Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3

by Raymond E. Feist

  There were some sheep about, but mostly dairy-cows, which surprised her, until she realized that a city would be a good place to sell fresh milk. Nearer to the town there were worksteads on both sides of the dusty white road: trades that weren’t allowed in the city or needed more space–a big tannery whose stink made her blink and cough, a potter’s kilns like big stumpy beehives sending off waves of heat she could feel a dozen yards away, some smithies, and…yes, a stock-dealer. Horses, mostly. She could see them milling about in the pens behind chest-high fieldstone walls. And a saddler’s next door, with some of their own. Probably they both rented mounts or draught-animals, as well as dealing in them.

  Lorrie felt her stomach rumble at the smell of cooking from a booth; she had had nothing to eat since the previous morning, the shock of the day’s events having driven all hunger from her. Now, yesterday morning seemed a long time ago to her stomach.

  She’d known that she couldn’t keep Horace once she got to Land’s End even though the thought broke her heart. There was no money to board and feed him and only the little in Bram’s purse for herself.

  I’ll make the money up to Bram! she thought. I’d better get the best deal I can.

  The saddler was sitting in his open-sided booth, packing his tools before shutting down for the day. He looked up as she swung down from the saddle, a man in his thirties in breeches and a sleeveless jerkin, his arms ropy with muscle and his hands big and battered, scarred by awl and knife and strong waxed thread. His eyes were green, and shrewd. ‘Can I help you, lad?’ he said.

  She hesitated. It never occurred to her that wearing Bram’s clothing, with her hair tied up under a hat, she looked like a boy. For a brief moment she considered that it would prove an advantage, for a young man would be far freer to move around than a farm girl would. Thought what would her mother think? That brought a thought of her mother, and she forced herself to answer before tears came: ‘I’m looking to sell the horse,’ she said.

  ‘Come to town to make your fortune, eh?’ the saddler said, sizing up the animal and the bridle. ‘Well, that horse is past mark of mouth, and the bridle’s no younger. Let’s see them both.’

  A few minutes later, the saddler sat back on his bench with a grimace. ‘Five silvers for the lot, bridle, pad and girth, and no more,’ he said. ‘And I’m being generous, at that.’

  ‘It’s fair,’ Lorrie said virtuously. Country-folk aren’t easy marks, whatever a city man might say, she added to herself.

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-five for the horse,’ the saddler said. ‘That’s a gift, mind you, a gift.’

  Lorrie hesitated. The price was fair, but she didn’t like the look of the stock behind the shop. I don’t think he feeds them well enough, she thought.

  There were men who’d buy horses cheap, work them to death and buy more; a fool’s bargain, she thought, but perhaps worth while in a city, where fodder had to be cash-bought and was expensive. What she couldn’t bear was the thought of Horace used so, wondering in bewilderment why he’d been abandoned.

  ‘It’s the first time in a long year that Swidin Betton’s made a gift to anyone, kin, friend or stranger,’ a voice said.

  The man leaning over the fence was about the saddler’s age, with curly reddish hair and a friendly smile.

  ‘I’ll take him off your hands, lad,’ he said. ‘And I’ll match the price. He’s a good horse, looks to me a draught beast mostly, though, eh?’

  And your horses don’t look underfed, she thought. The saddler shrugged and handed over the price for the bridle and pad; Lorrie led Horace to the stock-dealer’s pen. There were some stables off to one side, and she checked them: the straw looked to have been changed fairly recently, and the hooves of the beasts there were in good shape and kept clean, none cracked, the shoes not worn too thin.

  ‘He’s like an old friend,’ she said, handing over Horace’s rein. ‘I wasn’t that old myself when my father brought him home.’ She scratched Horace under his chin and the old gelding’s eyes half closed with pleasure.

  ‘There’s always someone looking for a gentle, hard-working creature like this one,’ the trader said. ‘He’s no colt, but he’s got years left, no doubt. Don’t you worry, he’ll find a home.’

  ‘He can plough the straightest furrow you ever saw,’ Lorrie said stoutly.

  The trader chuckled. ‘Lad, you’ve already sold him. But I’ll remember to tell that to prospective buyers.’

  Lorrie smiled and nodded, then turned away, somehow managing not to look back, even when Horace gave an enquiring neigh. She came to the edge of the animal market and sighed. Before her was one of the city’s gates and beyond, somewhere within the city, was her brother.

  Lorrie wandered along the street, unsure of what to do next. She had some sense of Rip still being alive, but no sense of his proximity. Maybe she’d erred in coming here. She had found the constable’s office, but the one fellow on duty was an old gaoler, and he said he could do nothing for her. Best to come back at the end of the day when the constable would be bringing in whoever he arrested. He’d be filling cells just before supper, the man had said.

  Lorrie’s mind turned to finding a place to sleep. Putting her hand in her pocket, she squeezed the purse she’d taken from under Bram’s bed now fattened with the thirty silvers she’d got for Horace and the harnessing. She’d done well in her bargaining, but this was no fortune. How long it would keep her Lorrie had no idea: city prices were higher than country, she knew that much.

  She felt herself start to go light-headed, and realized she still hadn’t eaten. She had to find something decent to eat before she fell over.

  Half an hour later Lorrie was licking the few remaining crumbs of a meat pie off her fingers and contemplating buying another one. Afternoon was fleeing, and the streets were crowded but already starting to thin out. The vendor had only one pie left and was moving away. If she wanted another, she had to decide now. She was just about to rush over to the pie-seller to see if she could get a bargain on the last sale of the day when a man walked up to her.

  ‘Hey there, young fellow,’ he said cheerily.

  Lorrie looked at him. He was about her father’s age and short, only a little taller than she was. He wasn’t any too clean, though not beyond the bounds of respectability, and his clothing wasn’t worn at the collar and cuffs. All in all he looked like a city man and probably a bachelor. He sported a wide black moustache and an even wider grin. Lorrie was certain from the lines in his face the man used dye to make his hair and moustache so absolutely black. She had heard of noblewomen colouring their hair with different things, but never heard of a man doing it. It struck her as odd, but he seemed friendly enough.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘You seem a likely lad,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘How would you like to earn two shiny silver pieces?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much, sir,’ Lorrie said eagerly. That would help. Gods knew how long it would take to find Rip.

  ‘Can you run, boy?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Lorrie assured him, ‘faster than anyone.’

  The man laughed and pointed to an alley nearby. ‘There’s a fellow waiting there at the far end of the alley who needs someone to take a small package across the city for him. His name is Travers and he will give you your instructions. Tell him you’re the lad Benton sent him. Now, go, let me see you run!’

  She raced to the alley and down it to the corner where a man stood picking his teeth under the creaking sign of a tavern; it was a relief to get out of the narrow lane, where daylight hardly filtered through. The city looked to Lorrie to be worse than a forest at night, with houses that towered up three and even four storeys on either side. She wrinkled her nose: a farm-girl didn’t grow up squeamish, but where she was raised dung went on the fields where it belonged, and people didn’t piss up against buildings.

  ‘Sir?’ she said, ‘would you go by the name of Travers?’

 
; The man nodded and swept a glance over her from head to foot. ‘Who’re you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m the boy Benton sent you,’ Lorrie told him.

  ‘Ah.’ He pulled out a purse from his pocket. ‘I need ye to take this to The Firedrake, an inn near the north gate. There’s a gentleman there named Coats who’s waiting for it.’ He handed it over. ‘Go on, then. What’re ye waiting for?’

  ‘Um, Benton said that I would get two silvers for this errand,’ she said.

  ‘And so ye shall, when ye’ve done it,’ Travers roared. ‘The sooner ye do it, the sooner ye’ll be paid. So get goin’!’

  Lorrie took to her heels feeling foolish and just a little unnerved. Of course she wouldn’t be paid until she’d delivered the package, no one would take your word on such a thing here. But she couldn’t help reflecting that Travers was a very surly man, not nearly as nice as Benton.

  The streets were far less crowded now as the day waned and she still had nowhere to spend the night. Perhaps if The Firedrake looked like a reasonable place she could stay there. Lorrie paused and looked around. Then she dashed down a short street toward the city wall, reasoning that following it would lead her to the north gate eventually.

  Suddenly she went flying, knocking her forehead on the cobbled pavement with an oof! and a dizzying wave of pain. Blood trickled down into her eyebrows, warm and sticky. Through the buzzing in her ears she heard far in the background a cry of ‘Stop! Thief!’ and was glad she’d got past the place without trouble.

  Lorrie started to push herself up when something hard struck her in the middle of her back and pushed her back down again.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ a familiar voice barked.

  The girl turned her head and stared in astonishment at the cheerful Benton, looking far less than cheery at the moment.

  ‘Ah ha!’ Travers said, arriving in a hurry. ‘Caught the little rat I see!’

  ‘Then this is the thief?’ Benton said.

  ‘Indeed, sir! With my purse in his hand!’ Travers said loudly.

  Lorrie looked in disbelief from one to the other. The few people about were pausing to see what the excitement was about and she felt compelled to protest.

  ‘But you gave it to me!’ she cried. ‘You told me…’

  Benton smacked her with his cudgel on the back of the neck with precisely calculated force, and she fell back, dazed.

  ‘None of that!’ he cried. ‘You can tell your lies to the judge and see what he thinks of them.’

  Some of the people around them looked smug and nodded in agreement; a few were doubtful, but disinclined to interfere.

  ‘I am Gerem Benton, an independent thief-taker, sir. I must ask you come with me, as witness,’ Benton announced.

  The doubtful among the onlookers now seemed satisfied. The thief-takers worked indirectly for the Baron, being paid a bounty for each thief caught and turned over to the city constabulary.

  ‘’Tis no less than my duty,’ Travers agreed. He nudged Lorrie with his foot. ‘Up with you, boy!’

  Lorrie couldn’t seem to co-ordinate her limbs and after a moment stopped trying.

  ‘What a dainty head the creature has,’ Benton said. ‘If you’ll take one arm, sir, then I’ll take the other and we’ll be on our way.’

  They hoisted her up and everything went black for Lorrie. Throbbing pain spiked its way up both sides of her neck.

  When she came around it was to find herself flat on the ground in a dark lane behind a building. Benton and Travers were having an argument with two other men.

  ‘…is my territory, Gerem Benton, and well you know it!’ growled a man with an eye-patch. He towered over Benton who was trying to reason with him.

  ‘It all started over in the East Market,’ Benton was saying. ‘But we have to go through your territory to get to the gaol. Be reasonable, Jake.’

  ‘I saw the whole thing!’ Jake roared, by no means inclined to be reasonable. ‘I don’t care where you started, you carried out the business end of it in my territory!’

  He pulled back his fist as if to strike and Travers caught his wrist. Then Jake’s companion chose to interfere, giving Travers a hard shove.

  ‘Ah, demons take it,’ Benton cursed. ‘You have the right of it, then, if it’s your territory.’

  He turned half away, and then shoved his club into Jake’s middle just below the floating rib, a hard swift jab. ‘But who says it’s your territory, dog’s-pizzle!’ Benton grabbed the other man by the hair and yanked his head back. Cutting off the man’s airway with the club he growled, ‘Remember who’s running things here, boyo. You and your little crew are free to boost and cut purses, but only because I keep the constables off your neck. I haven’t had a thief to turn in for almost three weeks now, so if I have to, I’ll turn some farm boy into a thief. But I’ll hear no more about “your territory” and “my territory”.’ He let the man go and watched as he staggered back. ‘When it comes to things dodgy, all of Land’s End is my territory.’

  Lorrie crab-walked away for a few paces, then turned over and scrambled to her feet. Before she’d taken two steps the four of them had grabbed hold of her and were cuffing her about the head and shoulders, shouting at her and each other and pulling her arms.

  She sank to her knees with a keening sob. Someone had drawn a knife…

  Something about having his rapier on his hip, even if it was carefully hidden by his cloak, gave Jimmy a sense of being taller–even full-grown. He could feel it in his walk, a new swagger–let him cross my path who dares! He shifted his slender shoulders and grinned.

  He’d never dream of wearing the sword on the street in Krondor; the watch would have it off him and himself in a cell before he could begin to argue about it. As for the Mockers, well, unless you were a basher they didn’t encourage the open wearing of weapons. It tended to lead to trouble.

  Which it could in Land’s End as well, I suppose.

  But here he was dressed quite respectably, which he knew counted for a great deal and, even more importantly, had a very respectable address. Of course he hoped he wouldn’t have to fall back on that. Flora would kill him–assuming she hadn’t already revealed all to Aunt Cleora and wasn’t sitting on the front steps weeping. In which case they were both likely to be arrested. But when he had last seen them, they had been sitting together while Aunt Cleora regaled Flora with family stories, holding the girl’s hands as if they were gold. With no children of her own, it seemed Cleora had found a suitable object for all her maternal instincts. Sometime this evening, Jimmy assumed, they’d finally get around to visiting Grandfather.

  Resisting the urge to throw back his cloak off his shoulder, showing the blade, Jimmy continued on. No point in borrowing trouble, he thought. Must continue to look as respectable as possible, he reminded himself. And there are advantages to it. I can case any target I please, and the shopkeepers bow double and ask me to take their inventory, instead of calling for the watch or throwing horse-apples!

  So he strutted as he walked, enjoying the mild air as dusk fell and the way his cloak swung about his calves. He rather liked this town. It was so compact compared to Krondor, and so quiet.

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  Jimmy’s head snapped toward the sound. Down a dim alley he saw four men fighting over a struggling shape. See, he thought smugly, there’s where an organization like the Mockers comes in handy. In Krondor such an unseemly situation would never occur. Any freelance thief would know better than to contest a prize with a Mocker and two groups of Mockers would simply take the loot and let the Day-or Nightmaster sort it out. This was uncivilized. And it was not even dark yet!

  For just an instant a last, golden ray of sunshine struck the face of the victim, turned toward the end of the alley where Jimmy was standing. His heart seemed to stop and his breath caught in his throat. Then she turned her head and the light was gone, leaving the alley darker than before and Jimmy in a state of paralysis.

  It can’t be! he thought. />
  It was impossible, yet…In that last flash of daylight he’d have sworn that he saw the face of the Princess Anita. But she was safely on her way to the far coast. What would she be doing, alone, here in Land’s End?

  The girl made a cry of pain, galvanizing the young thief into action.

  He’d passed a box of ashes by the steps of a house just a step away; he grabbed a handful and rubbed it on his face, then pulled the hood of his cloak over his head as far as it would go and ran back to the alley. Jimmy yanked out his sword and with a blood-curdling yell rushed at the heaving, shoving group at the end of the alley.

  ‘At ’em boys!’ Jimmy bellowed. ‘No quarter!’

  Up to now it had been hard words and harder clubs, and one man waving a dirk without using it, but the introduction of an edged weapon and the possibility of more attackers threw the four thief-takers into confusion for a crucial moment. Jimmy slashed out at waist level and the men let go of the girl and jumped back.

  Whereupon Jimmy grabbed her tunic and pulled. She was older than he was, he judged quickly, but no taller. And a game lass, he thought; on her feet in a second to follow him out of the alley. He let go of her and slid his rapier back into its sheath, leading her toward that box of ash.

  It hadn’t taken the four men long to recover from his unplanned attack, or to realize that there were no ‘boys’ intent on giving ‘no quarter’, and they were soon hot on Jimmy’s heels. He suspected that they might happily let the girl go free in order to pummel him into the cobbles. It was sad, but he often had that effect on people.

  When they reached the house with the ashes Jimmy picked up the box, spun round and flung the contents into the air right in his pursuers’ faces. They fell back, cursing and coughing. With dexterity bordering on the supernatural, he again drew his blade and delivered a few well-placed nicks and cuts to the four men, who tried to fend off the much longer blade with clubs and a single dirk. Jimmy had only a few weeks’ practice with the blade, but his teacher had been Prince Arutha, and more, Jimmy was faster than most experienced swordsmen. The men tried to fan out and approach from two sides. For their efforts they received some nasty cuts on the arms and hands from Jimmy’s much longer blade. Jimmy laid about, his blade hissing as it cut air, and each time it made contact, an attacker yelped in pain and fell back. Then the leader of the group, the man with the black moustache, tried to leap in, and Jimmy cut him deep across the shoulder. One of the men turned and fled, and in a moment, the rout was on, the attackers beating a hasty retreat; the price of the girl and the boy wasn’t worth bleeding to death.