Krondor: The Assassins

by Raymond E. Feist

James turned and saw William’s surprised expression and realized that it hadn’t sunk in yet that he was now an officer and McWirth wasn’t going to be yelling at him any more.

  William hesitated and then said, ‘‘I just wished to thank you for all you’ve taught me. I hope I’ll not disappoint you in the future.’’

  McWirth smiled and said, ‘‘Son, if there had been the slim-mest chance of you disappointing me in the future, you never would have been awarded those spurs.’’ He pointed to William’s boots where two new silver spurs adorned his heels. ‘‘You’ll do fine. Now, hurry up and get your things over to the armory before the other lieutenants see you hauling your own kit in and start giving you grief over not having one of the pages or soldiers carry it over for you.’’

  James stood motionless for a moment, then laughed. Suddenly William realized that as a knight-lieutenant in the garrison, he could have ordered a page or one of the soldiers to fetch his kit for him. Then McWirth turned to James and said,

  ‘‘Or you, squire, about being William’s dog-robber. Get along now, the two of you.’’

  ‘‘Yes, swordmaster,’’ said James.

  William hurried along. ‘‘Where did that term come from?’’

  ‘‘From what I hear, in ancient times knights weren’t so pros-perous and their squires had to be clever in where they got their next meal for their masters.’’

  William grinned. ‘‘Should I make you my squire, squire?’’

  James returned the grin with a mock frown. ‘‘I’d pay a gold sovereign to see you accomplish that trick, sire,’’ he said, sarcasti-cally. ‘‘If you’re certain you wish a personal squire, I can see if one of the less gifted pages would consider a career with almost 125

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  no opportunity for advancement. And I’d be interested to see where you get the funds to pay him.’’

  They reached the armory and hurried through the large doors, past racks of swords, shields, pole arms, and other weapons. In the rear of the armory they could hear the noises from the smith as he repaired weapons blunted by soldiers in practice. They reached the stairs at the rear of the building and climbed them to the upper floor. William put down his clothing on the floor and looked around. ‘‘That room looks unoccupied,’’

  he said, pointing to an open door.

  James said, ‘‘I’ll save you a drubbing. You’re supposed to wait for the most senior bachelor knight to assign you a room.’’

  He pointed to the apparently empty room. ‘‘That room is almost certain to belong to Captain Treggar.’’

  William grimaced. Captain Treggar was a humorless young man who according to gossip must have been an exceptional soldier to have hung on to his post despite being a bully and prone to petty rages. He also was considered to be unusually clever to have lasted as long as he had at the garrison with Gardan in charge of the military.

  A few minutes later newly appointed Knight-Lieutenant Gordon O’Donald, youngest son of the Earl of Mallow Haven, topped the stairs, carrying his bundle. ‘‘Free room?’’ he asked.

  William said, ‘‘We wait for Treggar.’’

  Gordon dumped his kit right where he stood. ‘‘And isn’t that the end to a perfect day.’’ His voice carried a hint of the lilt common to the Kennararch people from the foothills of the Peaks of Tranquility. He was a broad-shouldered young man, slightly taller than William and James, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. His complexion was fair, so he was constantly sunburned and freckled.

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  James said, ‘‘You both seem a little sour for having just received the best post in the west.’’

  ‘‘The west,’’ echoed Gordon. ‘‘My father, I’m betting, asked the Prince to keep me here and out of trouble. My brothers were both killed in war, Malcolm at the fight with the Tsurani at the end of the Riftwar, the one up in the Gray Tower Mountains, and Patrick at Sethanon. I’m the youngest, and Father is trying to keep me alive until I inherit.’’

  ‘‘Staying alive is a worthy undertaking,’’ said James with mock gravity.

  ‘‘Well and good for those of you born here, squire, but a man gets little chance for promotion in the west.’’

  James frowned. ‘‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re going to be an earl some day. Why would you worry about promotion?’’

  Gordon said, ‘‘We’re a little earldom at Mallow Haven, and battlefield honors count for much in the east. You’ve got your goblins and Brothers of the Dark Path and all out here, but in the east we’re constantly bagging away at the Eastern Kingdoms or Kesh. Advancement is fast, and you need all the advantages you can when arranging state marriages.’’

  James and William looked at each other and grinned. In unison they said, ‘‘It’s a girl!’’

  James said to Gordon, ‘‘Who is she?’’

  Gordon’s sunburned face couldn’t hide the blush as he said,

  ‘‘My Lord of Deep Taunton’s daughter, Rebecca. She’s the daughter of a duke, and if I have a prayer of winning her, I must return home with enough glory around my shoulders to blind the king.’’

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  couldn’t find a decent war in the west, but that’s not been true since I’ve been in Krondor.’’

  William said, ‘‘At least you’re in the best place in the west for advancement.’’

  Footsteps could be heard from below as a dozen pair of heavy boots walked toward the door. ‘‘Pick up your gear,’’ suggested James.

  A moment later a dark head appeared, followed by a broad pair of shoulders as Knight-Captain Treggar plodded up the stairs. He was followed by the other unmarried knights. When he saw the two new lieutenants waiting for him, he frowned.

  When he saw James, his expression turned to one of open distaste. ‘‘What’s this, then?’’ he asked.

  William said, ‘‘Waiting to be assigned rooms, captain.’’

  The other lieutenants continued to come up the stairs until the hall was full. Several whispered and a couple shrugged.

  James recognized they were waiting for Treggar to act. The expected hazing of the newly-appointed knights wasn’t proceeding as planned.

  Treggar was about to speak, when James said, ‘‘The Prince is anxious to get Knight-Lieutenant William settled in, as he has a special mission for him.’’

  Whatever Treggar was about to say went unsaid. Instead he pointed and said, ‘‘End of the hall. We’re short of rooms, so you two will have to double up until someone marries or is reassigned.’’

  ‘‘Yes, captain,’’ said Gordon, moving through the press of officers.

  William said, ‘‘Thank you, captain,’’ and followed.

  James said, ‘‘I’ll wait for you here, lieutenant.’’

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  you’re far more often found in the sewers than the palace,’’

  observed Treggar.

  James stared at the captain for a moment. He had deep, dark eyes, and there was nothing but anger and contempt in his gaze. His heavy brow always seemed knit in concentration except when he was on public display before the Knight-Marshal or the Prince. It was rumored that more than one younger officer and dozens of the palace garrison had been invited out to a beating after nightfall for displeasing Treggar. At last, in a pleasant voice, James said, ‘‘I go wherever my Prince requires.’’

  He was tempted to challenge Treggar, but years of dealing with bullies as a boy told James this wasn’t a fight he could win.

  Embarrassing the captain in front of the other young officers would turn dislike into hatred, and whatever else he might be, Treggar was an important member of the palace garrison. Besides, he would most likely take out any slight, imagined or otherwise, on Gordon and William.


  Seeing that whatever fun planned for the new officers was not going to happen, the other officers drifted off to their own rooms or down the stairs to their duty stations. After a moment, Gordon and William appeared.

  William looked at James. ‘‘What’s the mission, James?’’

  Treggar turned and snarled, ‘‘When you address a member of the court, lieutenant, you will use his title.’’ He paused, then added, ‘‘No matter who he might be.’’

  William said, ‘‘Yes, captain.’’ To James he said, ‘‘What’s the mission, squire?’’

  James said, ‘‘You’re to take an escort of a dozen men and accompany His Highness’s guests on a hunting trip. Report to the huntmaster with the escort an hour before dawn.’’

  ‘‘Yes, squire.’’

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  Looking at Treggar, James said, ‘‘Come see me before you retire tonight, lieutenant. I may have some last-minute instructions for you.’’

  William said, ‘‘Yes, squire.’’

  James turned and departed quickly. He knew nothing would be gained by lingering, save to contribute to Treggar’s foul mood. He would likely find something for William to do before nightfall that would either embarrass or somehow punish the young man for robbing Treggar of his fun. James knew bullies.

  Eventually William and Gordon would have to come to their own terms with Treggar.

  Crossing the courtyard, James considered that William was a tough enough lad. He could handle himself. James suspected that Gordon might turn out to be as tough in his own way, too. Besides, Treggar had been a bachelor officer a long time and knew precisely what he could and couldn’t get away with in the bachelor officers’ mess. Being Head of Mess had privileges, but it had responsibilities as well, and had Treggar been truly abusive Gardan would have removed him a long time ago.

  One thing James knew about Arutha and his knight-marshal: there was no detail so trivial that it escaped their notice for too long. Problems were quickly uncovered and dealt with.

  Passing through the gate, James considered his first stop as a guard waved a casual salute to him. Then James stopped. He had left by the western gate of the palace, once the main entrance, but now used mostly for ceremonial arrivals, processions from the city, holy day rites, and the like, while most of the commerce of the palace now was conducted via the harbor gate and the eastern gate.

  A great house sat on the opposite side of the square that marked the western boundary of the palace grounds. Between 130

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  the house and the gate stood a fountain, modest in size, but ancient and considered something of a landmark, for it had been the first in the city constructed by the order of one of the early princes. James studied the house. It was a large building, the massive exterior promising many interior rooms. And to the best of his knowledge, it had been abandoned for years.

  James corrected himself; it wasn’t abandoned, but unoccupied.

  From time to time some activity could be detected around the building, a fresh coat of paint on wood trim or the iron gate, or repairs to stones in the outer wall. But now it was clear someone was preparing the building to be occupied.

  ‘‘What’s going on?’’ he asked a guard at the gate, nodding toward the house.

  ‘‘Don’t know. Been wagons coming and going since yesterday, squire.’’

  ‘‘That house has been closed up as long as I can remember,’’

  said the guard standing on the other side of the gate. ‘‘Don’t know even who owns it.’’

  James said, ‘‘It’s owned by the Temple of Ishap.’’

  Both cast him a glance, but neither asked how he knew.

  James made a habit of knowing things about the city and neither guard doubted his word.

  ‘‘They usually keep to themselves,’’ James half muttered. ‘‘I wonder what this is about?’’

  Both guards knew the question was rhetorical and kept silent, as James turned his attention from the new arrival across the street to an old problem: the Nighthawks.

  James emerged from between two buildings, his clothing far less fashionable than what he had worn when he had left the palace. He had several stashes around the city where he had 131

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  secreted clothing, weapons, and money, against a multitude of possible needs. Blending into the common rabble was common necessity for the Prince’s squire.

  James moved through the midday press in the merchants’

  section of the city, near where it unofficially turned into the Poor Quarter. No one could point to any map or charter that defined the city’s districts in such a fashion, but all who lived in Krondor knew where the market section ended and the dock-side began, where Harborside became Fishtown and how the other unofficial precincts were arrayed. And knowing where one district ended and another began was vital to one’s health and safety, James knew.

  He crossed the nondescript street that separated the merchants’ and Poor quarters, and as he entered the latter, the streets seemed to shrink, to narrow, to confine. Buildings rose up on both sides, leaving barely enough room for a cart to pass between, keeping them in gloom except when the sun was at its zenith.

  James’s posture and walk didn’t change as he moved into his old haunts, but his awareness did. The streets of the poor quarter in the daytime were almost as busy as the other sections of the city, but they were far more dangerous. The dangers were less obvious than at night, but they were potentially more lethal for their subtlety. Within moments James sensed the dis-quiet that permeated the district. Glances were more furtive than usual, people moved just a bit more hurriedly than was the norm. Voice were hushed and strangers were watched closely. The killings were making a suspicious population even less trusting.

  James turned into an even narrower path, an alley with an occasional door or a wooden stairway to a second story en-132

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  trance above. Near the end of the alley he saw a hunched-over figure securing items to a two-wheeled pony cart. The door that had been his intended destination was open.

  James drew his dagger and held it so it was hidden behind his wrist. A quick flip would bring it into play if needed.

  Reaching striking distance to the figure he stopped and said, ‘‘Sophia?’’

  The figure turned and drew herself to her full height and James relaxed. The woman was gray-haired with just enough dark brown to show the original color of her youth. She held one hand in what James knew was a warding position. A moment later, she relaxed and said, ‘‘Jimmy. You just about scared what few years I have left out of me.’’

  James walked over to the pony cart and then glanced at the open door. ‘‘Leaving?’’

  ‘‘As soon as I tie down this last bundle.’’

  ‘‘Where are you bound?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want anyone in Krondor knowing where I land, Jimmy.’’

  James studied the woman’s face. Never a pretty woman—her features had rightly been called horsey in her youth—

  Sophia possessed a strength in her bearing and a strong body that made her striking, and had won her a fair share of lovers over the years, men of wealth as often as not. But Sophia’s trade in spells, charms and magic potions had gained her a life that was ultimately solitary, save for a few trusted friends, like James.

  James nodded at her remark. ‘‘If you want to vanish, I understand, but I would like to know why if I may?’’

  ‘‘You’ve heard of the killings; I don’t have to ask. You wouldn’t be the Prince’s man and not know.’’

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  ‘‘You’re fearful of joining that departed company?’’

  She nodded. Adjusting her blue dress and fetching a black shawl off the top of the cart, she moved to close the door to her small room. ‘‘What may
not have caught your attention is that most of those who are not members of the Mockers, removed for reasons you’re no doubt more familiar with than I, were practitioners of the art.’’

  ‘‘Magicians?’’ asked James, suddenly keenly interested in what the woman had to say.

  ‘‘Five to the best of my knowledge. Most of their names would be unknown to you, for they practiced in private. We’re not as public a bunch as those down in Stardock, Jimmy. Some of us prefer a quiet livelihood.’’

  ‘‘And others?’’

  ‘‘Practice crafts which might not be looked upon with favor by those in power.’’

  ‘‘Black arts?’’

  ‘‘Nothing so sinister, but let’s say a merchant wants a com-petitor’s cargo of grain to rot before shipment, or a gambler needs an edge in a big game. There are those who practice such arts as will provide what is needed.’’

  ‘‘For a price,’’ observed James.

  Sophia nodded. ‘‘Someone is eliminating magicians in Krondor, James.’’

  James glanced around. ‘‘How many others are there?’’

  Sophia said, ‘‘Help me turn this around. I should have pointed it that way before I loaded it.’’

  James helped the woman turn the cart around, and watched as she knelt between the twin stalls of the wagon and picked them up. He knew better than to offer to help; Sophia was as independent-minded a woman as he had ever encountered, and 134

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  he had known several. ‘‘You ought to get a small horse or pony to pull that thing.’’

  ‘‘I can’t afford one,’’ she answered as she started to pull all her worldly possessions out of the alley.

  ‘‘I can . . . loan you the funds for a horse, Sophia. You were always kind to a rude street boy.’’

  She smiled and years fell away from her face. ‘‘You were never rude. Obnoxious, yes, but never rude.’’ Then her smile vanished. ‘‘I’d just have to feed the beast, but thanks for the offer.’’

  As they reached the corner Sophia halted and said, ‘‘But I should be asking you what brought you to my door.’’