘‘We’ve been banging up against this Crawler and his men for a while now, squire. You remember last month when Old Donk turned up dead?’’

James nodded, even though he was vague as to who Old Donk had been and when he had died.

‘‘Then you must have heard how some bashers were killed out at the docks?’’

James nodded, assuming that was related to what Walter Blont had told him about the battle between his group and the Crawler’s men.

‘‘Well then, when the Crawler’s men hit Mother’s we all scattered. I’d been fetchin’ for Kat and Graves while they was hiding out, getting ready to go to Kesh, and then the Nightmaster is killed. They find him floatin’ in the bay. The Daymaster got together with Mick Giffen, Reg deVrise, and Phil the Fingers and they went somewhere, come back saying the Upright Man is dead, and next thing you know a war’s on in the sewer. Most of the boys are dead and all the bashers are too.’’ Limm paused to catch his breath, then carried on.

‘‘Graves and Kat and me were heading out to Kesh, playing the part of a proper family, when we got caught up in a riot at the docks. You know the rest.’’

James said, ‘‘There’s just been a little too much killing around here for my taste of late.’’ He filled them in on as much as he felt like sharing, leaving out those details of recent events that he felt might compromise Kingdom security.

When James finished, Graves said, ‘‘Those Izmali assassins don’t surprise me. I spied a couple of rough-looking Keshians 200

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down in the sewers, while we were trying for the docks, before we came up and got ourselves tossed into jail. Needless to say, I didn’t confront them to find out what they were doing there.’’

Limm chimed in, ‘‘And some of those who were killing the street boys were Keshians.’’

James silently weighed up how much he was comfortable sharing with his former compatriots. Finally he asked, ‘‘Why would they be killing magicians?’’

Graves stopped chewing for a moment. Eyes wide, he swallowed, and said, ‘‘The only reason I can think of has something to do with the Temple of Ishap. I may be a renegade of that order, but there are secrets I will not reveal. This has nothing to do with my duty to the temple, but it does with my duty to the gods.’’