Shards of a Broken Crown (14 page)

Jimmy paused for
dramatic effect, then slowly he said, “I came looking for my
brother.”

The soldier
stood and motioned and the two other soldiers picked Jimmy up and
moved him to a chair. They were gathered in a large bedroom of an
inn, converted to a cell of sorts.

Jimmy and Malar
had been dragged there the night before and the interrogation had
started at once. For an hour they had been routinely questioned and
beaten, then left alone. Just as they were able to relax, the door
would open and the questioning would begin again. Jimmy knew the
oddly timed schedule was deliberate, designed to unnerve them.
Despite the overt brutality of the man questioning them, the entire
process was very well thought out and subtle. It was designed to
disorient him without rendering him incoherent. It was a methodical
approach looking to ferret out mistakes and inconsistencies. Jimmy
had fought to concentrate to the limit of his ability to prevent any
such lapse; he was attempting to turn the situation to his advantage.

One fear of his
was that they already had Dash in custody. If so, the admission he
was searching for his brother might dovetail into Dash’s arrest
if he was already here. In a way, it was the truth, and being the
truth, it would prove far more convincing than the most artfully
concocted lie.

“Your
brother?” said the man, holding a fist cocked to deliver
another blow. “What brother?”

“My
younger brother.” Jimmy leaned back in the chair, letting his
left arm hang over the chair back, keeping him upright. “We
were jumped a few miles from the city by bandits and rode toward
Krondor.” He paused for a long moment, then as the interrogator
started to menace him with his fist, he blurted, “We got
separated. The bandits chased him, so we doubled back and followed
after. We dodged the bandits, as they came back our way, so we know
they didn’t have him—couldn’t see any leading his
horse, and it was a good horse so they’d have kept it.”
He swallowed. “Can I have some water?” he croaked.

The man in
charge nodded and one of the guards stepped out of the room and
returned a moment later with water. Jimmy drank eagerly, then nodded
toward Malar. The man who had been questioning Jimmy nodded and the
servant was given a cup of water to drink.

“Go on,”
instructed the interrogator.

“We
checked all the camps outside. No one had seen him.”

“Maybe
someone already cut his throat.”

“Not my
brother,” said Jimmy.

“How do
you know?” asked the interrogator.

“Because
I’d know. And because whoever cut his throat would be wearing
his boots if he was.”

The interrogator
looked down at Jimmy’s feet and nodded. “Good boots.”
He motioned to one of the men in the room, who ducked out and
returned a moment later holding a sack. He opened the sack and dumped
the contents on the floor. The interrogator said, “Are these
your brother’s?”

Jimmy looked at
the boots. He didn’t need to pick them up. They were identical
to Dash’s: the same bootmaker in Rillanon had made them for the
brothers. Jimmy said, “In the left one you’ll see the
mark of the bootmaker, a small bull’s head.”

The man nodded.
“I’ve seen it.”

“Is my
brother alive?”

The man nodded.
“At least he was until two days ago. That’s when he
escaped.”

Jimmy couldn’t
help but smile. “Escaped?”

“With
three others.” The man studied Jimmy a moment, then said,
“Bring them.” He turned and walked out of the room; Jimmy
and Malar were hurried after him, a guard on each side.

They were taken
to what had been the common room of the inn, and Jimmy finally
recognized where he was. He was in what was left of a very palatial
inn called the Seven Gems, not too far from the heart of the
Merchants’ Quarters. He was a few blocks from Barret’s
Coffee House, where most of the major financial business of the
Western Realm had been conducted. Glancing around the room, Jimmy
decided the inn had survived relatively intact. There was ample smoke
damage and all of the tapestries that had decorated the place were
gone, but the furniture was intact, and the rooms still able to be
locked. He had been questioned in one of the back storage rooms, near
the kitchen, and was now being led into the far corner of the
commons, where a curtain separated a large booth from the rest of the
room.

Sitting in the
booth was a trio of men, all clearly military from their dress and
manner. The man in the center was looking over a parchment, a report
of some sort, Jimmy guessed. The interrogator moved to the front of
the table and leaned over, speaking in a soft voice. He glanced up at
Jimmy, nodded to the interrogator, who departed, leaving Jimmy
standing alone with the three men. They seemed intent upon the
paperwork before them, and left Jimmy standing for a long time before
the centermost man’s attention returned to him.

“Your
name?” asked the man in the center.

“I’m
called Jimmy,” he answered.

“Jimmy,”
repeated the man, as if testing the sound of the name. He studied
Jimmy’s face, and Jimmy studied his.

He was a
middle-aged man, probably in his late forties or early fifties. He
still looked fit, though what once had been hard muscle had been
thinned by hardships on campaign and a cold, hungry winter. He had
the look of a fighter, from his greying dark hair tied back to keep
it from his brown eyes, to the hard set of a jaw kept clean-shaven.
Something about him looked familiar to Jimmy, and suddenly it struck
him: in manner and voice the man resembled what he remembered of
Prince Arutha from Jimmy’s childhood. There was a no-nonsense
hardness to him, a calculating intelligence that would be fatal to
underestimate.

The man said,
“You are a spy, of that I am almost certain.” He spoke
the King’s Tongue, but his accent was slight.

Jimmy said
nothing.

“But the
issue here is are you a bad spy or a terribly clever one.” He
sighed, as if thinking on this. “Your brother, if that is
really who he is, was a far better spy than I had thought. I had him
under observation, yet he managed to escape. We knew of the sewers
under the walls, yet didn’t know of that particular entrance.
Once he was in there, he was gone.” The soldier looked at
Jimmy, as if measuring him, then said, “I won’t make that
mistake again.” He reached for a mug nearby and drank what
appeared to be water. Jimmy was impressed by the man’s speech,
for even with almost no accent, it was clear he had studied the
language, for he spoke with the practiced precision of someone not
born to the tongue.

He then said, “I
have determined that those boots which you claim belong to your
brother are made by a particularly well-regarded cobbler in Rillanon,
your nation’s capital. Is this correct?”

Jimmy nodded.
“It is.”

“Would it
be unreasonable to assume that common mercenaries are not likely to
acquire a matching set of such boots unless they are not, in fact,
common mercenaries?”

“Not
unreasonable at all,” said Jimmy. The man speaking to him
motioned to one of his two companions, who left the booth, fetched
over a chair, and allowed Jimmy to sit. Jimmy nodded his thanks, then
said, “Would it be immodest to claim we are uncommon
mercenaries?”

“Not in
the least,” said the man. “Though it would smack of
insincerity.”

Jimmy said, “I
am at your mercy. If I’m a spy or not is of little matter. You
can kill me at your whim.”

“True, but
murder holds little appeal for me. I’ve seen far too much of it
over the last twenty years.” He motioned to the remaining man
who sat at his side, and the man rose from his seat and offered Jimmy
a mug of water. “I’m sorry we don’t have anything
more flavorful, but at least it’s clean. One of the major wells
to the north has been cleared and is running fresh again. Your Duke
James left nothing behind that provides much comfort.”

Jimmy feigned
indifference to hearing his grandfather’s name. This invader
was very well informed about things in Krondor and the Kingdom to
know about Duke James and Rillanon’s better bootmaker.

“But we
manage,” said the man. “Feeding the workers is difficult,
but the fishing has been good and there are those willing to sell to
us for the little booty we’ve found in Krondor.”

Jimmy was
intrigued. He was also wary. This man was apparently unconcerned by
what he said, and appeared to be someone of some importance among the
invaders.

The man stood
and said, “Can you walk?”

Jimmy rose and
nodded. “I’ll manage.”

“Good.
Then come with me.”

Jimmy followed
the man out of the door of the inn. Outside the afternoon sun was
brilliant and Jimmy squinted. “We must walk, I’m sorry to
say. Horses are a staple of our current diet.” He glanced at
Jimmy. “Though a few are maintained to carry messages.”

They walked
along a busy street. While almost every man was armed and obviously a
warrior, a few were workers and a few women were seen here and there.
Everyone seemed occupied with some task, and none of the usual idle
habitues of the city were in evidence: the drunks, prostitutes,
confidence men, and beggars. Also noticeable by their absence, the
street urchins who flocked in rowdy gangs through the poor and
workers’ quarters of the city.

“If I may
ask,” said Jimmy, “where’s my dog robber?”

“He’s
comfortable,” said the man. “Don’t worry about
him.”

The man who was
walking beside him said, “Jimmy, if you are a spy, you’re
most likely wondering what it is we’re doing here in Krondor.”

Jimmy said, “It
is a question that has crossed my mind. I may not be a spy, but it’s
obvious there’s more going on here than a simple staging for a
spring offensive. You’ve got soldiers on the outside of the
walls anxious to enlist and you’re not enlisting them. You have
a great deal of work underway, but some of it”—he pointed
to a nearby building where two soldiers were hanging a new door—
“clearly not military in nature. It’s as if you’ve
come to Krondor to stay.”

The man smiled,
and again Jimmy was reminded of the old Prince, for this man had the
same cryptic half-smile Arutha had evidenced when amused. “Good
observation. Yes, we’re not planning on leaving anytime soon.”

Jimmy nodded,
his head still ringing from the beating he had taken. He said, “But
you’re turning away swords who will help you hang on to this
place when the Prince’s army returns.”

“How many
spies are among that band outside?” asked the man.

“I
couldn’t begin to guess.” Jimmy shrugged. “Not
many, I wager.”

“Why?”

“Because
no man of the Kingdom can pass himself off as one of your own. We
don’t speak your language.”

“Ah,”
said the officer, “but you have. Some of your countrymen have
been among us for years. We first became of aware of a group calling
itself ‘Calis’s Crimson Eagles’ before the fall of
Maharta. We now know they were Kingdom agents. We know they were with
us from time to time.” They reached the walls and the man
motioned for Jimmy to climb with him up a flight of stairs to the
ramparts.

As they climbed,
the man continued. “We who were commanding never had a clear
picture of this campaign. To understand what we became, you need to
know what we were before.” They reached the ramparts, and the
man motioned for Jimmy to follow. They reached a section of the wall
freshly refurbished, the stones set firmly in place with new mortar.
The man motioned beyond the wall, toward the east. “Out there
is a nation, your Kingdom.” He turned to regard Jimmy. “In
my homeland we have no such nations. There were city-states, ruled by
men who were petty or noble, who were acquisitive or generous, wise
or foolish. But no ruler’s power existed beyond a week’s
ride by his soldiers.” He motioned toward Jimmy. “You
people have this thing in your mind. This idea of a nation. It is an
idea I am most intrigued by, even captivated by. The notion that men
who live more than a month’s travel from a ruler swear to that
ruler, are willing to die for that ruler—” He stopped
himself. “No, not the ruler, this nation. Now this is an
amazing idea.

“I have
spent much time this winter speaking with those among our prisoners
who could teach me, men and women of some education or experience,
who would help me understand this concept of this Kingdom.” He
shook his head. “It is a grand thing, this nation of yours.”

Jimmy shrugged.
“We tend to take it for granted.”

“I
understand, for you have never known otherwise.” The man looked
out over the wall. Below was a sea of tents and makeshift shelters,
campfires and the sounds of humanity, laughter, shouts of anger, the
voices of peddlers, a child crying. “But to me the notion of
something larger than what I can take and hold—for my employer
or for myself—that is a wondrous notion.”

The wind blew
and the afternoon smelled of salt and charcoal. The man said, “Tell
me, why is this city built here?” He glanced westward. “If
there is a worse harbor in the world, I’ve not seen it.”

Jimmy shrugged.
“The story says the first Prince of Krondor liked the view of
the sunset from the hill upon which the palace was built.”

“Princes,”
said the man, shaking his head. He sighed loudly. “We are
dredging that terrible harbor. We have found those who call
themselves ‘Wreckers’ and they are using their magic to
raise hulks for us. We manage one every three days, and will have the
harbor cleared before next winter.”

Jimmy said
nothing.

“We know
you marshal what’s left of your fleet down in Shandon Bay, in
the village you call Port Vykor. We have no fleet, but we will have
ships, and we will hold the city.”

Jimmy shrugged.
“May I ask why?”