A Crown Imperiled

by Raymond E. Feist

  She didn’t release her grip on his robe, but turned to see the water demon faltering as it was now surrounded by archers. In its weakened state its already meagre intelligence was pushed to the limit, and it stood uncertain of which way to attack.

  Nakor had found a clear path down the hill and he trotted to where Miranda stood holding the magician. When he got near he grinned and said delightedly, ‘Akesh! So you were the one trying to kill me!’

  ‘I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you out there,’ said the Keshian magician. ‘I thought it had to be another madman. Besides—’

  ‘I know,’ interrupted Nakor. ‘You thought we were both dead.’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk,’ said Miranda.

  Nakor turned to take in the scene. ‘The demon is almost done, and if I were the Keshian commander, I’d be withdrawing.’ He pointed to the north. ‘We can go that way until we find the entrance to the keep on that high bluff over there.’ He waved in the general direction of the old castle overlooking the city. ‘And then we can go up, and back down to the city.’

  ‘That’s a long walk,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Or we can go sit over there in that copse of trees and wait for the Keshians to leave, then walk back down to the city, that way,’ said the grinning little man, pointing over his shoulder to the city.

  ‘Better idea,’ said Miranda. Looking at the magician she had captured she said, ‘I can rip your head from your shoulders before you can conjure, and that is no idle boast. So, behave yourself and you may survive to apologize to Pug for taking sides in this war and betraying the Conclave. He may let you live.’

  The magician said nothing, but his expression reassured Miranda and Nakor he was unlikely to try to escape or otherwise cause grief, and the three started walking over to a stand of trees where they could rest until the Keshian army had withdrawn. Even by the time they reached the trees, the sounds of battle and the roars of the water demon were diminishing.

  Miranda said to Nakor, ‘Keep an eye on things until we have a clear path back to the city. And please resist the temptation to do something amusing.’

  Nakor nodded, attempting to look serious but failing. ‘I’ll try.’

  To the magician named Akesh, she said, ‘Sit and rest. We will likely be here for a while, and while we’re here, you can begin by telling me how you came to be serving as a Keshian lap-dog when you took an oath at the Academy to stay apart from conflicts between nations as well as your oath to the Conclave.’

  The magician looked at Miranda sullenly. He might not know what she was capable of in this form, but he knew her from her human incarnation; and after Pug and their son, Magnus, she might very well be the most powerful magician in the world. And Nakor, despite his reputation as something of a joker and card cheat, was also counted a very dangerous opponent.

  Akesh took a deep breath, then began to speak.

  • CHAPTER NINE •

  Evasion

  JIM LEAPT OVER THE WALL.

  Crouching down he waited until he heard the patrolling sentry reach the far end of the wall and begin his trudge back to where the Baron of the Prince’s Court, Envoy Extraordinaire of the Crown, and any other number of titles bestowed on him by the King at his grandfather’s behest, waited like the common thief he was in his other life. He held a dagger close to his chest and prayed he didn’t have to use it. Right now he had more than enough troubles without adding gratuitous bloodshed to his list of malefactions.

  Jim tried to make himself as small as possible as he hunkered down behind a bush. He had picked this spot to escape the confines of the palace for three reasons: first, it was one of the two exits that wasn’t being watched by agents of Sir William Alcorn; second, the other escape route was through the harbour and involved a fair bit of swimming and he wasn’t in the mood to get wet; last of all, this was the most direct route into the city. All he had to do was time things so that he could be over the wall as the guard was one step away from turning at the end of his patrol, then dash for the darkness of sheltering doorways.

  The problem was when the guard was walking right towards him: Jim’s only cover was two shrubs and a dull grey cloak which he had gathered around him like a tiny tent. If the guard didn’t glance down as he passed the shrubbery, and James didn’t draw attention to himself, he thought he had a fair chance of making it into the city undetected.

  If not, a loyal member of the King’s palace guard would be dead for no good reason and Jim’s escape from the palace would be noticed earlier than planned. He really didn’t care much about the latter issue, as he was bound to be missed before noon in any event. He just hated the idea of murdering a career soldier merely because he happened to be given this duty this night by his company sergeant.

  The guard passed, and Jim let out his breath slowly in relief, for no needless blood would be shed tonight. He waited, listening as the footfalls moved away, then quietly he stood up, glanced at the retreating back of the sentry, and was away.

  A silent sprint took him to a deep doorway in a storefront across the street, and he watched as the bored guardsman turned and started back on his rounds.

  When the guard was at the far end of his patrol, Jim darted off in the opposite direction and a moment later, he turned the corner and was off into the darkened streets of Rillanon.

  *

  There was the sound of a dull thud of a cleaver slamming into a butcher’s block as a stocky man in a bloodstained apron cut through a haunch of pork. He was heavily muscled under the fat and sported a large gut that belied a turn of speed when it was needed. He had a pair of crystal spectacles pushed up on top of his head, for his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and he needed keen vision for his accounting. He had paid dearly for them, but they served him well in balancing his ledger.

  He nursed a pipe of tabac, the pungent aroma competing with the stench of old blood and ageing meat, and he hummed a nameless tune as he worked. When he had cut a nice dozen chops from the carcass, he picked up the remains and hung it on an iron hook in the corner. ‘Why don’t you come out now? I’m done with the morning’s work.’

  Jim stepped out of the shadows and the two men confronted one another. ‘Bill,’ Jim said in neutral tones, as meagre a greeting as he could manage.

  ‘Saw you slip in and was quite able to split your skull with my cleaver, but when you didn’t move out of the corner, I thought I’d wait a bit to see what you were up to.’ William Cutter, known as Bill the Butcher smiled with a mix of amusement and menace. ‘Lord James, or is it Jim Dasher of Krondor today?’ He paused. ‘QuickJim? Jimmyhand? Jim the Fixer? Or perhaps another monicker with which I’m unfamiliar?’

  ‘Neither or both, depending on what I leave knowing.’

  ‘If you leave,’ said Bill. ‘Come, I’m being inhospitable.’ He turned his back and walked through a curtained door towards the front of his shop. The sun was rising and the day’s business would begin soon.

  The store front was modest, and the butcher’s counter was low and broad, each section with a small hole to facilitate the draining of blood. The stone floor also had a channel for drainage when it was washed each night, the run-off emptying out into the rear alley, above a sewer culvert. In the corner sat a small table and chair, incongruously bearing some delicate china cups and saucers. ‘I take a minute before the business of the day starts to enjoy a quiet cup. Join me?’ Bill waved a meaty hand in the direction of the table and Jim nodded. A brass pot sat over a small brazier, the water just shy of a rolling boil. With deft fingers, Bill the Butcher prepared tea.

  They sat down and Bill poured two cups. ‘I take my tea black, so I’m sorry I have no lemon or milk. I’ve some sugar in the back.’

  ‘Black is fine,’ said Jim.

  ‘Now, whoever you are at this moment, what brings you to my humble shop and why should I let you leave alive?’

  Jim weighed his words. The man opposite him was the head of the biggest underground crime gang in Rillanon.
Less organized than the Mockers of Krondor, the Sewer Rats were the largest gang in the city, the centre of a loose association of many gangs: the Dock Stalkers, the North Street Rangers, the Jiggle Purse Bunch, the Greenhill Boys, the Starving Dogs, and a dozen others. To keep mayhem between gangs under control, the Council had been formed and today it was controlled by one man, William ‘Bill the Butcher’ Cutter. More men were subject to him for their lives than any single noble in the east.

  ‘I need your help,’ Jim said at last.

  A harsh barking laugh was followed by silence, then a sip of tea. Putting down his cup, Bill said, ‘You have rocks on you, I’ll give you that. Stones the size of boulders, Jim. I’ve planted brothers and paid widows because of you more than any man in Rillanon, and you’re hardly here for more than one day in twenty. So why should I let you leave here alive, let alone help you?’

  ‘Imagine the Kingdom ruled by Sir William Alcorn.’

  Bill slung his arm across the back of his chair as he leaned into the wall. His eyes turned away from Jim and he looked out the window as he thought. Finally he said, ‘That’s a compelling argument. A strange coincidence of events, Jim, has conspired to keep you alive. For the time being, at least. Tell me more.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘After you tell me what brought you here.’

  Jim outlined the general deterioration of his network and the betrayal of key agents, without providing information that might prove useful to Bill in his role as ruler of the Council. When he was finished, Bill said nothing for a minute. Then he asked, ‘Both Mockers and royal agents?’

  Jim sat back and considered. Then he said, ‘The only Mockers who were turned were also royal agents.’

  Again Bill was silent for a while. ‘So, your trouble is all within the straight world, not on your dodgy path.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So you have few, if any, here in Rillanon you can trust?’

  ‘Also apparently.’

  Bill Cutter shifted his weight, leaned forward, and whispered in mock confidentiality, ‘So you’re forced to come begging for favours from ol’ Bill the Butcher?’

  ‘Something like that, though not really favours, but rather coming to an understanding.’

  ‘Ah,’ responded Bill slowly. ‘Understanding.’ He almost massaged the word as he spoke it. ‘I do enjoy a good one. What do you have in mind?’

  Jim considered how best to make his point. ‘Your buried brothers and grieving widows, we can cut down on that great deal.’

  ‘You’ll call off the Crushers?’

  ‘To a point. You limit your happy gang of cutthroats to stealing, larceny, and selling stolen property, and cut back on the violence and bodies floating in the bay, we may be able to look the other way from time to time and not be so swift to pursue.’

  ‘Tempting,’ said Bill with a nod. ‘And in exchange for reaching this understanding?’

  ‘As you’ve observed, there are people within my straight organization who have betrayed me. You are the eyes and ears of the criminal underground in Rillanon. You have contacts in Kesh and Roldem I lack. My contacts in Kesh are compromised, and my—,’ he thought about Franciezka and felt an unexpected pang, wondering for a brief second how she fared, ‘—associates in Roldem are also at risk. From what small intelligence I have gained, the crime associations in both Kesh and Rillanon have so far been ignored by whoever is raising hob with each nation.’

  Bill sighed and leaned back against his chair once more. ‘Ah, then, there’s the heart of it. I want more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want the Mockers.’

  Jim was speechless for a moment, his mind racing. The original Upright Man had been an evil bastard named Don the Chandler, a dockside merchant in Krondor who had used brutality and guile to create the illusion of the powerful, mythic and shadowy personage who controlled all crime in Krondor. He also was Jim’s three times great-grandfather: the legendary Jimmy the Hand had been one of his bastard sons. So in a way, the Mockers had been in Jim’s family for five generations in one form or another. ‘Who will you send to run it?’ asked Jim at last.

  Bill gave out with a barking laugh. ‘And I should share that with you because . . . ?’

  ‘Because it’s a condition of the negotiation.’

  ‘I have a son, one among many, but one who is especially gifted and bright and he’s a little too anxious for me to visit Lims-Kragma’s Hall so he can take over the Council. If I send him to Krondor . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘You double your criminal empire and remove your most dangerous threat in a single moment.’

  ‘It’s a difficult situation,’ said Bill. ‘One of the reasons he’s such a threat is I’m fond of the lad and he knows it. Moreover, he also knows his mother would be beside herself if I cut his throat—,’ he shook his head ruefully, ‘—and she can be a force to be reckoned with.’

  Jim laughed, then said, ‘Done.’

  Bill looked surprised. After a moment, he said, ‘Done?’

  ‘If we survive this coming war, I am retired, Bill. I’m done with murder and intrigue and betrayal. I would need to install another as Upright Man, so why not your boy?’ He almost laughed. ‘Though I will put conditions on him; how the Mockers survive in on a high level of trust within those who call Mother’s home. I will not have that betrayed.’

  ‘Well, and done!’ said Bill slapping his hand on the table. He extended it, and Jim shook it in one sharp gesture. ‘Now,’ said the butcher, ‘on the subject of betrayal . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have heard things from both Kesh and Roldem. The Ragged Brotherhood in Kesh is keeping watch on all that occurs within the Upper City and are closely following the ins and outs of Trueblood politics. Likewise, the Shadows in Roldem are painfully aware of the changes there, as the embargo from Kesh has dried up a great deal of their business, though we do manage to keep a certain level of commerce active: Kesh’s fleet is not incorruptible and smugglers are not a priority for them.’

  ‘So what do you know?’

  ‘Know? Not much, but I suspect a great deal. To the point, this war makes no sense on any level I can imagine. I am no historian or scholar, nor am I a true master of commerce. But in our line of work you do learn a thing or two along the way. War is about two things,’ said Bill, extending two fingers and tapping the first. ‘It’s about miserable failure in diplomacy, admitting you couldn’t get what you wanted by arguing or persuasion, pleading or threatening.’ He tapped the second finger. ‘And it’s about profit. New land, booty, creating vassal states or any number of things that look like a profit to the winner. Even if conquest is not the reason, beating up your neighbour, winning, demanding ridiculous reparation, then going home, is profitable.’

  ‘But there’s a third reason?’

  Bill grinned. ‘You’re anticipating me. Yes, the one reason no one cares to consider is madness. Some insane ruler or mad prophet or high priest hears a voice in his head and off march the armies.’

  ‘So, which is this?’

  ‘There’s the thing,’ said Bill, almost too delighted to speak.

  Just then the door opened and a small man carrying a sack began to step over the threshold.

  ‘Get the hell out!’ bellowed Bill Cutter in a voice to tear the bricks off the wall. ‘We’re not open yet!’

  The man leapt back, slamming the shop door so that the windows rattled.

  Turning back to Jim, Bill said, ‘Best hurry. I’m late to open. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the thing is, this war meets none of the three reasons we enumerated. There was no failed diplomacy. Correct?’

  ‘Kesh made no claims in the west beyond their usual rants about the Vale of Dreams,’ agreed Jim.

  ‘And from what we can see, they appear to be hurtling towards bankrupting the imperial treasury to claim lands in the west that will not provide enough revenue to recoup in the next decade. More, the excuse they need to relocate recalcitrant vassal tribes from th
e Confederacy to take pressure off the Empire is patently false.’ He held up an index figure for emphasis. ‘For centuries Kesh has kept the Confederacy bottled up below the Girdle and watched with cold amusement as the nations of the Confederacy slaughtered one another for whatever reasons they dreamed up, enduring the occasional rebellion as a consequence, but that is merely the cost of doing business.

  ‘At times I am convinced that had the Empire had the resources, they would have built a big bleeding gate between the Belt and the Clasp, and thrown away the key. Now suddenly they start a war with their most powerful opponent in the world, to seize almost worthless lands in Crydee and Yabon just so they can move some rebellious tribesmen halfway around the world . . . for what? To make the Truebloods in the Upper City of Kesh feel good about their humanitarian impulses and their love of less fortunate subjects? Hardly.’

  Jim nodded, uncertain where all this was going.

  ‘So, let us for a moment consider the two northern kingdoms. Roldem buttons up their little island and tucks in their fleet. First they try to play honest broker, but quickly they’re scolding both sides, threatening to go one way then another, ally with the Kingdom should Kesh initiate hostilities, yet give no assurances to the Kingdom they will aide them, even though Kesh could overmatch either fleet, but not both. Should Roldem declare for the Kingdom and sail, the Keshians in the Sea of Kingdoms would be quickly driven back to their ports and then the Kingdom has leverage to convince Kesh to withdraw from the west. So, why doesn’t Roldem declare?’ Leaning forward, Bill said, ‘Because—’

  The door opened and before Jim could see anyone through it, Bill bellowed, ‘We’re closed!’ and it snapped quickly shut.

  ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. Because Roldem seems intent on using the war as a massive distraction for the benefit of its citizenry while a gentleman named Lord John Worthington attempts a rather neat little coup d’état. From what I hear, princes and princesses are in hiding, there’s secret police everywhere, and the King and Queen are comfortably at rest in a wing of their palace where all their servants wear weapons and ignore royal commands. Word is Lord John means to marry off his eldest to the Princess Stephané, which would give him a very real presence in the royal household. Which brings us to the Kingdom.’