Jimmy the Hand

by Raymond E. Feist

  Jimmy the Hand

  Legends Of The Riftwar

  Book III

  Raymond E. Feist

  &

  Steve Stirling

  CONTENT

  ONE Escape

  TWO Crackdown

  THREE Aftermath

  FOUR Plotting

  FIVE Rescue

  SIX Journey

  SEVEN Tragedy

  EIGHT Family

  NINE Encounter

  TEN The Baron

  ELEVEN Discovery

  TWELVE Escape

  THIRTEEN Hiding

  FOURTEEN Abduction

  FIFTEEN Discovery

  SIXTEEN Developments

  SEVENTEEN Plan

  EIGHTEEN Magic

  EPILOGUE Krondor

  AFTERWORD

  ONE

  Escape

  Men cursed as they grappled.

  Jimmy the Hand slipped eel-like between knots of fighting men on the darkened quayside. Steel glittered in torch- and lantern-light, shining in ruddy-red arcs as horsemen slashed at the elusive Mockers who strove to hold them back. Only seconds more were needed for Prince Arutha and Princess Anita to make their escape, and the fight had reached the frenzied violence of desperation. Screams of rage and pain split the night, accompanied by the iron hammering of shod hooves throwing up sparks as they smashed down on stone, to the counterpoint of the clangour of steel on steel.

  Bravos and street-toughs struggled against trained soldiers, but the soldiers’ horses slipped and slithered on the slick boards and stones of the docks and the flickering light was even more uncertain than the footing. Knives stabbed upward and horses shied as hands gripped booted feet and heaved Bas-Tyran men-at-arms out of the saddle. The harsh iron-and-salt smell of blood was strong even against the garbage stink of the harbour, and a horse screamed piteously as it collapsed, hamstrung. The rider’s leg was caught in the stirrup, crushed beneath his mount, and he screamed as the horse thrashed, then fell silent as ragged figures swarmed over him.

  Jimmy fell flat under the slash of a sword, rolled unscathed between the flailing hooves of a war-horse scrabbling to find better footing, tripped one of the men-at-arms who was fighting dismounted against three Mockers, then dashed down the length of the dock, his feet light on the boards.

  At the end of the quay he threw himself flat on the rough splintery wood to hail the longboat below:

  ‘Farewell!’ he called to the Princess Anita.

  She turned toward his voice, her lovely face little more than a pale blur in the pre-dawn light. But he knew that her sea-green eyes would be wide with astonishment.

  I’m glad I came to say goodbye, he thought, an unfamiliar sensation squeezing at his chest below the breastbone. It’s worth a little risk to life and limb.

  He grinned at her, but nervously; the fight with Jocko Radburn’s men was heating up and his back felt very exposed. It wouldn’t be long before the Mockers broke and ran; stand-up fights weren’t their style.

  Another, taller figure stood in the longboat. ‘Here,’ Prince Arutha called. ‘Use it in good health!’

  A rapier in its scabbard flew up to his hand. He snatched it out of the air and rolled over, just in time to avoid a kick from one of Radburn’s bully-boys. Jimmy rolled again as the man pursued him, heavy-booted foot raised to stamp on him like an insect. Letting the sword go he reached up and grabbed toe and heel with crossed hands, giving it a vicious twist that set the bully roaring and twisting to keep it from being broken. That put him off-balance, and a kick placed with vicious precision toppled him screaming into the water. His gear dragged him under before the echoes of his scream could die.

  ‘Time to go!’ Jimmy panted.

  Rolling up to his feet, Jimmy yanked the rapier from its scabbard and looked about for a worthy target—preferably one blocking the best escape route. Below, he could just make out the rhythmic splashing of the oars counterpoint the chaos of the battle all around him. Farewell, he said again in his heart. Then, as a pile of baled cloth blazed up: Ooops!

  Lanterns began to appear on the boats around them, and watchmen from the surrounding warehouses came running, while from all around men called out: ‘What passes?’ and ‘Who goes there?’ And a growing shout: ‘Fire! Fire!’

  A man in the black and gold of Bas-Tyra snatched a lantern from one of the watchmen and marched toward the end of the dock, giving Jimmy an idea of whom to attack. The soldier grinned at the sight of the thin, ragged boy before him.

  ‘Brought me a new sword, have you?’ he said. ‘Looks like a good one. Too good for gutter-scum whose whiskers haven’t yet seen a razor. My thanks.’

  He swung a backhand cut at Jimmy, a lazy stroke with more strength than style. No doubt he imagined that he could easily smash the rapier from the young thief’s hand and then hack him down.

  The finely-made blade was alive in Jimmy’s hand; heavy, but perfectly balanced, limber as a striking snake. It flashed up almost of itself and turned the clumsy stroke away with a long scringgg of metal on metal. The guardsman grunted in astonishment as the redirected force of his own stroke spun him around, then shouted in pain as Jimmy danced nimbly aside and slashed at him.

  More by luck than skill, the sharp steel caught the guardsman on the wrist, parting the tough leather of his gauntlet and cutting a shallow groove in the flesh beneath. With a gasp, the man shook his wrist and took a step back, disbelief visible on his coarse features even in the darkness.

  Jimmy laughed in delighted surprise. Clearly not everyone had Arutha’s skill with the blade. The hours he’d spent training with the Prince while waiting for Trevor Hull’s smugglers to find a ship for Arutha and that old pirate, Amos Trask, to steal for their escape had paid off. Jimmy felt as if the soldier moved at half Prince Arutha’s speed. He laughed again.

  That laugh galvanized the soldier into action and he struck out at the young thief with blow after powerful blow.

  Like a peasant threshing grain, Jimmy thought—he had little experience of matters rural, but a deep contempt for rubes.

  The blows were hard and fast, but each was a copy of the one before. Instinct led him to raise the rapier, and the cuts flowed off steel blade and intricate swept guard; he had to put his left palm on his right wrist more than once, lest sheer force knock the weapon out of his hand. But he knew he was moments away from dodging to his left, thrusting hard and taking the soldier in the stomach. Arutha had always cautioned patience in judging an opponent.

  An instant later Jimmy’s back met the side of a bale; glancing to either side he realized he’d been neatly trapped in a short, dead-end passage of piled cargo. The man before him grinned and made teasing thrusts with his sword.

  ‘Caught like the little sewer rat you are,’ he growled.

  The man raised his sword and Jimmy readied himself to execute his move, confident he would be through with the soldier in another moment. Then, suddenly, a pair of grappling bodies hurtled by, each man with a hand on the wrist of the other’s knife-hand, stamping and cursing as they whirled in a circle like a fast and deadly country dance. They tumbled into the Bas-Tyran man-at-arms, throwing him forward with a cry of surprise. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He felt a mild instant of regret that he couldn’t execute his fancy passing thrust, but he couldn’t ignore such an easily acquired target. Jimmy stabbed out, and felt the needle point of the rapier sink through muscle and jar on bone, the strange sensation flowing up through the steel and hilt to shiver in his shoulder and lower back.

  The man dropped his lantern with a cry that turned into a screamed curse as the glass shattered. The splattered oil blazed high, driving the wounded soldier back. He dropped his weapon and began to beat at spots of flame on his clothe
s, while Jimmy climbed the pile of bales like a monkey.

  ‘You should know better than to corner a rat!’ he called over his shoulder as he bounded down the back of the pile and struck the ground running.

  He heard someone whistle the code to withdraw and saw Mockers streaming into alleys and side-streets like wisps of fog scattering before a high wind. Jimmy raced to join them, but before he ducked into an alley he turned to look out into the bay. Trevor Hull and his smugglers were diving into the water, some swimming under the docks while others made for longboats standing by in the water. Beyond them, Jimmy could make out the form of the Sea Swift turning toward the broken blockade line, canvas fluttering free and catching the light like ghost-clouds in the dark; he raised his arm to wave. He knew it was useless; the Princess would have been hurried below to safety as soon as she’d been brought aboard. But he could no more have resisted that wave than he could have not spoken that one last word to her.

  The young thief turned and ran down the alley, as light on his feet as a cat and almost as keenly aware of his surroundings. He might not be a great swordsman—yet—but fleeing through the darkened alleys of Krondor was a skill he’d mastered thoroughly long before he reached the ripe old age of thirteen.

  As he dodged through the byways of the city, his thoughts turned to the time he had spent with the Princess and Prince during the last few weeks. The Princess Anita was what girls were supposed to be and in his experience never were. For a boy raised in the company of whores, barmaids and pickpockets, she was . . . something rare, something fine, a minstrel’s tale come to breathing life. When he was near her he wanted to be better than he was.

  It’s well she’s gone, then, he thought. A lad in his position couldn’t afford such noble notions.

  Besides, he thought with a wry grin, she would one day marry Prince Arutha—even though he didn’t know it yet—so Jimmy had no business having such feelings for her. Not that having no business doing things had ever stopped him.

  I suppose if she has to marry, and princesses do, he’s the one I’d want her to.

  Jimmy liked Arutha, but it was more than that. He respected him and . . . yes, trusted him. The Prince made him see why men would follow a leader, follow him to war on his bare word, something he’d never thought to understand. Jimmy’s experience had been solely with men who commanded through fear or because they could deliver an advantage to those who followed. And Jimmy served at the pleasure of the Upright Man, who did both those things.

  Jimmy ran his hand along the scabbard of Arutha’s rapier, his now, and smiled. Then he grew suddenly solemn. Being with them had brought something special into his life, and now it was over. But then, how many people in the Kingdom got this close to princes and princesses? And of those, how many were thieves?

  Jimmy grinned. He’d done better than well in his acquaintance with royalty: two hundred in gold, a fine sword, including lessons on how to use it, and a girl to dream about. And if he missed the Princess Anita, well, at least he’d got to know her.

  He headed for Mother’s with a jaunty step, ready for a light meal and a long sleep.

  Best to sleep until Radburn cools off, he thought. Though that might mean he’d have to sleep until he was an old man.

  Jimmy neared the large hall called Mother’s, or Mocker’s Rest, carved out among the tunnels of the sewers. To a citizen of the upper city it would have looked gloomy enough: the drip of water and the glisten of nitre on ancient stone. But it would have been little more than another junction of tunnels in the city’s sewer system, a bit larger than usual, but nothing remarkable. To the average citizen of the upper city, the eyes watching Jimmy approach the entrance to Mother’s would have gone unseen, and the daggers clutched in ready hands would have been undetected, unless at the last, fatal instant, they were driven home to protect the secret of Mocker’s Rest.

  To Jimmy it was home and safety and a chance to rest. He pushed on a stone, and a loud click preceded the appearance of a small opening, as a door fashioned of canvas and wood, cleverly painted to look like rock, swung wide. He was short enough that he could walk hunched over while a taller man would have to crawl, and he quickly traversed the short passage to enter the hidden basement. A Basher stood watch and as Jimmy appeared, nodded. Jimmy was thus spared a lethal welcome. Any unknown head coming through that passage had roughly a second to intone the password, ‘There’s a party tonight at Mother’s’ before finding his brains splattered all over the stone floor.

  The room was huge, carved out of three basements, all with stairs leading up to three buildings owned by the Upright Man. A whorehouse, an inn and a merchant of cheap trade-goods provided a variety of escape routes, and Jimmy could find all of them blindfolded, as could every other Mocker. The light was kept dim at all hours of the day or night, so that a quick exit into the sewers wouldn’t leave a Mocker without sight.

  Jimmy nodded greetings to a few of the beggars and urchins who were awake; most slept soundly, for there were still many hours until dawn. They would all be in the market minutes after sunrise on a normal day. But today would be anything but normal. With the Prince and Princess safely away, reprisals would be the first order of business. The City Constables and the Royal Household Guard had been easy enough to cope with over the years, but this secret police installed by Guy du Bas-Tyra since he took the office of Viceroy was another story. More than one Mocker had been turned snitch to them and the mood of the room reflected it. While there was a quiet sense of triumph at having aided Princess Anita’s escape, the benefit was long-term; the Upright Man thought about things that way, Jimmy understood. Some day Princess Anita would return to Krondor—or at least Jimmy hoped so—and those who supported her and her father, Prince Erland, now had a debt to the Upright Man that he would contrive to collect in the most beneficial fashion.

  But that was all for the future, for the Upright Man; for the common thief, pickpocket, or whore, there was no benefit this day. Instead, the city above would be crawling with angry spies and informants, looking to identify those who had embarrassed Jocko Radburn, head of the secret police. And he was not a man to embarrass without repercussions, Jimmy understood.

  The escape of the Princess had been a secret undertaking, with only a few in the Mockers and among Trevor Hull’s smugglers knowing who was being spirited out of the city. But once the fight erupted, more than one Mocker saw the Princess’s face and her hallmark red hair and by sunrise the rumours of her escape would be making the rounds of the markets, inns and shops.

  Most would feign ignorance of the deed, but everyone would know the reason for the sudden crackdown by Bas-Tyra’s soldiers and secret police.

  Jimmy moved to the far wall and picked up some rags, a whet-stone and a small vial of oil from the storage box near the weapons lockers. Such thoughts made his head swim. He was a boy of unknown age—perhaps fourteen, perhaps sixteen, no one knew—and such considerations were intriguing to him, yet he knew he didn’t fully understand all of it. Politics and intrigue were attractive, but in an alien way.

  He made his way to a secluded corner to clean his rapier. His rapier, and a gift at that! There had been few of those in his life, making the fine weapon all the more precious. It would take the finest craftsman half a year to fashion such a thing of deadly beauty; it was as different from the crude, heavy weapons of ordinary soldiers as a war-horse was from a mule.

  He pulled the blade from the scabbard again and realized to his dismay that he’d put it away bloody. He quirked his mouth wryly. Well, he’d never had such a thing before: he couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of its care immediately. On closer inspection he realized that the scabbard was held together with ivory and brass pins, and could be taken apart for cleaning and oiling.

  His pleasure in his gift went up a notch, if that was possible. This was a prize!

  ‘Loot like that’s to be turned in for sale, so’s we can make proper shares,’ Laughing Jack said. He reached for the sword and Jimmy
slid it and himself away from Jack’s hand with an eel-like motion.

  ‘It’s not loot,’ he said. ‘It’s a gift. From Prince Arutha himself.’

  ‘Oooh, you’re getting gifts from princes these days are ye?’ Jack had never actually been known to smile; his nickname had been bestowed on him by Jimmy as a joke.

  But he sneers better than anyone else I’ve ever met, Jimmy thought.

  The Nightwarden reached for the blade again, and again the young thief slid away. As senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster he had a great deal of authority; most of the time, when appealed to, the Nightmaster would come down on Jack’s side of an argument. But Jimmy knew he was in the right, and was sure that this time the Nightmaster would side with him.

  Jimmy stood defiantly. More than one member of the Mockers had promised Jimmy someday Jack would kill him over the joke of a nickname he had given the glowering man. Now Jack appeared on the verge of making that prediction come true.

  Jimmy stood a full two heads shorter than the Nightwarden. He was a slight boy, nimble and with a speed of hand and foot few in the Mockers could equal, and none could surpass. His own nickname was well-earned, for no Mocker was better able to lift a purse in a crowded market without being detected. He was a handsome boy, with curly brown hair cut tight against his head. His shoulders were just promising to broaden to a man’s. His smile was infectious, and he had the knack of fun, but right now there was a hint of menace in his eyes as he stood with his hand on the pommel of the sword, ready to dispute Jack with blood if needed. His age was uncertain, perhaps thirteen years of age, perhaps fifteen, but he had already seen more danger and death in his life than most men twice his age. Softly he said, ‘It’s mine, Jack.’

  ‘His. Saw,’ Barmy Blake said in a voice like rock talking. The huge basher said no more, continuing on his way into the far recesses of the hall as though he’d never spoken at all.

  Laughing Jack gave the basher’s retreating back an uncertain look. Blake wasn’t named Barmy for nothing; he was as unpredictable as a wild animal and capable of terrifying berserker rages. If Jack decided to make an issue of Jimmy’s right to the sword after the basher had spoken up for him the Nightwarden might well find himself in a world of pain, senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster or no. Jack turned his sneer once again on Jimmy.