Jimmy and the Crawler

by Raymond E. Feist

  He wended his way through some dark alleys, cutting across empty boulevards. He chose a long, looping route back to the Jade Monkey, not wishing to lead anyone there if he had been followed.

  A hundred yards away from the inn he ducked into a shallow store-front just shadowy enough to hide him. After slowly counting to a thousand, he knew he was not being followed. He dodged out of the doorway and across the street, then into a small space between buildings, up on to the roof of the building that backed up against his little inn. He had inspected this area for several reasons, security being foremost, but also against the possibility that he might need more land. His inn lacked a stabling yard, so he had to have someone fetch horses and camels to a stable some distance away, which currently was an inconvenience, but in the future might cost him business.

  One advantage he had gained in inspecting the entire neighbourhood was discovering a back way into the Monkey, over the rooftop of the house behind. Standing on the roof gave him quick access to the window of the room he had chosen for himself. To facilitate such an entrance, he had secreted a sturdy wooden crate from which he could easily reach the window above.

  He stepped lightly on the crate, avoiding making any noise that would disturb the woodcarver who slept below, and reached up to grab the bottom of the window ledge. He pulled himself up to eye level, glanced in, and saw movement.

  Lowering himself again, he waited to see if his movements had been noticed. Whoever was in his room must have been watching the door against his return and ignoring the window. Jimmy controlled his breathing as he squatted on the box beneath the window and wondered how many other would-be attackers were in the Jade Monkey. Were he planning this, he’d have a few at the bar or tables drinking quietly who would let him go past to his room, then close in behind him if the assailant in the room failed.

  And what of William and Jazhara? Had they already returned to walk into this mess? James knew the Izmali guards would be dismissed as soon as they entered the city, or would return to Jazhara’s family camp from their hiding place. So they would be on their own.

  James slowly uncoiled himself and took a quiet step away from the window, shifting his weight as carefully as he could to avoid the roof tiles betraying his presence.

  Then the window behind him exploded in shards and splinters and a black-clad assassin hurled himself through the opening to seize James around the waist. The tiles cracked beneath the impact and James and the assassin rolled down the roof until they came to the eaves. James felt a shock run up his left arm from elbow to shoulder as he slammed it against the roof to halt his roll. His attacker continued to roll for another second as James got his dagger out of his belt and struck. He felt the blade hit ribs and cut along them, and the man grunted in pain and surprise. James remembered too vividly just how painful that would be, but he also knew it was not an incapacitating blow.

  Instead of pulling back his blade for another strike, he kept it pressed hard against the man’s side. No matter how well trained he might be, any fighter who was not overcome by rage and the rush of combat would react to pain, if only for a moment. The instinct was always to pull away from it.

  James heard metal on tile. As he was lying across the assassin’s right arm, he surmised the man was pulling a blade from across his body with his left arm. James dragged the point of his own blade across the man’s chest, down towards his stomach, and heard the man groan as he struggled to get into position to strike.

  When the assassin pulled back to reach his knife, James reversed his own blade and struck upwards, under the man’s chin, driving his dagger deep into the throat. There was a gurgling sound and a fountain of blood struck James in the face, blinding him. A moment later the attacker went limp.

  The entire struggle had lasted less than a minute.

  James lay panting from exertion and pain. His left arm throbbed so badly, he wondered if he had cracked a bone stopping their roll down the roof. He shook his head and forced himself to focus.

  He pulled loose the dagger, wiped it clean on the man’s black tunic, and took a moment to examine his attacker. He would not linger, for he knew there was a good chance those in the inn had heard the noise on the roof and might be hurrying up the stairs or moving out into the street to cut him off.

  Ignoring the blood pooling everywhere, he knelt next to the dead man, opened his shirt and found no Nighthawk pendant.

  James sat back, catching his wits and his breath. He shouldn’t have been surprised the man wasn’t a real Nighthawk; had he been, it would probably be James lying there in a pool of his own blood. He did a quick examination of the man and found no purse, nothing in the pockets, no other clue as to who he was and who had sent him.

  The crash through the window must have alerted someone, so James decided to get away and ponder all this later. His left arm and shoulder throbbed: he would be sporting an assortment of bruises for a week.

  He awkwardly levered himself down the eaves and dropped to the stones, and as he did so he heard pounding on the door of his room above. He glanced around to make sure the way was clear, then vanished into the night.

  • CHAPTER ELEVEN •

  Snare

  WILLIAM POUNDED ON THE DOOR.

  He and Jazhara had arrived an hour before sunset, had been told by Gina that James had been away for the last few days, and after eating, had retired to their respective rooms: despite their rekindled love for each other, both were bone-tired from the journey and elected for a good night’s sleep. Having heard the noise from James’s room, they had come to investigate.

  ‘James!’ William shouted as he pushed hard against the locked door.

  Jazhara said, ‘Stand aside,’ and as William did so, she closed her eyes and incanted a spell. The wood around the lock-plate above the door-handle cracked and splintered, and the plate sounded as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer. ‘Try it now,’ she said.

  William pushed. The wood around the fractured lock-plate resisted for a moment, then crumbled inward. He shoved with his shoulder, then drew his sword and stepped inside.

  The room was empty, looking as it had the last time they had been there, save for the shattered window. William hurried over and peered out, seeing a dark shape lying on the rooftop of the building behind the inn. He was about to tell Jazhara what he had seen when he heard a muffled cry.

  A large man had grabbed her from behind, clamping a meaty hand over her mouth and dragging her out of the room.

  ‘Jazhara!’ William spun to aid the magician. As he turned the corner into the hall, a heavily gauntleted glove slammed into his cheek, nearly cracking it, causing him to bounce off the splintered door jamb back into the room. He staggered, tripping over a fallen chair, as his attacker came into the room, a lethal-looking dirk at the ready.

  William grabbed the side of the broken window to halt his backwards progress then stabbed out with his sword. He had no hope of impaling the man, but it did cause his attacker to back away.

  William righted himself and crouched. He was a soldier, and while brawling was occasionally an off-duty pastime, he was conditioned to the discipline of being part of a unit of men. His opponent, on the other hand, was much more versed in one-on-one combat, as a thug, brawler, assassin, or whatever he was. The man measured the distance separating them, feinted to his left, then charged.

  William tried to recover and stepped back a half-step, avoiding the bull rush and dirk point, but the assassin drove his shoulder into William’s stomach, carrying them both to the window and then through it, with William’s left arm wrapped around his attacker’s neck. Wood splinters flew as the two heavy bodies smashed through the already-broken window, and William hung on for dear life. In such circumstances his sword was useless; but the other man’s dagger was an impaling weapon designed for in-close fighting. One thrust and William would be dead or mortally wounded.

  With a grunt of exertion, William attempted to keep his opponent off-balance as they flew through the air before crash
ing into the roof tiles of the building behind the inn. A terrible cracking sound rang through the night as they slammed into the roof hard enough to crash through both the tiles and the wooden sheeting beneath.

  William felt shock go through his entire body from the impact and fought to stay conscious. Beneath him, the assassin went limp. A broken neck hadn’t been William’s intent, but this wasn’t a fencing match with rules: this was life and death.

  William found himself partially held in place by the splintered wood below the tiles. He moved gingerly, trying to find a way to get out without causing more damage to his back and buttocks, even though he was frantic about what was happening to Jazhara. And at any moment another assailant might be coming though that window.

  He forced himself up and out of the depression, ignoring the howls of fear and outrage coming from the inhabitants of the room below.

  He rolled over and got to his knees, catching his breath as he examined the dead man. The assassin was not a Nighthawk, for he did not wear the traditional garb, nor carry the pendant. He did, though, have a small coin purse in which William found twenty golden Keshian imperials, about the value of fifty Kingdom sovereigns, a handsome sum for a street tough. William thought it was probably the price of tonight’s attack.

  Whoever had orchestrated this abduction didn’t want Jazhara dead, or they wouldn’t have hauled her away, but rather would have dispatched her on the spot. The man who had grabbed her from behind could, just as easily and rather more safely, have cut her throat.

  William rose, looking down on the burly man with the bent neck. And whoever hired this motherless dog didn’t care if he killed William or was killed by William. His sole duty was to distract him long enough for Jazhara to be carried off.

  William caught his breath, picked up his sword and looked around. The shouting from the room below had ceased after he had stopped moving on the rooftop. He saw the box under the window James had placed there to facilitate entry and made it from one roof to the next. Crawling back through the window got him additional splinters and cuts, but he ignored them.

  He hurried through James’s room, down the stairs, and into the common room. Gina lay on the floor. William knelt, but was relieved to discover she was merely unconscious. From the bump he felt on the back of her head, as long as she didn’t have a broken skull she’d be fine in a few days. He looked around the room and saw another form lying on the floor, a customer who had been bludgeoned into unconsciousness. William inspected him and found him alive, if barely. He moved both prone figures to a relatively safe location behind the bar and then stood up and surveyed the damage.

  The common room was mostly intact, so the thugs who had come to attack them had entered quickly and quietly. Jazhara and William had been in their rooms, and William had still been in the hope of a late-night return by Sir James. Otherwise he would have been fighting that thug in his smallclothes rather than a heavy-duty tunic and trousers. Given the number of splinters he could feel in his back and sides, he was glad he had not undressed for bed.

  Jazhara had been less fortunate, for she was wearing the simple singlet she slept in. Not only was she without her usual belt-dagger, she did not have her belt-pouch which contained her magical trinkets, potions, and powders. Even so, her innate magic ability was prodigious, so those who had captured her must have possessed some means of counteracting that.

  Which meant she was the target, as he had suspected.

  He stood motionless, looking down at the unconscious barmaid and the guest, uncertain what to do next. Going to the Durbin authorities would probably be next to useless: as the cousin-by-adoption to the royal house of the Kingdom of the Isles, he would receive all manner of reassurances and promises, but he knew the governor and his court would be far more likely to look for someone to blame so that they could present someone’s head on a pike to Lord Hazara-Khan while explaining how a member of his family had been abducted. It might prove smart politics, but would contribute nothing towards finding and retrieving her safely.

  William was frustrated. He had no idea what to do next. His normal sense of responsibility and duty was overlain by his rediscovered passion for Jazhara. He now knew she was the woman he was fated to love for the rest of his life. His budding romance with Talia the innkeeper’s daughter had taught him that love came in many forms, and that there were many worthy people deserving of that affection, but Jazhara was that special person who made his life complete. He had seen such a love between his mother and father who, despite being born on different worlds to profoundly different cultures, managed to bridge the gulf between them with a passion that still abided.

  He would not lose that. For he knew that if he did, he would never find its like again.

  He took a deep breath and one more time looked around the room. What would Jimmy do? he wondered.

  • CHAPTER TWELVE •

  Improvisation

  JAMES WINCED.

  ‘Stop twitching. This is hard enough as it is,’ said Brother Eli.

  James had arrived at the shrine of Ban-ath at sunrise, and behind it had found the monk asleep in his tiny shack. Now James lay face down on the monk’s disreputable bed. He vowed that his next votive offering to the God of Thieves would be bedding and a fresh blanket for the monk. Eli dug into him again with a needle and fished out another nasty wooden splinter. ‘There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘That’s the last of them.’

  James started to rise but the monk’s beefy hand pushed him back down. ‘Let me put some unguent on those so they don’t fester. Some of those splinters went fairly deep, lad.’

  The monk fetched out a jar from under a table piled high with books and scrolls, and unscrewed its metal lid. The stench that struck James was enough to make him jerk back. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s a concoction whose composition was taught to me by Brother Regis at the abbey outside Shamata. Mostly tallow with a healthy dose of sulphur and a bit of willowbark ground fine, some crushed moonflower seeds, and a bit of henbane to stop the pain.’

  ‘It stinks like a sewer, and I know sewers.’

  ‘As I well know, Jimmy the Hand.’ He started applying the ointment, dabbing it over each puncture.

  ‘Jimmy the Hand?’

  Eli laughed. ‘A young noble from Krondor by the name of James comes skulking around asking about dark subjects, and you don’t think my curiosity is piqued? I appreciated the ale, lad, but also was wondering what you were doing here, so I had one of my acolytes watching you at the Jade Monkey. Every night, he says, this young court knight from Krondor comes skulking out of his window, drops down from the roof, and off he goes. Then he runs across rooftops, jumping from there to here and back. He lies down and watches, waiting, for what?

  ‘Then two nights back my boy says four riders come back all dressed in black with hooves muffled and gear tied in rags, and all stealthy-like they ride out of the city, and our young lord from Krondor is watching them like a hawk.’ Eli slapped James lightly on the shoulder. ‘Put on your tunic, lad. The stink will fade.’

  ‘Good, because right now you can smell me coming a block away.’ James sat up and put on his tunic. Moving his shoulders, he said, ‘Thank you, Brother Eli. The wounds do feel better.’

  The monk put away the jar and continued, ‘So I’m thinking to myself, those must be assassins, those four riders. And while Durbin may be the most miserable hive of miscreants in the Empire, we are still the doorway to the Bitter Sea, and traders and travellers and sailors come through every day from all parts of the Western Realm. And you know what they bring?’

  James shook his head with a slight smile.

  ‘Stories,’ answered the monk. ‘They bring tales of a boy-thief who saved the Prince of Krondor from the Nighthawks and was taken into his court. Oh, not all at once, you know. A bit here and a bit there, and not a few Mockers have wandered into my shrine over the years. You piece this bit and that bit together and after a while you have a story, don’t you?’

 
; He sat down next to James and grinned. ‘Besides, if my master has a favourite, it has to be you, young sir.’

  ‘I’d like to think so,’ said James. ‘But he can be a difficult patron at times.’

  ‘Isn’t that the truth?’ said Eli. ‘The Trickster has his place in the scheme of things, you know. He’s a bit of a rogue and most of those visiting my shrine are ne’er-do-wells embarking on a caper, or those who fear thieves and mountebanks; but in the end, they’re all asking for his protection.’

  James chuckled. ‘The bookie who gets his cut if he wins or loses, right?’

  ‘Something like that.’ The monk’s tone turned serious. ‘There are things coming, my young friend. Perhaps not in my lifetime, perhaps not even in yours, but some day things are coming that will threaten the very existence of life as we know it, and when that day arrives the best any of us can hope for is to be ready to confront the thing we fear the most.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Ourselves, young Lord James.’

  James smiled. ‘Not a lord . . . yet,’ he added with a wry twist. ‘One day perhaps, but for the moment it’s Sir James, or if you like, Jimmy.’

  Putting his hand on James’s shoulder, Eli said, ‘Well, Jimmy, your reputation precedes you. So if all you need is my help in removing a few splinters, you’ve got it. If you have secrets to keep, that is your right. But if I can be of further service . . .’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You were asking a lot of questions about demons the other day.’

  ‘I have my reasons,’ replied James.

  ‘I have no doubt,’ said Brother Eli. ‘I have learned years ago that my master is among the most difficult of gods to serve, as he’s an aspect of life that most people would not care to consider most of the time. The random nature of Ban-ath’s acts tends to unnerve those who think the universe flows in an orderly, natural pattern.