Jimmy the Hand

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘To talk to someone who isn’t crazy,’ Jimmy threw over his shoulder.

  ‘Cm back here,’ the beggar demanded. ‘Don-cha know how to bargain? What’ll ya give me? I’m crazy, not stupid.’

  Jimmy held up the coin and Neville started rocking and grumbling inaudibly.

  ‘Gimme three,’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve already spent two coppers on your ale,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m not throwing good money after bad. You give me something for that and if I think it’s worth more, I’ll pay more.’

  ‘S’fair,’ Neville said reluctantly. ‘Whatcha want to know?’

  Jimmy sat before him, breathing through his mouth to avoid the old man’s prodigious stench, and asked him questions about the dungeons. How deep were they, how to get in, how many cells, how many guards, how often were the guards changed, how often were the prisoners fed, how often were the slops taken out, if they were? Noxious Neville answered every question with his eyes fixed keenly on the young thief’s face and with every answer Jimmy’s heart fell further.

  ‘Is there any way to get out without the guards knowing it?’ he asked finally.

  Noxious Neville barked a laugh. ‘By the goddess of luck, who hates me, how should I know that?’ he demanded. ‘I never tried to get out. More trouble’n it’s worth. Four days’s the longest I’s ever there.’

  Leaning closer, Jimmy asked, ‘Did you ever hear of anyone escaping?’

  The old beggar began to giggle and wag a filthy finger at him. ‘Whatsa matta? Jocko steal yer sweetie?’

  Jimmy made his eyes hard. ‘You’ve only got three teeth left, Neville,’ he pointed out. ‘Do you want me to break ‘em for you?’

  Fast as a striking snake the old man’s hand grabbed Jimmy’s arm with shocking strength.

  ‘Like to see you try it, I would,’ he snarled. ‘Little brat.’ He flung the young thief’s arm away from him. ‘Think I stayed alive this long by accident? Maybe Lims-Kragma, the great goddess of death, forgot about me? That what ya think? Hah! Stupid brat.’ He spat to the side.

  Jimmy assumed from that that the old man was still willing to earn his silver. If he’d finished talking Neville probably would have spat on him. And then I’d have had to kill the old bastard. Or himself. The idea of being spat on by Noxious Neville was that revolting.

  ‘Did you,’ Jimmy repeated evenly, ‘ever hear of anyone escaping?’

  The old man looked aside, shaking his head and waving the question away.

  ‘Is there any way in or out that the guards don’t watch?’ Jimmy asked desperately.

  ‘Only thing I know about is the drain in the floor of the big cell.’ He chuckled, giving Jimmy an evil look. ‘But you wouldn’t like that, it’s the hole we pissed in.’

  Jimmy just stared at him, thinking hard. No, he didn’t like it, but it might have possibilities.

  ‘This drain, it leads directly to the sewers?’ he asked. ‘Or does the keep have a separate outfall to the harbour?’

  Neville laughed again and Jimmy reflected that the old coot was getting a lot more pleasure out of this conversation than he should be.

  ‘How should I know?’ Neville demanded. ‘Ye think I follow me piss to see where it goes? The hole’s only this big!’ He held his hands up to indicate a circle the size of a dinner plate and Jimmy’s heart sank again.

  ‘Hey!’ Neville said and gave the boy a poke. ‘Maybe the Upright Man knows a way out of the prison. Why don’t ye ask him?’ And he laughed wildly.

  The young thief rose and started to walk away.

  ‘Hey!’ the beggar screeched. ‘Where’s my money?’ He held out a skinny hand.

  Jimmy flipped him the single silver he’d first offered.

  ‘Hey!’ Noxious Neville cried. ‘Yer s’posed to gi’ me more! That was the bargain.’

  “The bargain,’ Jimmy said coldly, ‘was that if I thought your information was worth more, I’d give you more. Give me something I can use.’

  The old man made grumbling noises and glared at him, but something made Jimmy wait. ‘Leads to the sewers,’ Neville finally conceded. ‘But the tunnel’s half caved in, ain’t safe.’

  ‘And the drain?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Can someone get down there?’

  Neville turned his head this way and that, as though protesting the continued questioning, then he nodded. ‘Drain used to be bigger,’ he admitted. ‘Filled it in a bit wi’ bits of stone and mortar they did. Shaft’s big enough for someone skinny. Give it a coupla good kicks and the drain’ll fall open, big enough for someone to crawl down if’n he don’t have too much girth.’

  Light broke in Jimmy’s mind and he stared at the old beggar. ‘You’ve used it!’ he accused. ‘You used that shaft to escape!’

  Neville broke out in a flurry of crazed motions meant to indicate go away and leave me alone or there’ll be trouble—a move he’d perfected over a long career of dealing with the public.

  Jimmy stabbed a finger at him, unimpressed. ‘Stop it!’ He glared until the old man settled down and glared back at him. ‘Now,’ he said evenly, ‘tell me what I want to know and if it turns out to be the truth, I’ll give you this.’ He flashed a gold coin for a fraction of a second. ‘If it turns out you’re lying, you get nothing.’

  A gold coin was a fortune to a man like Neville; it would get him fifty flagons of ale—a hundred if he stuck to the really vile stuff sold in the Poor Quarter. He sat sucking his gums and thinking it over.

  ‘Why not?’ he said at last. ‘Not like’s a secret worth keeping. I’s a thief once, ‘n young. They caught me, wasn’t easy.’

  Noxious Neville’s face took on a slackly reminiscent grin and just when Jimmy thought he’d have to shake him to bring him back to the here and now he began speaking again.

  ‘I was gonna hang.’ Neville spat again. ‘But I knew if I had time and patience I’d get out. There’s a grille,’ he said, pointing down with one dirty finger.

  Jimmy glanced down automatically then grimaced and looked back at the old man.

  ‘Not too big, mind, but me, I could.’ Neville wriggled where he sat, arms working above his head as though squeezing through a tight space. ‘M’shoulders come apart,’ he said and gave a wheezing laugh at the young thief’s look of doubt.

  Not that Jimmy hadn’t heard of such before, but it was hard to believe the human wreck before him would have such a useful attribute.

  Neville slapped his knee, laughing and after a moment he went on. ‘Those days the grille wasn’t even mortared, they di’nt think anybody could get down that shaft.’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘Wished I coulda seen their faces wh’n they come fer me.’ He chuckled.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘So where is it?’ he asked.

  Neville stared into space, one finger tracing the air as he tried to remember the route. ‘Take the fourth shaft at Five Points,’ he said uncertainly. ‘No, no, take the second—’ He went silent, gazing. Suddenly he was more animated. ‘Go toward dockside, always go for the lower way . . . no, no, that leads to the fullers. Don’t want to go there.’ He huffed impatiently. ‘I know how te get there,’ he said impatiently, ‘I jes’ never had to tell anybody how to get there.’

  Jimmy stood. ‘Show me then. It’ll be easier.’

  The old beggar looked at him as though Jimmy had suggested he strip to his loin-cloth and dance on a table.

  ‘Not fer me!’ Neville said. He waved his flagon. ‘I’ve got all my comforts here.’ He looked around and waved a hand as though to indicate the cosiest surroundings in the city.

  Leaning close enough to singe his nose hairs Jimmy said, ‘Four silver above the gold if you show me.’

  Neville chewed his gums, looking at nothing, and didn’t answer.

  Jimmy chewed his upper lip impatiently, aware that Neville held the upper hand. What he had to do now was get the upper hand back before the beggar bargained him to bankruptcy.

  ‘I’ll buy a half skin of wine for the trip,’ Jimmy offered. ‘You can keep what’s left once we g
et there.’

  ‘Full skin,’ Neville countered.

  ‘Half.’

  ‘Full!’ the old beggar snapped. ‘S’a bit of a slog.’

  ‘Done,’ Jimmy said and somewhat reluctantly, held out his hand.

  Neville spat on his and clapped hold of the boy’s before Jimmy could draw away. Then laughed uproariously at the young thief’s disgusted expression.

  FOUR

  Plotting

  Jimmy slipped through the crowd.

  ‘Larry,’ Jimmy said.

  The younger boy gave a well-concealed start and Jimmy felt a small spurt of pride. Sneaking up on guardsmen was easy, but the boy was a fellow professional.

  ‘I’ve found something out,’ Jimmy said, looking around the crowd to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘A way into the dungeon.’ He made a pressing gesture with his hand. ‘But there’s a problem.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘The only one who knows the way is Noxious Neville—so we have to take him along.’

  Larry’s face went from joyful to sour, as if he’d just bitten into something unpleasant.

  ‘And I had to promise him a half skin of wine. Which means . . .’

  Ol’ Neville was the type to disappear in an instant for reasons of his own, yet come back demanding the promised reward. Rewards never slipped the old man’s porous memory, even when his recall of deeds performed was vague.

  They turned, watching as Neville conducted a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. Jimmy interrupted the conversation and lured Neville out of the Rest by pouring out a stream of raw red wine that Neville hastened to catch in his mouth. When they were outside Jimmy stoppered the skin.

  ‘Lead us,’ he said.

  The old beggar smacked his lips, then rubbed his hands over his face and neck and licked up the drops of wine he collected from his fingers.

  Jimmy ostentatiously swung the skin over his shoulder.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said.

  ‘That’s it,’ Neville said.

  The three Mockers crouched, straddling the stream of foulness that ran down the centre of the sewer. Ahead, an oval opening in a wall poured its own tributary into the fetid stream; broad streaks of glistening nitre down the brick showed that the trickle had been larger once.

  ‘Took long enough,’ Larry said sourly.

  Jimmy shrugged. Not all of Neville’s madness was an act; they’d backtracked more times than Jimmy cared to remember with the old man whining about how thirsty he was. But the young thief had been adamant; no wine until they found the place.

  If he’s like this half sober, we’d never see daylight again if I’d let him get drunk.

  ‘Are you sure this is it?’ Jimmy asked dubiously.

  As he’d said, the tunnel was partially collapsed. Rubble splayed out in an incline into the main sewer, giving them easy access, but the air that blew towards them from above was more foul than the beggar himself. Larry said, ‘Something’s died up there!’

  Neville ignored the comment to answer Jimmy’s question. ‘Yes I’m sure,’ he snapped; his lips worked angrily and one discoloured snag of a tooth showed. ‘You’d been payin’ attention you’d know it!’

  The old coot’s right, Jimmy acknowledged unhappily. They’d passed signs that warned they were approaching the underpinnings of the keep.

  ‘Phew!’ Larry said and choked as he stuck head and shoulders into the gap. ‘You can’t mean it! We can’t go in there! A snake couldn’t get in there!’

  Jimmy was definitely in sympathy with Larry. He tossed the wineskin to the beggar who hurried off without demanding the rest of his pay. He grimaced as he watched Noxious Neville scurry into the darkness, then climbed the rubble and thrust the torch through a gap.

  ‘Look, it gets broader past here,’ he said. ‘And this rubble’s easy enough to move.’ He levered a handful aside, then wiped his hand on his breeches. Good thing I was going to buy new ones anyway.

  ‘We could clear enough to get through in less than an hour, even if we take care not to make any noise. After that it’s easy enough, for folk our size. We’re not looking to ride a horse through, after all.’

  The torch flickered and dimmed in a slightly stronger gust of air and Jimmy pushed himself back and staggered, retching, away from the pile of rock and earth.

  He shook his head, his eyes streaming. ‘You’re right, only sheer desperation would get me in there. And even then . . .’

  Three extremely wealthy merchants sat across the desk from the acting governor of the city. The men were members of the powerful Merchants’ Guild—a body that included the most wealthy men in the city, along with representatives of the other important guilds: tanners, smiths, shipwrights, carters and others. After the authority of the Prince’s Court and the temples, the Merchants’ Guild was the most influential faction in the principality. Too many nobles in the Kingdom owed debts to or did business with the more powerful members of the Guild. Crops didn’t come to market from outlying estate farms if the teamsters didn’t drive wagons. Dock warehouses filled up with goods that were headed nowhere if the dockworkers refused to load them on the ships. Originally begun as a body to adjudicate disagreements between the different guilds and independent merchants, they had evolved over the years into a voice for the merchant class in the halls of power. The Guild’s co-operation was vital to the success of del Garza’s plans, or at the very least he needed to ensure they were not in opposition to him.

  The three maintained equally supercilious expressions while their eyes, glittering in the candlelight, were fixed on del Garza’s every move. They waited for his attention with dignified restraint, ignoring the draughts that moved the wall hangings, barely moving to draw their cloaks tighter around their shoulders.

  Del Garza continued to write, scratching away at an only moderately important document, fully cognizant of how rarely these gentlemen displayed such patience. He was enjoying this little exercise of power. Indeed, this was for his pleasure; the next part of the evening’s endeavours would be for his lord’s advantage.

  He finished writing, sanded the document and shook it, then laid it aside and turned to look at the men seated opposite him. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, his voice coldly insincere.

  Marcellus Varney, a shipper of Quegan ancestry, raised an eyebrow. He was a bull-necked man who had obviously spent his youth in hard labour. Now, in his middle years, there was still muscle under the rich man’s fat. ‘We were not invited,’ he said precisely. ‘I was under the impression that we were arrested.’ His entire attitude spoke of distaste.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the acting governor said with great politeness, ‘you could have resisted.’ He tipped his head to the side and opened his hands. ‘No, no, you must allow me to thank you for your co-operation.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ the shipper said, his tone flat, his eyes resentful.

  Del Garza glanced at each of them, then made an acquiescent gesture.

  ‘As you wish, gentlemen.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘You are, no doubt, aware of the special orders and state of emergency I am about to declare in Krondor. I’ve submitted a copy of the order to your guild and I expect you’ve had the day to ponder it.’

  The three men shifted in their chairs. It amused him; they might almost have rehearsed it, the timing was so mutual.

  ‘I invited you here tonight to see if there was anything I could do to gain your support. Times ahead will be difficult and I want to ensure that the most respected voices in the Merchants’ Guild speak in favour of the necessity for these acts.’ That’s got their attention, he thought with an inner smile. A little flattery beside intimidation did wonders.

  The gentlemen focused on him as though they believed he cared about their opinion. Which, of course, he did, as long as it was in agreement with his.

  Rufus Tuney, a grain merchant with six critically located mills around the city, grimaced, then waved a hand somewhat languidly. He was a foppish man who t
ended to wear excessive amounts of lace and powder, and a cloying cloud of spices and lilac scent surrounded him wherever he went. ‘The new regulations you have proposed are not without merit,’ he commented. ‘The trouble is they seem . . . somewhat excessive.’ He looked at the acting governor with raised brows. ‘Even if the three of us were wholeheartedly in support of your position—’ he gave a delicate shrug, ’—of what use are a mere three votes?’

  ‘Do not allow that to be a consideration, gentlemen,’ del Garza said, his voice hard and flat. ‘What you must consider are your own advantages in the matter.’

  Silence greeted his remark and del Garza could see them resisting the urge to glance at one another.

  ‘Advantage?’ Varney queried.

  I expected him to be the one to ask that question.

  The third merchant, a spice trader named Thaddius Fleet, shifted in his seat. He was a nondescript man, given to well-made but simple garments. ‘See here, del Garza. What exactly are you proposing?’

  And del Garza had expected him to try to lead the negotiations. Sometimes it was almost too easy. He sighed. ‘Must I go into detail?’ he asked wearily. ‘Remember where you were, gentlemen, when my men requested your presence here.’ He watched that sink in. This time glances were exchanged from the corners of their eyes.

  What fools these men are! He held most of their breed in contempt, but the three sitting before him now were particularly noxious. Tuney and Fleet had indulgences of which they were ashamed, which made them vulnerable. Varney had a profitable sideline selling young women and boys as slaves to Kesh, drugging them and smuggling them out in secret compartments on his ships. Once his usefulness was at an end del Garza thought it would be a blessing to the Kingdom to end his business. Slavery, except for prisoners of the Crown, was outlawed in the Kingdom.

  Perhaps I’ll sell him to Great Kesh. That should certainly provide some amusement. As for the others, they were just shallow men with foolish peccadilloes. One liked to be spanked by pretty women, the other liked to pretend he was a pretty woman. They harmed no one but themselves. I’m almost grateful to them, and to Radburn for keeping such conveniently complete files. Seeing the key members of the Guild in twos and threes over the next few days would bring them nicely to heel.