Shards of a Broken Crown

by Raymond E. Feist

  Dash started getting dressed. “I feel like I’ve got enough experience for a man three times my age,” he said. “As much as I enjoy bantering with you, why did you wake me?”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Dash grabbed his sword, handed it to Trina, then with a single vault, grabbed the upper sill of the window and hauled himself through. Landing on the ground next to her, he said, “We as in ‘you and me,’

  or as in ‘the Mockers’?” as he took back his sword and buckled it around his waist.

  “As in the entire city of Krondor,” she replied.

  Suddenly, and apparently impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I wasn’t mocking you about being pretty.”

  Dash reached out and put his hand behind her head, drawing her to him. He kissed her deeply and lingeringly. When he let her go, he said, “I’ve known a lot of women, despite my youth, but you’re unique.” He looked into her eyes a moment, then said, “Let me know when I’ve got enough experience.”

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  Softly she said, “I’m a thief and you’re the Sheriff of Krondor. Wouldn’t that be a match?”

  Dash grinned. “Have I ever told you about my grandfather?”

  She shook her head in irritation. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “We’ve found that bunch who’ve been using the sewers, and who probably killed your men.”

  “Where?”

  “Near that point where Kirby was found, over by Five Points. There’s a big tannery that was burned to the ground during the battle, but it’s got a subbasement, a big one, and a long water entrance to the bay, as well as the usual sewer dumps.”

  “I want to see this.”

  “I thought you would.” He started walking away when Trina said, “Dash?”

  He stopped and turned around. “What?”

  “The Old Man.”

  “How is he?”

  She shook her head slightly. “Not much longer.”

  “Damn,” said Dash, and he surprised himself at how sad knowing that his grandfather’s brother was dying made him. “Where is he?”

  “Someplace safe. He won’t see you.”

  “Why?”

  “He won’t see anybody but me and one or two others.”

  Dash paused, then said, “Who’s going to take over?”

  The girl grinned. “I would tell the Sheriff?”

  Seriously, Dash said, “You will if you get into enough trouble.”

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  “I’ll think on this,” said Trina.

  They hurried through the night, and when they reached the abandoned northern quarter of the city nearest to the old tanneries and slaughterhouses, Trina led Dash through a series of back alleys and abandoned buildings. Dash memorized the route and realized that it had been cleared by the Mockers so they would have a fast avenue of escape.

  They reached a burned-out row of shanties, barely more than a few charred walls and portions of roofs, bordering a large watercourse, a stone-lined channel that would flood during the rainy season, or that could be fed by water gates off the river that bordered the northeast corner of the city. In summer, with the gate destroyed, only a little water ran through the very center of the manmade stream.

  Trina jumped over it nimbly and Dash followed her, marveling at just how lithe she was. She wore her usual man’s shirt and black leather vest, tight leggings and high boots. Dash could see she was both strong and fast.

  She headed straight toward a large open pipe in the far bank. It was old, fire-hardened clay, circled by a heavy iron band. Pieces of the clay had fallen away over the years, where the pipe extended from the bank, and a three-foot length of metal could be seen at the upper lip of the pipe. With a prodigious leap, she vaulted to where she could grip the bar and swung herself into the pipe, vanishing from view.

  Dash waited a moment to let her get clear, then duplicated her leap. He discovered why as he swung over broken crockery, glass, and jagged metal.

  Landing behind Trina, he said, “Not the normal garbage one expects.”

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  “It discourages the idly curious.”

  She moved on without another word, and Dash followed her.

  They moved deeper into the sewer network, the woman leading the way surely, though there was almost no light filtering down through the burned-out buildings above. At the first turn right, she turned and stopped, felt around, and produced a lamp. Dash smiled, but remained silent. The system still hadn’t changed.

  She lit it and shuttered it. The tiny bit of light that was allowed to escape would provide ample illumination for their purposes, and someone more than a dozen feet away would have to be looking directly at the light source to notice it.

  Trina led Dash deep into the sewer system until they reached a confluence of two large pipes entering a third, with two smaller—though big enough for a person to crabwalk through—emptying into the large circular cavern. This was Five Points. Trina pointed at the upper left of the two smaller pipes. As he poised to jump, she whispered, “Trip wire.”

  Dash pulled himself up and moved slowly and quietly in the dark, feeling around before him in case there might have been any additional alarms added.

  Trina would have warned him had there been one she knew about, but Dash’s grandfather had impressed on him that people who took things for granted in these situations were called corpses.

  As he inched along, he found himself thinking of Trina. He had known many women since the age of fifteen, being handsome, noble, and the grandson of the most powerful man after the King in the nation.

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  he might be in love, but both times the notion had quickly passed. But something about this woman thief, with her mannish clothing, unkempt hair, and piercing stare caught his imagination. It had been quite some time since he had known a woman and that was part of it, but there was something more, and he wondered if circumstances would ever permit more than a casual flirtation.

  Dash froze. He was alone in the dark looking for traps, and he was daydreaming about a woman. He scolded himself and heard his grandfather’s voice in his mind. The old man would have had a great deal to say about this sort of inattention.

  Dash took a deep breath and began moving again.

  After a few minutes he heard a sound ahead. It was little more than a whisper, but Dash waited. It came again, and with effort he made out what appeared to be a low conversation.

  He inched forward again. Suddenly he halted.

  Ahead of him he sensed something. He put his hand out and felt a line. He didn’t move when his palm came into contact with it. He waited, listening for an alarm, a sound, a voice, anything that would tell him he had alerted whoever had placed this line across the duct. When silence continued unbroken for a long while, he moved his hand back, waiting again.

  He touched it again, as gently as possible, and ran his finger to the right. He encountered a metal eye, driven into the side of the duct, and there the line was tied. He moved his finger to the left and found another eyelet, but this time the line was threaded through and ran forward in the direction he was heading.

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  the only line across the way, he moved back. With a little squirming, he got on his back and crawled under the line. When he was past the line, he again got up into his kneeling position and continued his careful p
rogress.

  Soon he saw a dim light ahead and he worked toward it. Again he heard voices and again the conversation was just below his ability to hear it. He moved slowly forward.

  He reached a large catch basin, with a big grating overhead, and above him he could hear boots on the stone. From the stench at this end of the pipe, it was obvious the men had been using the catch basin to relieve themselves and didn’t have enough water to flush the pipe easily.

  “What is that?” came a voice from above and Dash froze.

  “It’s a baked meat roll. It’s got spices and onions, baked into a bread crust. I got it at the market.”

  “What kind of meat?” Dash moved closer.

  “Beef! What do you think?” “Looks like horse to me.”

  “How could you tell by looking at it?”

  “You better let me taste it. Then I can tell.”

  Dash moved around and craned his neck. He could see movement, and a pair of boots. Much of his view was cut off by a chair, near the catch basin grate, and the man who sat on it.

  “Cow, horse, what does it matter?”

  “You just want some because you didn’t bring anything to eat.”

  “I didn’t know we’d be spending our lives waiting here.”

  “Maybe the others ran into some trouble?”

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  “Could be, but orders are clear enough. Wait here.”

  “Did you at least bring some cards?”

  Dash settled in.

  Near dawn, Dash lowered himself out of the large pipe at Five Points. He found himself disappointed that Trina wasn’t waiting. He knew she probably left a moment after he entered the pipe, but he still wished she had lingered. He found that feeling irrational alongside the distress he was experiencing over what he had found.

  Not wishing to stay too long, he hurried through the pipes and back toward the New Market Jail. He knew that as soon as he got there, he was going to have to change clothing, then hurry to the palace.

  This wasn’t a matter for the Sheriff and his constables, but Brian Silden and the army.

  Dash forced himself to calmness, but if what he had overheard was any indication, someone was readying a staging area. Inside the city itself, a nest of soldiers was being prepared, soldiers who would appear within the walls of Krondor at some future date, and Dash was certain that date was not far off.

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  Twenty-One

  Mysteries

  THE DOOR OPENED.

  Nakor entered, shaking his head as he said, “No, no, no. This won’t do.”

  Rupert Avery looked up from the plans unrolled before him. He was standing on the newly refinished floor of what had once been Barret’s Coffee House, watching workers repair the walls and roof above.

  “What won’t do, Nakor?” he asked.

  Nakor looked up, surprised at being addressed.

  “What? What won’t do?”

  Roo laughed. “You were the one muttering that something wouldn’t do!”

  “Was I?” asked Nakor, looking surprised. “How odd.”

  Roo shook his head in amusement. “You, odd?

  Perish the thought.”

  Nakor said, “Never mind. I need something.”

  “What?” asked Roo.

  “I need to get a message to someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Pug.”

  Roo motioned Nakor away from the workers and 461

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  said, “I think you need to start at the beginning.”

  “I had a dream last night,” said Nakor. “I don’t have many of them, so when I do, I try to pay attention.”

  “All right,” said Roo. “I’m with you so far.”

  Nakor grinned. “I don’t think so. But that’s all right. There’s something going on. There are three pieces here, all seemingly separate, but they’re all the same thing. And they all look to be about one thing, but they’re about another. And after the odd thing that happened, I need to talk to Pug.”

  Roo said, “I am no longer with you.”

  “That’s all right,” said Nakor, squeezing Roo’s upper arm in a reassuring fashion. “Anyway, do you know where Pug is?”

  “No, but I can ask at the palace. Someone there might. Don’t you have some sort of magic . . . trick you can do that would get Pug’s attention?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know if the damage would be worth it.”

  “I don’t want to know,” said Roo.

  “No, you don’t,” agreed Nakor. He looked around, as if noticing the work for the first time.

  “What is this, then?”

  “No one’s seen the old owner since the fall of the city, so either he’s dead or not coming back. Even if he shows up, we’ll work out a deal.” Roo waved his hand around in an arc. “I’m trying to restore this exactly as it was before the war. I’m very fond of this place.”

  “As you should be,” said Nakor with a grin. “You made a great deal of wealth here.”

  Roo shrugged. “That’s part of it, but more importantly, this is where I made myself.”

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  “You’ve come a long way,” said Nakor.

  “More than I could have imagined,” said the one-time death cell prisoner.

  “How is your wife?”

  “Getting large,” he said, motioning with his hands as he grinned.

  “I heard a rumor that you arrived in town with Lord Vasarius of Queg as a prisoner.”

  Roo said, “He wasn’t my prisoner.”

  “Is it a good story?”

  Roo said, “It’s a very good story.”

  “Good, then you can tell me sometime, but first I need to ask about Pug.”

  Roo put down his plans and said, “Tell you what.

  I could do with a bit of a stretch, so let’s walk over to the New Market Jail and visit with Dash Jamison.”

  “Fine,” said Nakor, and they left the coffeehouse.

  Everywhere they looked the city was slowly returning to the life they had known before the war.

  Each day another building was restored and another shop opened. More goods were coming into the city via the ferry outside of Fishtown, or over the caravan routes. Rumor had it a large caravan from Kesh would arrive within the week, the first since before the fighting. As war hadn’t formally been declared, trade between the Kingdom and Kesh was resuming.

  If the Wreckers Guild could continue raising ships, the harbor would be navigable the following spring, and fully restored within a year after that.

  Moving through the crowd, Nakor said, “This city is like a person, don’t you see?”

  “It was beat up pretty badly,” agreed Roo, “but it’s coming back.”

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  . . . I don’t know what to call it, an identity perhaps.

  A sense of being someplace different. Lots of those in the Empire. Very old cities with lots of history, but one day is much like the next. Krondor is a very lively place in comparison.”

  Roo laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”

  They reached the market and saw the New Market Jail, now sporting a fresh coat of paint and bars on all the visible windows. Entering the door, they found a harried-looking clerk, who looked up and said, “Yes?”

  “We’re looking for the Sheriff,” said Nakor.

  “He’s out in the market, somewhere, and will be back here, sometime. Sorry,” he said, returning to his paperwork.

  Roo motioned for Nakor to move outside. They stood on the porch looking at the press of people in the market. Vendors had organized themse
lves into a rough series of aisles, with the outer edge of the market a sort of random pattern of blankets with goods laid atop, carts overloaded with produce, men carrying boards covered with trinkets, and the furtive denizens who offered less than legitimate wares. Roo said, “He could be anywhere.”

  Nakor grinned. “I know how to get his attention.”

  Before Nakor could step down from the porch, Roo put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Wait!”

  ‘“What?”

  “I know you, my friend, and if you think you’re helping out by starting a riot so that every constable in the market comes running, think again.”

  “Well, it would be effective, wouldn’t it?”

  “Do you remember an old proverb?”

  “Several. Which one do you have in mind?”

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  “The one about not using an ax to remove a fly from a friend’s nose.”

  Nakor’s grin broadened, and he laughed. “I like that one.”

  “Anyway, the point is, we should be able to find Dash without starting a riot.”

  “Very well,” said Nakor. “Lead on.”

  Roo and Nakor entered the press of humanity in the market. Roo knew that Krondor still had less than half its former population, yet it seemed even more crowded than before, mostly due to the largest portion of that population thronging to the market.

  While work was underway throughout the city, in every neighborhood, the business of daily life was confined for the most part to the market.

  Roo and Nakor made their way past wagon after wagon with late spring and early summer harvest: squash, corn, grain in sacks, and even some rice up from above Land’s End. Fruit was offered and so was wine and ale. A number of prepared food vendors filled the air with aromas both savory and pungent.

  Nakor sneezed as they passed one vendor of pakash-ka, a bread pocket filled with meats, onions, peppers, and pods. “That man has so much spice on that meat my eyes want to pop!” he said, hurrying by.

  Roo laughed. “Some people like their meats hot.”

  “I learned a long time ago,” said Nakor, “that too much spice often masks bad meat.”