‘You’re not dying. But if you don’t keep drinking water or broth, though, you actually might.’
Well, that was a pleasant thought.
Jimmy began to feel the broth dancing in his aching stomach and knew it wouldn’t be long before the stuff made a break for it. He was too ashamed of his condition to encourage her presence at such times.
‘Cook says if you can keep that down, and spend a while just looking at the horizon, so your senses can adjust, you just might get over this sickness. Some people do.’ Then with a piteous look she added, ‘And some people don’t.’
‘Maybe you should go below,’ he suggested.
She looked at him askance, then nodded. ‘It is getting cold out here.’ Flora tucked a tendril of hair back under her enveloping shawl. ‘I’ll be back later with something else.’
‘Oh, gods!’ Jimmy groaned and rushed to the rail.
Flora hurried away; even then he managed to feel a mute animal gratitude.
Jimmy willed himself to hold the content of his stomach down. He did as suggested and watched the horizon and soon noticed that the rise and fall of the ship was less distressing on his stomach when he could see the motion as well as feel it. He took slow, deep breaths and attempted another sip of broth.
Gradually he became aware that one of the other passengers was watching him. The man was about thirty; of medium build, but standing with an easy balance that made some corner of Jimmy’s mind say swordsman despite his dress; he was wearing dark clothes of good wool, but they’d seen hard use and were stained with salt. The sort of clothes might be worn by a travelling merchant in a small way of business, or by a ship’s officer.
But that belt has wear on it, Jimmy thought, glad of something to distract him from his wet, chill misery. Look at the way it’s polished, and stretched a little. That’s the attachment for a sword-sling.
Like Jimmy, the man kept himself to himself, though probably for different reasons, lending the occasional, very competent, hand to the sailors when the seas became unusually rough. Otherwise he spent his time either gazing out to sea or staring at the young thief. Jimmy was beginning to find it very annoying.
It also worried him. After separating from Flora in Krondor he’d retrieved his gold and turned a fair bit of it into silver and copper, much of which he’d secreted about his person. There were times he thought the stranger somehow knew that he was carrying well over a hundred and fifty in silver and gold even though it shouldn’t have been obvious to anyone.
Unless that someone had seen him changing his gold to silver.
Certainly Jimmy didn’t look rich; Flora had outfitted him from a used-clothing store, one where respectable shopkeepers and craftsmen went. True, there were a large number of pockets, but that was something common to all the boys Jimmy knew, town or Mocker. And having a lot of pockets didn’t necessarily mean that each one was full of money. Even if, in his case, it was.
The only bright spot is that if he wants to rob me he’ll have to do it here on deck in front of the captain and the crew, and Flora, when she’s here.
It would take a good long time, too, because as one of the best pickpockets in Krondor he’d long known the value of spreading your valuables around. And with no less than twelve pockets, not including the ones he’d sewn himself, he’d had plenty of places to put his gold. Of course, if he ever fell overboard he’d sink like a stone, but you couldn’t have everything. Besides, the way he was feeling right now the idea actually had some appeal.
Jimmy clung to the rail and slanted his eyes toward the stranger where the man squatted with his back against the mainmast. The man caught his glance and rose in a single graceful movement. As he approached the stranger took something from his belt pouch.
Jimmy tensed.
The man held out a strap of leather. ‘Let’s put this on you.’ Without waiting for an answer he grabbed Jimmy’s left wrist and fastened it on, then positioned it just so. ‘I couldn’t bear to watch you suffer any more, lad,’ the fellow said. His voice was deep and mild.
Jimmy could feel something like a pebble pressing lightly into his wrist. He looked suspiciously at the stranger.
‘Keep it just there and in a few hours your problem should be solved.’
‘Is it magic?’ Jimmy asked.
The man snorted. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘The trick of it was shown to me by an old Keshian sailor, and I’d bet my last silver he had nothing magical about him.’ He held out his hand. ‘My name is Jarvis Coe.’
Jimmy shook his hand weakly. ‘If this works, Master Coe, I’ll be eternally in your debt.’ At that moment the ship rose, then fell steeply and so did Jimmy’s stomach. When he turned around again Jarvis Coe was gone. He looked goggle-eyed at the bracelet. Doesn’t seem to be working, he thought miserably, as he turned his eyes back to the horizon and contemplated another sip of broth. Maybe between staring at the horizon and the pebble on his wrist he just might survive the journey…
But it does work! Jimmy thought exultantly, an hour later. ‘Oh, gods, it works!’ he mumbled aloud.
He looked down at his bowl. In it was some stew, the inevitable traveller’s food, and there were beans and dried tomato and bits of salt fish floating around in it, and it didn’t make him want to crawl groaning toward the leeward rail!
Even the wiggling thing that had dropped out of his hard biscuit when he tapped it on the table like everyone else didn’t revolt him, and it would have back in Krondor. Now he just felt…
‘Hungry,’ he whispered to himself. ‘It’s been so long, I’d forgotten what it felt like!’
Flora was looking at him oddly. The passengers took their meals at a table set up in the passageway in front of the captain’s cabin; he gave her a smile and saw her match it as he dipped his spoon into the bowl and methodically ate everything in it. That wasn’t a big serving, and he felt stuffed–no wonder, after three days of nothing but water–but it stayed down.
Flora’s hand jerked him awake just before he went face-down in the bowl.
‘Come along, brother,’ she said, helping him up.
When he came to under the coarse brown blankets that covered his bunk, an inner sense told him he’d more than slept the clock around. That was no wonder either, since he’d no more been able to sleep than to eat.
If that’s what feeling old is like, I hope I die young, he thought, shuddering. His clothes were damp and clammy as he pulled them on in the little box miscalled a cabin, but he was no stranger to that, and his feet almost danced as he headed down the passageway and up the steep ladder-stairs to the deck, looking for his benefactor. He walked about watching the sailors work: it was always a pleasant activity watching someone else sweat.
Pleased as he was with the miracle of not being sea-sick, the whole world took on a rosier hue. The young thief decided that travel to Land’s End just might be something to look forward to after all. He’d simply been startled by the Nightmaster’s demand that he leave, that was it, and for a while he’d been worried because he wouldn’t have anything or anybody familiar to fall back on. It wasn’t fear he’d felt at all, he’d just been…taken by surprise.
Besides, he’d managed the rubes right handily when they’d made their way to Krondor; why would he have problems just because they’d stayed at home? This is going to be an adventure, by Ruthia! he thought. I’ll have some fine tales to tell when I get home.
That he looked forward to getting home before he’d even reached his destination brought a wry smile to his face. Jimmy could fool most people, but he never could fool himself. All right, he thought, so it’s not something I would have chosen to do. But I’ve turned bad luck to good advantage before now. I don’t see why this should be any different.
He looked about: still no sign of Coe and he’d been on deck for most of the morning by now.
‘Where’s that fellow who was propping up the main mast yesterday?’ he asked a passing sailor.
‘In ’is cabin, I s’pose,’ t
he man barked, brushing past. ‘I’m not ’is nanny that I’d know.’
Guess I’m not as much fun to talk to now that you can’t make me vomit, Jimmy thought snidely.
Even so, it was strange. One day the man was unavoidable, the next day he’d disappeared. Jimmy didn’t like it, such behaviour was suspicious. It reminded him too much of Radburn’s men.
His abused stomach lurched horribly and he thought, Oh, gods! Not again, I thought I was cured. But it wasn’t sea-sickness that had caused the sensation. It was the idea that he might have been followed by one of Bas-Tyra’s secret police that had given him such a qualm.
Jimmy knew many of Radburn’s sneaking spies by sight, and usually, given time, could guess who was one by their behaviour. But did they know him?
He tried to dismiss the thought. At the moment he looked respectable, which was to say, not like himself. And when he spoke–which given his malady had been infrequently–he’d been careful to speak like a well-brought-up boy. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to suspect that he was a Mocker. Flora had had enough gentlemen of rank in her day to have some practice speaking like a girl of means, so she hadn’t given him away with street cant; it’d been ‘mister’ and ‘sir’ not ‘deary’ and ‘luv’–and not one obscenity had escaped her lips–since she’d traded in her whore’s garb for a modest dress, shoulder-shawl, and hat. Besides, if Coe did know him, why hadn’t he simply turned him in at the dock, or just chucked him overboard?
It would have been easy, Jimmy thought. Hells and demons, I would have thanked him for it!
And yet, having finally introduced himself, the mysterious stranger had disappeared. Was Coe just a concerned soul who’d been watching to make sure the young thief didn’t fall overboard? Now that he’d given Jimmy the cure for his sea-sickness perhaps the man had decided to retire to the relative comfort of his cabin. Was that suspicious? Jimmy frowned. Actually, he did find generosity from strangers suspicious. Useful on occasion, he allowed. Especially if the giver was naïve and easy to manipulate. But Coe didn’t seem the type one could use. In fact he seemed the type to ream you proper if you tried: Jimmy could smell that on a man. The young thief exhaled with a snort of frustration.
Focus, concentrate, he commanded himself.
If one of Radburn’s spies had seen him and knew him for a Mocker, known what he’d done, which was unlikely–make that impossible–then without question he would have been arrested immediately. There was no reason for one of Radburn’s boys to go following him to Land’s End.
But what if one of Radburn’s spies was going to Land’s End anyway? Land’s End was an outpost, near the Keshian border. More accurately, it was the domain of the Lord of the Southern Marches, Duke Sutherland, but that office had been vacant for years, due to some politics Jimmy didn’t understand or care to understand. Yes, maybe that’s it, he thought. Maybe it’s just Guy du Bas-Tyra trying to extend his reach. Who knew how far the Duke wanted to extend his power? Jimmy watched the hills of water rise and fall, actually enjoying the clever motion of the ship as it followed their motion.
As far as he can, of course!
He wrestled with some more notions of what the Duke might be plotting, but grew bored with it. It was surprising enough as it was that he was interested in that question at all. Until meeting Prince Arutha he had no concept of what ruling must be like, but he had spent a fair number of evenings listening to Arutha, Martin Longbow and Amos Trask talking about affairs of state. He found it fascinating, and from time to time wondered if he could make the sorts of judgments they were forced to consider, decisions that would change the future of nations.
No, he reconsidered, he wasn’t bored with the question; he was frustrated that he had no information upon which to base a reasonable guess as to what was happening. And that surprised him, as well. Grinning at a silly notion, he thought: maybe some day I’ll get to meet Prince Arutha again. That would be interesting. He’d know what Duke Guy was up to and Jimmy could ask him questions about such things. But until that time, it was no business of Jimmy’s what the Duke was plotting.
Meddling in the affairs of the mighty had only brought trouble on him and his kind. True, he was pleased to think of the Princess Anita as free and safe, but the cost to the Mockers had been high, perhaps too high. And while he was sorry for Prince Erland and his wife, saving them was well-nigh impossible, and even had that not been the case, to do so would very likely only have made things worse. For which the Upright Man would not have thanked him.
No, it was time to get back to looking after Jimmy the Hand, which was something he did very well. Let them plot and scheme among themselves; it had nothing to do with him.
Jimmy stopped to look around, as he and Flora stood on the dockside at Land’s End, their scant baggage at their feet. The first street facing the harbour was broad and cobbled, but the cobbles were worn nearly flat by hooves and iron-rimmed wheels and sledges; the bowsprits of a row of ships ran over it, above the heads of stevedores, sailors and passengers. Teamsters moved wagons close to receive of floaded cargo and quickly transport it to shops or warehouses nearby, and the usual assortment of riff-raff lingered at the fringes. Jimmy instantly spotted two lads who were probably pickpockets and one who was the most obvious lookout Jimmy had ever seen–maybe looking to see if someone special came off the ship, or if a particular cargo was unloaded, ready to signal someone probably lingering half a block up the street or watching from an adjacent window. Jimmy kept his smile to himself; if this was the best Land’s End had to offer, he might not return to Krondor, but rather stick around and take over.
Gulls made a storm overhead–always a sign of a thriving port, with plenty of offal. Green-blue water lapped at the sides of ships, at the black weed-and-barnacle-covered timbers and pilings of dock and seawall, a chuckling undertone to the clamour of voices and feet and iron on stone.
‘Not nearly as big as Krondor,’ Jimmy said stoutly. I’m from the big city, he thought. This is the sticks. ‘Or as well-sheltered a harbour.’
The largest ships here weren’t as big as those you saw in Krondor’s harbour, either–the tubby Krondor’s Lady was about as large as they came; more of them were Keshian, too. The dockside street was hedged on its landward side by warehouses, two or three storeys high, with A-frame timbers jutting out from their gables to help hoist freight. Some came down via block and tackle as he watched, a load of pungent raw hides. Streams of dockwallopers were trotting up and down gangplanks, with sacks and bales and boxes bending them double; cloth, thread, bundled raw flax, dried fruit, cheeses, blacksmith’s iron, copper pots…Heavier cargo swung up on nets slung from the end of the yards that usually bore sails.
Beyond the warehouses, buildings rose up steep streets on the hills surrounding the harbour; they could get a few glimpses of the city walls, gates, and the pasture and forest beyond. Jimmy stared for a moment, realizing he could see farms up on the highest hillsides, tiny thatched houses with meadows and fields around them. He had never seen a farm before.
‘It’s bigger than I’d thought it would be,’ Flora said, her voice sounding small.
Jimmy was glad she’d said it because it was exactly what he’d been thinking. He snorted. ‘It’s not a patch on Krondor,’ he said. He straightened and threw back his shoulders. ‘And we did just fine there.’
Flora touched his arm with a grateful smile. Then she looked out at the town, uncertain once more. She sighed. ‘I have no idea where to begin.’
‘Well, you know his name and what he does, or,’ he shrugged, ‘did for a living, right?’ He’d intended to talk with her about this on board, but he’d been too sick most of the way and too hungry for the rest of it.
‘Yes,’ Flora said. ‘He was a solicitor and his name was Yardley Heywood.’
Oh, that’s not good, Jimmy thought. If her grandfather was a court solicitor he had represented his fair share of criminals. Which meant he was all too likely to guess what his long-lost granddaughter had b
een doing to survive these last few years, no matter what she said. Worse, he’d be able to guess what Jimmy did.
‘Yardley Heywood,’ he said aloud. ‘That sounds like a rich man’s name.’
Flora laughed. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
Picking up his bag decisively, and one of hers to maintain the illusion of his being well brought up, Jimmy gestured toward the town. ‘First thing we should do is head for solid ground. I can feel this dock moving up and down and it’s making me nervous.’
‘It’s not the dock, lad,’ Jarvis Coe said with a smile.
Jimmy blinked in surprise. Twice: because he couldn’t imagine how the man had managed to get that close without him noticing; and because of a subtle change. Coe’s clothes were just a bit more prosperous than they’d seemed aboard ship, perhaps because he’d added a horseman’s high boots and a long dark cloak with a hood, plus a flat cloth cap that sported a peacock feather. More probably because he wore the sword that Jimmy had suspected would be his to wear: a plain, narrow blade with a curled guard in a workmanlike leather sheath, matched with a dagger on the other side–a fighting dirk nine inches long, not the ordinary belt-knife people carried for everyday tasks like cutting bread or getting a stone out of a horse’s shoe.
Coe still didn’t look rich, or conspicuous; but he did look like a gentleman of sorts. He pulled off the cap and bowed slightly to Flora, who bobbed him a curtsey in reflex.
‘It’s the way everyone feels coming off a ship. In a day or so you’ll get your land-legs back, as the sailors say. Where are you headed?’
Both the young Mockers frowned at him. I don’t like this, Jimmy thought. This man alters his appearance too easily, just by donning a new cloak and by changing the way he holds his head.
Coe chuckled: ‘I suppose it’s none of my business,’ he said. ‘But if you’re looking for a clean, cheap place to stay I can recommend a few.’
Jimmy and Flora looked at one another. Generosity from strangers, especially this close to Great Kesh and its slavers, was somewhat suspicious.
Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3 Page 11
