Krondor: The Betrayal

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘‘People worry when riots break out,’’ said James. ‘‘Even if you’re not taking sides, the violence can sweep you up and carry you into harm’s way. Many a man has died trying to explain he wasn’t taking sides in a guild riot.’’

  They rounded a corner and found themselves entering the city’s square, dominated by a large fountain. James was struck by something odd. ‘‘There aren’t any hawkers or vendors about.’’

  Owyn nodded. ‘‘I’ve been here before, on my way up to see my uncle in Cavell Keep, and there are always merchants in the main square.’’

  Gorath said, ‘‘Perhaps they were fearful of being swept up in that violence you spoke of.’’

  James nodded. A large inn occupied the north side of the square, a black sheep against a green meadow painted on the 122

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  sign hanging over the door. ‘‘We’ll headquarter here,’’ announced Walter of Gyldenholt.

  The lancers dismounted and whatever James might have thought of the truculent former Captain from Highcastle, his squad was the model of efficiency. The Captain waved over a passerby and said, ‘‘Do you know where the Earl of Romney is?’’

  The man said, ‘‘He’s taken up residence in that house there, sir.’’ He pointed across the square.

  Handing the reins of his horse to an orderly, Walter dismounted, and said, ‘‘Squire James, let’s go call upon His Lordship.’’

  James dismounted, and said to Owyn, ‘‘Find us a room, but in a different inn. We’ll be able to snoop about a bit easier if we’re not keeping company with fifty Royal Lancers.’’

  Owyn said, ‘‘I know just the place. I stayed here with my father once.’’ He pointed. ‘‘Down that street is another bridge, crossing the River Cheam, and just on the other side is an inn marked by a green-cat sign. We’ll wait for you there.’’

  James turned and followed Walter, who marched purpose-fully to the door of the house. He had barely knocked when the door opened, and a servant said, ‘‘Enter, sirs.’’

  The man wore a castle tabard, with the Earl’s coat of arms on it, a stylized river with a fish jumping from it and over a star. The servant led them to a small parlor at the rear of the house.

  Earl Richard was a youthful man, but one who looked more the part of a merchant or tradesman than a noble, despite wearing armor and a sword. James had grown up amidst nobles who were fighting men as well as rulers, and these eastern nobles who wore swords for decoration took some getting used to. The Earl’s voice was surprisingly deep and forceful.

  ‘‘Welcome, gentlemen. My Lord Bas-Tyra answered my request.’’

  James let Walter speak first. ‘‘We came straightaway, sir.’’

  ‘‘How many men did you bring?’’

  ‘‘A full company of fifty Royal Lancers.’’

  The Earl appeared worried. ‘‘I hope that’s enough. I would really prefer to settle this dispute without resorting to force.’’

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  Walter glanced at James and shrugged. The Earl noticed the exchange, and said, ‘‘And you are?’’

  ‘‘James, Squire to Prince Arutha,’’ he said, producing his travel warrants and demands for assistance. The second document seemed to produce increased distress in the Earl. ‘‘What sort of assistance?’’

  ‘‘At this point, information, m’lord. We have heard rumors of increased activity in the area by the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, as well as the possibility of a return by the Nighthawks.’’

  ‘‘Possibility?’’ asked the Earl, his color rising. ‘‘Doesn’t anyone read the reports I forward to the Crown? Of course there’s a possibility! They’ve killed two members of the Ironmongers’

  Guild for the Riverpullers, and killed two members of the Riverpullers, as well; they’ll kill for whoever pays them. I hear Baron Cavell is hiding out in Cavell Village because they’re stalking him! He lives in a small residence with his household guards in every room.’’

  Something about Cavell rang familiar in James’s memory, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  James said, ‘‘Well, then, m’lord, my companions and I will be around for a few days, asking questions. We’d prefer it if no one else knew our visit was official. If anyone asks, we are here to convey the Prince’s greetings while en route to somewhere else.’’ He glanced at Walter. ‘‘I’ll be staying over at the Green Cat Inn, to lend credence to that, Captain.’’

  Walter of Gyldenholt shrugged as if it were of no importance to him. He said, ‘‘My lord, we’ll be at your disposal. I’ll need to speak with your chief constable in the morning and establish a patrol. As soon as the folks around here see a few of my lads riding around, things will calm down.’’

  James and the Captain excused themselves from the Earl’s presence. Outside the door, Walter said, ‘‘Well, Squire, we’ll have things in hand around here soon enough.’’

  Again feeling the tension in the air, James said, ‘‘I hope you do, Captain. I most sincerely hope you do.’’

  They parted company, and James found his horse, mounted, and rode across the city in the direction Owyn had indicated.

  As he rode, he studied the city.

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  of three rivers. The River Rom coursed down from the Teeth of the World, near Northwarden, the oldest of the Border Baronies. At Romney the River Cheam branched off to the southeast, while the Rom continued to run southwesterly, turning southeast again as it neared the coast. James paused at the bridge he faced, which arched over the River Cheam. Something was eating at him, a memory he couldn’t quite place, and he knew that it was somehow important. He waited to see if anything bubbled to the surface of his mind, then decided it would come in its own good time.

  James moved across the bridge and found this side of the city even more tense than the other. Citizens moved quickly, eyes darting around as if expecting attack from any quarter, and nowhere could any of the usual street hawkers be seen.

  He reached the Green Cat Inn and rode around to the back of the stabling yard, where he found Gorath and Owyn waiting for him. ‘‘Why aren’t you inside, eating?’’ asked James as he dismounted.

  A terrified-looking stableboy said, ‘‘Sir, my master is unwilling to serve your . . . friend.’’ He indicated Gorath.

  Muttering, ‘‘I wouldn’t quite call him a friend,’’ James tossed his reins to the boy and marched in the rear door of the inn.

  Owyn and Gorath hesitated a moment, then followed.

  Inside, James saw a large man, advancing in years, but still broad of shoulders with imposing muscle under a broad girth, turn to see who entered from the stable yard. He pointed a beefy finger at Gorath, and said, ‘‘You! I told you I’ll have none of your kind in my inn!’’

  James hurried to put himself between the innkeeper and Gorath. ‘‘And just what kind would that be?’’ he asked.

  The man looked down at James, appraising him and coming to a halt. The young man was quite a bit smaller, but something in his manner made the barman stop. ‘‘Dark elves! Fifteen years I served on the border, and I’ve killed enough of his kind to know them. They killed enough of my comrades, as well. And who the hell are you to ask?’’

  James said, ‘‘I’m Seigneur James, Squire to Prince Arutha of Krondor. He’s my companion, and we’re on a mission for the Crown.’’

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  ‘‘And I’m the Queen of Banapis,’’ said the innkeeper in return.

  James grinned as he reached into his tunic and produced his warrants. ‘‘Well, Majesty of Love and Beauty, read these, or else I’ll have to go fetch Earl Richard to vouch for me, and let’s see how much he likes being dragged over here given the temper of the city right now.’’

  The old man could read, but slowly, with his lips moving.

  James didn’t offer to help him out.
After a moment, he handed back the documents. ‘‘Damn, you are some sort of Prince’s officer, aren’t you?’’

  James shrugged. ‘‘If I were in the army, I’d be a Knight-Lieutenant, if that makes it easier for an old soldier like you to grasp. Now, I want a room big enough for the three of us, ale, and food.’’

  The man threw a black look at Gorath and turned his back on James. ‘‘Come this way . . . sir.’’ He led them to the bar and went behind it. He produced a large iron key, and said,

  ‘‘Top of the stairs, all the way back on the right.’’ James took the key, when a light entered the man’s eyes. ‘‘Six golden sovereigns a night.’’

  ‘‘Six!’’ said James. ‘‘You thief!’’

  ‘‘It’s two per person. Take it or leave it.’’

  Knowing full well that the fifty lancers would eat up a lot of rooms at local inns, James said, ‘‘We’ll take it.’’

  ‘‘In advance.’’

  James counted out twelve coins, and said, ‘‘Two nights. If we stay longer, we’ll pay the day after tomorrow.’’

  The man swept up the coins. ‘‘And that doesn’t include the cost of food or ale,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I was sure of that,’’ said James. To Owyn and Gorath he said, ‘‘Let’s fetch our kits, then we’ll eat.’’

  They got their travel bags off their horses, ensured the stableboy knew what he was doing, and went upstairs. As James had expected, it was the least desirable room in the inn, being at the back over the stable. He decided not to make an issue of it.

  Downstairs they endured slow service, even though there wasn’t much of a crowd. James was deciding at what point he 126

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  would have to take the old soldier who ran the place down a peg when the food finally arrived. To James’s delight, it was well prepared and of good quality.

  As they ate, they discussed the situation. James shared the little information he had with them, and Owyn said, ‘‘So the Nighthawks are working for the Riverpullers or the Ironmongers?’’

  ‘‘Neither,’’ suggested Gorath. ‘‘Confusion and discord are Delekhan’s allies here in the Kingdom.’’

  ‘‘I believe Gorath is correct. I don’t know if the Nighthawks are in league with this Crawler, Delekhan, or both, or if we’ve just wandered into a conflict that has nothing to do with our mission, but either way it’s to Delekhan’s benefit. Which means we must help to end it.’’

  ‘‘How?’’ asked Owyn.

  ‘‘Find out how this thing started and see if we can figure out a way to get the two sides talking to one another. If the Earl can mediate the conflict, perhaps we can return this city to something close to order. Those lancers can only hold down the lid on this simmering pot so long; sooner or later someone’s going to pull a sword or break a head, and a full-scale city riot will be under way.’’ He lowered his voice even more.

  ‘‘And if most of the city’s constabulary is on one side or the other, even those fifty lancers won’t be able to stop it.’’

  Owyn nodded. ‘‘What do you want us to do?’’

  Pointing to Gorath, he said, ‘‘First light tomorrow, I’d like you up snooping outside the city. You know what to look for.’’

  To Owyn he said, ‘‘Do you know any of the prominent families of Romney?’’

  ‘‘Not well,’’ said Owyn, ‘‘but as my father’s a baron, and I’ve got enough names to drop around, I should be able to get an invitation to tea or supper from someone around here.’’

  James said, ‘‘Good. I’ll snoop around.’’

  ‘‘Where?’’ asked Owyn.

  James grinned. ‘‘In parts of the city where wise men fear to go.’’

  Owyn nodded. ‘‘What else?’’

  ‘‘Do you know a Baron Cavell, north of here?’’ asked James.

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  should. He’s my uncle. My mother’s uncle, actually, but only a few years older than she. Why?’’

  ‘‘Richard of Romney says he’s being stalked by the Nighthawks.’’

  Owyn said, ‘‘That doesn’t surprise me. Uncle Corvallis always had a hot temper and an unforgiving nature. Made it easy for him to collect enemies. Still, I find it hard to imagine that anyone wants him dead.’’

  James shrugged. ‘‘That’s what Earl Richard said the Baron of Cavell claims.’’

  Gorath said, ‘‘If they wanted him dead, he’d be dead.’’

  James said, ‘‘Well, according to Richard, your uncle Corvallis is hiding out in a room in a house in the middle of Cavell Village, with armed guards in every room.’’

  Owyn nodded. ‘‘The old keep was gutted mysteriously in a fire years ago. The family’s been living in the best house in the village since then, and talking about restoring the old keep, but at this point it’s still abandoned.’’

  James said, ‘‘Well, we might have to go talk to your uncle if we can’t find the Nighthawks down here.’’

  Gorath observed, ‘‘I haven’t noticed much difficulty in finding them.’’

  James nodded agreement. ‘‘Too true.’’

  They finished their meal and turned in for the night.

  The shout had barely registered on James the next morning and he was out of bed, grabbing his trousers and boots. Gorath was also awake and reaching for his sword. Owyn stirred on the pallet next to Gorath’s, and said, ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Sounds like a riot is commenced,’’ said Gorath.

  James listened to the sound, and said, ‘‘No, it’s something else.’’

  He finished dressing and hurried down the hall to the stairs to the common room. As he approached the front of the building, he could hear the voices from out front. The landlord stood at the door to his inn, listening as people hurried by.

  ‘‘What is it?’’ demanded James.

  With a dark look, the innkeeper said, ‘‘Murder. The cry is murder has been done in the night.’’

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  ‘‘Murder?’’ asked Owyn, coming down the stairs. ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ said the innkeeper. ‘‘But they’re saying it was done over at the Black Sheep Inn.’’

  James was through the door before the words had vanished from the air, Owyn and Gorath following. He didn’t bother to go and saddle his horse, but rather sprinted through the streets, following the flood of people who swept along like a stream, heading across the bridge toward the main square of the city.

  As he neared the square, he found a press of people being held back by a few men with pole arms, all wearing armbands.

  None of the Royal Lancers was in evidence. James had to push his way through the crowd, and when he reached the front, he was barred by a man holding a pike.

  James pushed aside the pike, shouting, ‘‘On the business of the Crown!’’

  The man obviously wasn’t prepared for that and hesitated, letting James, Gorath, and Owyn pass. But he managed to keep others back as Richard, Earl of Romney, came striding across the square, toward the fountain. He saw James, and exclaimed, ‘‘Squire!’’

  James crossed to where he waited, and said, ‘‘My lord? What is it?’’

  Barely able to speak because of his rage, he pointed to the open door of the Black Sheep Inn, and said, ‘‘Look!’’

  James hurried to the entrance.

  Entering the commons he saw Royal Lancers, sprawled across tables or on the floor, their eyes vacant and fixed. He needed no healer or priest to pronounce the men dead. He looked over at a cowering stableboy, who had found the bodies when he had come in for breakfast an hour earlier, and said, ‘‘All of them?’’

  The boy was so terrified he could barely speak. ‘‘Sir.’’ He nodded. ‘‘The officer is in his room upstairs, and the sergeant and some of the others. The rest died down here.’’

  Gorath crossed to the table
and picked up a mug of ale.

  He sniffed at it. ‘‘Poison,’’ he said, ‘‘or I’m a goblin. You can smell it.’’

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  sense of smell keener than his own, for he could detect no odor beyond that of warm ale. He noticed a slight black sediment in the mug. He fished out a tiny bit with his finger, then touched it to the tip of his tongue. Spitting it out, he said, ‘‘You may be right, and there may be poison in this ale, but what you’re smelling is tarweed.’’

  ‘‘Tarweed?’’ asked Owyn, looking pale despite the number of corpses he had seen already.

  James nodded, putting down the mug. ‘‘Old trick in some of the seedier inns in the Kingdom. Tarweed is nasty stuff in large amounts, but in small doses it makes you thirsty. You lace bad ale with it, and the customers drink it like it was dwarven winter ale.’’

  ‘‘Can it kill you?’’ asked Owyn.

  ‘‘No, but there are many tasteless poisons that can,’’ said James.

  He turned to the boy, and said, ‘‘What’s your name?’’

  ‘‘Jason,’’ the boy answered, terrified. ‘‘What are they going to do to me?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Nothing, why?’’

  ‘‘I served these men, sir. My master always said the care of our guests was our responsibility.’’

  James said, ‘‘Perhaps, but you couldn’t know the ale was poisoned, could you?’’

  ‘‘No, but I knew something was odd, and I didn’t say anything.’’

  James was now acutely interested. ‘‘What was odd?’’

  ‘‘The men who came with the ale. We buy our ale from the Sign of the Upturned Keg down in Sloop. I know the wagon drivers. This time it was strange men.’’

  James took Jason by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘‘Is there anything you can tell us about these men, anything special?’’

  Jason stared at the ceiling a moment, as if struggling to remember. ‘‘They were dark men, maybe Keshians, and they spoke oddly. And they seemed worried, but they didn’t say anything. One wore a medallion that swung out from under his tunic when he leaned over to hand a keg down to his partner.’’