They reached an outflow and Shabeer stepped on a uneven stone that was a cleverly disguised toehold. He levered himself into the outflow, and disappeared into the darkness.
As he was holding the lantern, Tal said, “Slow down, boy.”
He followed Shabeer and had to duck to stop his head from hitting the ceiling of the smaller outflow tunnel. The boy led him about two hundred yards, until they came to what appeared to be a large circular catchment area.
Several streams of malodorous fluids trickled down from above, and Shabeer motioned for Tal to stay close to the left - hand wall as he inched around to a series of iron rungs set in the brickwork.
Tal followed the climbing boy, until he pushed upon a trapdoor overhead. They emerged into a well - lit room. Caleb and Kaspar were already there, and sat opposite a large table. Next to them was an empty chair.
As soon as Tal had cleared the trapdoor, he heard a voice from the other side of the room say, “Be seated, if you will.”
The large table dominated the room. It was a rough thing of no artistry, but it was sturdy and Tal realized that its primary purpose would be to slow down those seeking to attack whoever was on the other side of it.
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That person was a large man in a striped robe, similar in fashion to those worn by the desert men of the Jal - Pur, but the wearer was no desert man. He had the neck of a bull, and his head was completely shaved. His eyebrows were so fair that it looked like he had none. His age was unfathomable—he could have been as young as twenty - nine, or as old as sixty. The single candle didn’t provide enough light for Tal to guess more closely. On either side of him stood a well - armed man: bodyguards.
Once Tal had taken his seat, the man said, “You may call me Magistrate, an honorific given to me by those who dwell in the sewers and alleyways, and it will serve for now.
“Your friend Caleb has been most generous and has bought you some of my time, my friends. Time is money, as I am sure you are all aware, so let us get directly to the question: what have you to ask of the Ragged Brotherhood?”
Caleb asked, “Do you speak on their behalf?”
“As much as any man can,” came the answer. “Which is to say, not at all.” He looked directly at Tal. “We are not like your famous Mockers of Krondor, with strict oversight and iron rule, Talwin Hawkins of the Kingdom.”
Kaspar glanced at Caleb, and the Magistrate continued. “Yes, we know who you are, Kaspar of Olasko.” He pointed at Caleb. “You, my friend, however, are known by name only, your provenance is a little murky. In any event, the Upright Man may command in Krondor”—he put his hand on his chest and gave a slight bow—“but here, I merely suggest. Though, if it is a good suggestion, it will almost certainly be heard.
“Now, what may I do for you?”
“We seek the Nighthawks,” answered Caleb.
“From what I hear you found them a week ago. There were an unusually high number of corpses floating toward the Overn to feed the crocodiles, and a fair number of them were wearing black.”
“We were led into a trap,” admitted Caleb.
“Likely,” came the answer.
Kaspar said, “We need intelligence. We need to know where their real nest is.”
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Flight of the Nighthawks
“As I said,” replied the fat man, “this is not Krondor and we do not have any real organization. Kesh is divided into precincts; each has its own rules and rulers. Aboveground, you’ll find the street gangs, beggars, pickpockets, and enforcers—I believe they are known as ‘bashers,’ in the north—and all answer to their own leaders. Those leaders answer to more powerful figures and each of them guards his authority jealously.
“The Slaughterhouse Gang controls the area we now occupy, and to the southwest of here are the Dockstreet Boys. There are over a hundred such gangs, all with equally colorful sobriquets: the Grab -
and - Runs, the Big Plaza Gang, the Sweet Hounds, the Caravan Rangers, and many others. A thief may work with impunity in one quarter, but should he be caught in another he might be dealt with harshly; such is the order of things in Kesh.
“Belowground, the sewers are also divided into precincts, or small cantons, and each is home to those who exist at the sufferance of the gang above them. The rest is a no - man’s - land and all are free to travel, but at some risk. There is no formal rule, but there are customs and conventions.”
“And you?” asked Tal.
“My place in all of this is of little importance; I broker understanding. I am something of a magistrate among the Ragged Brotherhood, hence the honorifi c. If conflict occurs, I am called upon to adjudicate. I also provide services, and . . . information.”
“At a price,” said Caleb.
The man smiled, showing two teeth capped in gold. “Obviously.
I am getting old and need to consider my future. I have a little farm on the other side of the Overn. Someday, I shall retire there and watch my servants grow crops. But I am in no hurry; I cannot abide farming.
“So, you wish to know the whereabouts of the Nighthawks’ base.
That will cost a great deal of gold.”
“How much?” asked Caleb.
“A great deal.”
“And how much is a great deal?”
“Quite a lot actually,” said the man. “I will need to bribe quite a few 2 5 5
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very frightened thieves. The more afraid they are, the higher their price, and few things in this city scare them more than the Nighthawks.
“There are several areas of the city, including the sewers below, where wise thieves do not trespass. Those who do, tend to disappear.
There are the usual stories of monsters, imperial thief - catchers, and rogue gangs. But one of these areas will turn out to be the place your black - feathered birds have made their nest.
“If we can fi nd it.”
“If?” asked Tal.
The fat man nodded. “There are rumors of magic and evil spirits.
While thieves are among the most superstitious fools in Kesh, I would not discount the rumors. If they are true, even the most stealthy of the Ragged Brotherhood may find the areas difficult to approach.
There is no easy way past a ward that strikes you dead should you even gaze upon it.
“So, I make no guarantees. Now, to the bargain. I will need three hundred gold coins to begin with, for bribes and rewards, and for my fee I’ll need another hundred. Once the information is secured, I ask ten gold coins in blood money to the gangs for each of their men killed in the hunt, and another five hundred for myself.”
“Done!” said Caleb, standing up.
“Ah!” laughed the fat man. “I knew I should have asked for more.
But done is done.”
The others rose, and Tal said, “Where shall we fi nd you?”
“I will find you, Tal Hawkins. Kaspar guests at the palace and that is one place most difficult for us to reach, and Caleb must lie low, as he is a marked man.
“Now, while there’s a question about an attempt upon a foreign noble at the Mistress of Luck some nights back, I think it safe to say that for at least a few days you can move about the city without fear of instant death.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Tal. “They weren’t afraid to try and kill me at the Mistress of Luck.”
“Had the Nighthawks wished you dead, young lord, you would now be dead. Your prowess with a sword is renowned, so you would have received a deadly dart or a splash of poison in your drink and no 2 5 6
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one would have noticed. No, they wanted to take you alive, because they wanted to question you. No doubt in the exact fashion in which you now question their man.”
“You know?”
“I make it my business to know,” said the large man, rising to his feet. “Do not worry; the Nighthawks are a danger, but they are few in number and their attention
cannot be everywhere at once. On the other hand, I have eyes and ears everywhere.
“Unlike the nobles and wealthy merchants in the city above, I do not walk through the day fearlessly, convinced that no harm can befall me because of my station or birth. I know there are hands in shadows and daggers in those hands. I will warn you if I learn of any trouble headed your way.”
“And why would you do that?” asked Caleb.
“Because if you are dead, you can’t pay me.” He pointed to the trap. “One at a time, and in this order: Kaspar of Olasko, then Caleb, then Talwin. Each of you will find a guide back to a safe exit from the sewers. I suggest you take a bath when you reach your quarters. The stench here seeps into your very skin. Now, good evening and safe journey.”
The three moved as instructed and were soon on their way back through the tunnels, each hoping that they were on their way to turning the tide of this struggle at last.
Turgan Bey stood motionless. He was wearing the ceremonial torque of his office, a magnificent creation of polished stones and enameled metal set in gold.
He was presenting Kaspar to the Emperor, even though the question of his asylum had been decided weeks earlier. Kaspar would swear an oath of fealty to the Empire and in exchange they wouldn’t hang him, flay him alive, or throw him to the crocodiles.
For the first time since losing his duchy, Kaspar of Olasko looked upon Diigai, the ancient Emperor of Great Kesh.
A frail man, Diigai still held himself erect, but his movements barely hinted at his once formidable prowess as a hunter. Like his 2 5 7
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ancestors, he had hunted the great black - maned lion of the Keshian plains. His shrunken chest still carried scars from those hunting triumphs, pale though they might be.
The throne he sat on was made from ivory set into black marble, and behind the Emperor a bas - relief of a falcon with its wings outstretched was carved into the wall: the great seal of Kesh. Before it stood a wooden perch, upon which rested a live falcon, who preened and watched the inhabitants of the room from hooded eyes.
The Master of Ceremonies stood next to the foot of the dais, a thirteen - step ivory - inlaid mass of carved stone. His great headdress was resplendent with rare feathers and gold badges. Around his waist he wore the traditional golden belt of his office as well as the plain linen kilt, but rather than baring his chest, he was permitted to wear a leopard skin over one shoulder.
Not that he needs any more indication of his status, Kaspar thought; the headdress looked as if it might topple off his shiny pate at any second. Still, in typical Keshian fashion, the introduction and offering of the petition had been relatively expedited, taking only half an hour so far, and already the man was nearly done.
Kaspar had stopped listening after the fi rst five minutes, turning his thoughts to the coming confrontation and the events that had led up to his own overthrow. While he harbored no love for the Empire, its ruler was a man without stain on his honor and he deserved better than to see his empire ripped away from the rightful heir.
Kaspar also knew that the hand behind all this trouble was not really an ambitious prince, but a mad sorcerer who had also played a large part in Kaspar’s downfall. The paths of the two rulers might be different, but the end result would be the same: more chaos in the region and an advantage for those who served the forces of evil in this hemisphere.
He relived the events that had led to his downfall—the insinuation of Leso Varen into his household, his influence over Kaspar, which was subtle at fi rst then overt later, and fi nally his ruination. Despite having reclaimed a portion of his misplaced humanity, and fi nding his moral compass at last, Kaspar still thirsted for Varen’s blood.
Years of enduring court etiquette asserted their influence as he 2 5 8
Flight of the Nighthawks
then realized he had just been introduced. He reverted his attention to the present and stepped forward to bow smoothly, as if he had been hanging on the Master of Ceremonies’ every word.
He had been presented to the Emperor twice before, fi rst as Crown Prince when he had first traveled to Kesh with his father while still a boy, and then later as the young Duke of Olasko.
But this time he was here as a suppliant, seeking haven from retribution, or at least that was the story Turgan Bey had devised to win over Lord Semalcar, the First Chancellor and Master of Horses—the title given to the head of the Imperial Cavalry. His petition for asylum had also been endorsed by Lord Rawa, who was the leader of the Royal Charioteers.
Kaspar noticed that the two princes, Sezioti and Dangai, were absent from the court.
Kaspar looked up, and as custom dictated, he said, “He Who Is Kesh, I crave the boon of your shelter, succor against injustice, and a haven to call my own. I pledge to you my loyalty and swear to defend you with my life and honor, if it pleases the Empire.”
Diigai smiled and waved his hand. “It is done. Is that you, Kaspar?” he whispered. “We haven’t seen you in, what? Twenty years!”
“Yes, Majesty,” said the former duke.
“Do you still play?”
Kaspar smiled, for while the Emperor was old, his memory seemed intact. They had played a chess match when he had been a boy and Kaspar had managed five good moves before being soundly defeated. “Yes, Majesty, I do.”
“Good, then have Turgan Bey bring you to my apartments after the evening meal. We shall play a game. Just the two of us.”
“It would be my honor, Majesty,” said Kaspar, bowing as he backed away from the throne. When he had reached the appropriate distance, he turned and walked toward the main entrance, where Pasko waited patiently.
“After the evening meal, I’m to play chess with the Emperor,”
Kaspar said as Pasko fell in beside him.
“A personal invitation to visit the Emperor in his quarters tonight?” the old servant asked, with eyebrows raised.
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“Yes,” said Kaspar with an annoyed expression.
“You do not seem pleased, m’lord.”
“I’m not,” said Kaspar, keeping his voice down. “The old gentleman is a nonfactor as long as he lives. It’s only his death that is important.” They rounded the corner and headed back to the apartment they had been given in the guest quarters. “And if anything is likely to get me marked for death, this visit would be it.”
“Why?”
As his boot heels rang out on the marble floor, Kaspar whispered,
“Because in Kesh, everyone belongs to a faction, and if I have the Emperor’s ear but am not a member of your faction . . . ?” He shrugged.
“You must then be a member of the opposition.”
“Exactly. Expect at least two social calls this afternoon, and have my finest garments cleaned and ready for tonight.”
“You’re already wearing your fi nest, m’lord.”
“You know, Pasko, there were times when ruling your own nation had its advantages, and a prodigious wardrobe was one of them.
See if you can find a tailor in the city who can fashion me trousers, a shirt, and a jacket in the Olaskan fashion by sundown. And fi nd me a bootmaker, too. I can’t have new boots made in one afternoon, but I can have these repaired and polished. And a hat, I suppose. You know what to do.”
Pasko bowed and said, “I know what to do, m’lord,” and he departed.
Kaspar hoped Pasko did, because at the moment, he hadn’t the remotest idea what to do. He trusted that something would come to him by that evening to guide him.
The prisoner slumped down on the chair. “Revive him,” said Tal.
Amafi came to stand before him and said, “Magnifi cence, I have been applying my arts for two days now. This man is conditioned to die rather than betray his clan.” He glanced over his shoulder at the unconscious man. “I am a killer by trade, Magnifi cence. There are those who enjoy this sort of undertaking, but I do not. However, I find that torture, like everything else in l
ife, can be done 2 6 0
Flight of the Nighthawks
well or poorly, so while I do not enjoy this, I still take pride in my skills.
“He should be ready to speak if we let him rest for a while. We must find a cell in which to isolate him and let him awaken with no one around, to let him recover and restore himself a little. Uncertainty is our ally at this point.”
“We don’t have time,” said Tal. “Revive him now.”
“Magnificence, I shall do as you bid, but he will only tell us what he thinks we wish to hear, without regard for the truth.”
Tal was frustrated. He had no doubt that Varen’s forces were on the offensive after the ambush that had killed half of Caleb’s men, and the attempt to take Tal prisoner. He agreed with Kaspar’s assessment that if Varen’s goal was to plunge Kesh into chaos, a major coup d’état attempt at the Festival of Banapis would present the perfect opportunity.
Tal considered what Amafi had said, then nodded. “Do what you can, but if Leso Varen is in this city, I want to know where he is. I won’t ask Pug or Magnus to come here unless I know for a fact that the sorcerer is in Kesh.”
“Magnificence,” said Amafi with a bow. He motioned for two of the guards who had been there since the warehouse had been secured, and said, “We must move him.”
Tal knew there was risk in taking the Nighthawk prisoner to another location, but if Amafi was correct, any hope of gaining information from him was now dependent upon withholding torture as much as it was on applying it.
Damn, thought Tal. He turned his back on the proceedings and headed for the door. He would make his way to another inn, where another barman would take another message and see that it somehow got to Sorcerer’s Isle the next day.
Nakor hurried into the study.
Miranda and Pug sat at a small table speaking of the morning while enjoying their midday meal. “I have news,” announced the wiry little gambler.
Flight of the Nighthawks Page 28
