A Crown Imperilled

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘Over?’ said Brendan. Whispering to Martin he said, ‘It’s a trick.’

  ‘Why? They were minutes away from victory.’ Martin kept his eyes on the Keshian commander.

  Hearing the exchange the Keshian commander said, ‘No duplicity, young sirs. Orders reached me by ship and rider no more than a half-hour ago. My only delay was in sending orders to my field commander to sound the call for disengagement. What you heard was the call for parlay. My orders are to hold what we’ve taken, but to advance no more. Armistice is granted. We will, however, respond with vigour if attacked, but we will no longer attack until this matter is resolved.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Martin.

  ‘It means what I said.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘The city up to that barricade is mine, the rest is yours. We will let our masters judge who is victorious this day. Your king and my emperor, blessings be upon him, shall decide how much or little was gained and lost this day.’

  Martin looked at the carnage around him and said, ‘The gods robbed you of victory today, my lord.’

  Nodding, the Keshian commander said, ‘Or gave you one as a gift, young lord.’ Turning his horse, he rode away and left his deputy commander shouting orders to those men still ready to fight. Slowly the Keshians withdrew, save those positioned as sentries along what might some day be a frontier, but for now was an arbitrary line cutting the city of Ylith in half.

  The two brothers, numb from fatigue, terror, and bloodshed stood looking at one another, wondering what had just happened.

  • CHAPTER THIRTEEN •

  Search

  JIM THREW HIS KNIFE.

  It struck the wall next to Jacobo’s ear and the stout trader reached up and touched his left lobe. His fingertips came away smeared with blood. ‘Why are you doing this, Jim?’

  ‘Because trust is rare these days and while I have no proof you are disloyal, I want to make it clear just how difficult a time I’m having these days.’ Still garbed as a common sailor, Jim was visiting an old contact in Rodez. He was on his way to Ran, either by ship or fast horse depending on which was more expedient. To discover his safest course, he had decided to visit Jacobo. ‘I need information that is timely and accurate, and honest, or that will not be the last drop of your blood you see this day.’

  Jim regarded the portly man. He affected simple garb, though he was one of the wealthiest traders in the region: a short-sleeved linen shirt and stout woollen trousers. His only indulgence in vanity appeared to be a single ring of silver worn in his right ear. Perspiration beaded on his brow and the top of his head, now bald and fringed with long, greying hair. Jim had always thought his eyes beady, but now they were wide, showing them to be a vivid cornflower blue.

  ‘I have never been anything but loyal and honest, Jim!’

  Jacobo the merchant was a dealer in general stores, selling to ships outward bound, buying from merchants across the Sea of Kingdoms and, up to this late unpleasantness, one of Jim’s most valuable assets. He was neither part of Jim’s criminal organization nor his royal operatives, but was a source of intelligence with little regard for who was paying him gold. Jim had never attempted to recruit him as an asset for either of his organizations, rather letting him remain apart. Now that seemed like brilliant planning, even though at the time it had just been a whim. Jacobo’s deal with Jim was simple; Jim got anything of value first, then Jacobo was free to sell the same information to anyone who came looking so long as Jim’s advantage was not compromised. How long Jacobo remained silent was a function of how much Jim paid. The more gold, the more time. Rarely Jim had bought his complete silence. The arrangement seemed suitable for both parties.

  ‘I need a few facts cleared up,’ said Jim, walking over to the wall and pulling the dagger out. They were in the back room of Jacobo’s shop. Jim’s ship had sailed in on the morning tide and been escorted to a dockside berth. He had been part of the crew rowing the towing boat, and after that he had come ashore and tied off, then merely walked away. Captains were always looking out to prevent sailors from jumping ship, but never at their destination when the only task left was to pay them off.

  ‘Whatever you wish, Jim! Please, I’ve never broken a trust with you. Never!’

  At this point Jim had no option but to hope this was true; his own network of agents was so shredded he had no way of knowing upon whom he could rely. When this bloody business was over he would have to begin to slowly rebuild, and those very few agents he still trusted would be overburdened until he could repair the damage done to an espionage network over three generations old.

  ‘Let’s start simply,’ said Jim, gesturing for Jacobo to sit in a chair in the back room. Jim had already drawn the curtains and placed the closed sign in the front window. They would remain undisturbed. ‘What news you consider valuable?’

  Jacobo sat down. ‘Rumours and stories I hesitate to share with you, lest you count me unreliable.’

  ‘Just tell me what you’ve heard and I’ll decide what’s useful and what’s not,’ said Jim as he sat opposite the fat merchant. He thumbed his dagger for emphasis and glanced around the cluttered storage area of this store. ‘You ever going to organize this mess?’

  The fat merchant said, ‘It is organized. I know where everything housed here and in three separate warehouses is, Jim.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘The reason I’m so valuable to you is I remember everything.’

  Jim conceded to himself that everything Jacobo had reported over the years had been accurate and useful. ‘Well, then, to it.’

  ‘Late last night a royal cutter hove to and a longboat rowed in. As soon as the boat touched the docks a courier dashed to a waiting horse and off he went to the city commander. The Duke of Rodez is in Rillanon, with most of the Congress of Lords, to discuss the conduct of the war, I’d imagine, so the orders to the garrison should have come from him. But instead it appears they came from one Sir William—’

  ‘Alcorn,’ interrupted Jim, a look of disgust passing over his face. ‘Go on.’

  ‘No official announcement has been made, but the rumour is Kesh and the Kingdom have agreed to some sort of truce.’

  Jim sat back. He was silent while he weighed up what he had just been told. This was as unexpected as the outbreak of the war had been. Kesh had gained little of importance anywhere except possibly in the west; reports from the Far Coast and Yabon had not yet reached the capital. Certainly in the east they had achieved nothing except spending a great deal of gold and alienating both their neighbouring states.

  ‘Go on.’

  Jacobo seemed at a loss as to what to say next, then his eyes widened and he said, ‘A trader reports that Kesh holds to their line with ships on sentry, but are allowing Ceresian pirates to enter Kingdom waters to pillage. Prandur’s Gate is said to have been sacked, and pirates are reportedly raiding the smaller towns and villages along the coast between here and Ran.’

  Jim considered this rumour. The Kingdom was on a war footing and every inch of coastline would be garrisoned with both regular soldiers and levies against any Keshian landing, or ventures by one of the more opportunistic Eastern Kingdoms. So the pirates were either incredibly bold, incredibly stupid, or had some reason not to expect Kingdom intervention. Under normal conditions, a town of any size should hold a garrison large enough to repulse pirates with punishing results. A village, perhaps, could be sacked, but the booty would not amount to enough to pay for the food needed to feed a good-sized pirate crew. Moreover, the Ceresians were rarely organized enough to mount a major raid, usually being content to plunder shipping and fight amongst themselves.

  His mind raced as he let his imagination run rampant for a full minute, before reining it back in. There was something coalescing in his thinking, but it was not near enough to fruition for him to fully grasp it. There was something about Sir William Alcorn, a pointless war with Kesh, and pirates making free in the waters of the Sea of Kingdoms; under normal circumstances, even should the Kingdom be idly, Kesh w
ould sink every Ceresian dromon and begala they sighted, no questions asked, and any surviving pirate would be hanged at sea or sold into slavery depending on the Keshian captain’s ability to keep prisoners or not. Letting them pass signalled an understanding of some sort.

  Jim said, ‘Tell me more of these pirates?’

  ‘I know only what I already told you: they come ashore, burn towns, take booty and captives, and the local garrisons hunker down within the walls of their fortresses.’ Then a quizzical look passed over Jacobo’s face. ‘There is this one other thing, Jim: the pirates to seem to be seeking something or someone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one knows, but a trader by name of Gersh, a man of uncommon honesty, told me he had left Ran when the pirates were making a landing near a town called Farborough. Some pirates caught sight of his wagon as he was turning around and began to give chase. But while Gersh looked on in wonder, their leader ordered them back and up into the hills north of the town. Gersh swears they were spreading out as if on a manhunt. Gersh has given votive offerings to Ruthia twice since coming back to Rodez.’ Thanks to the Goddess of Luck was more proof the story was true than not.

  ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘Four days, perhaps five, I’m not certain. Gersh came to me seeking a ship for Ran I might have cargo upon, with which he might bundle his trade goods, for a small fee, of course. I was happy to accommodate him, and as there appears to be a truce verging, it may be that ship will actually get to Ran. First trade goods in after peace is declared will fetch a good price.’

  Jim had a hunch, but he would not share it with Jacobo. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment, unless you wish to hear about trade speculation and hedges against the coming drop in prices of goods if the war ends soon. One man’s opportunity is another man’s disaster.’

  ‘No,’ said Jim standing. He pointed to Jacobo’s ear. ‘Sorry about that, but trust has been hard to come by lately. I’ll see you’re taken care of for your troubles. Just remember I was never here and we never spoke.’

  With a slight smile Jacobo said, ‘Is someone there? I can’t see anyone or hear anything.’

  A second later Jim was through the curtains at the front of the store and gone. Jacobo waited for a moment, then stood and slowly made his way to the front of his establishment where he was delighted to find the curtains drawn back and the closed for business sign taken down.

  Two blocks away, a bored-looking seaman leaned against a piling on the pier, absently whittling at a stick of wood as he glanced around from time to time. Jim had found this location years before and it enabled him to see anyone coming or going from Jacobo’s shop, as the only exit from the alley onto which Jacobo’s back door opened was just three buildings away from the street upon which his shop sat.

  After half an hour, Jim was satisfied that Jacobo had been telling him the truth, or at least the truth as he knew it, and was not seeking to announce to the that Jim Dasher was in the city. And so Jacobo survived another day to increase his prosperity.

  Jim looked around one last time, ensuring he was not being observed, and took a deep breath. He had one safe house close by, and he would thoroughly examine every approach to make sure it was clear, then he would go to ground. He would need to spend at least a week to discover the truth behind Jacobo’s rumour of peace. In general, he welcomed such news, but behind it he sensed a great mystery. Who was the shadowy player who had meddled so effectively in the affairs of three great nations, and to what end?

  Much work lay ahead and there were few if any in the region Jim could safely trust. Still, he was not without his own resources and had others like Jacobo who were not part of the loose criminal brotherhood to whom his role as Upright Man of the Mockers of Krondor gained him access, nor part of his network of royal agents.

  Knowing that caution overrode urgency, Jim vanished into the crowd in the bustling city of Rodez.

  Lady Franciezka sat quietly in her study, before the window, knowing she was under observation. She had identified Worthington’s agents weeks before and knew exactly where they were. She had turned it into a bit of a game, having come up with names for each, though she did not yet know their true identities. Right now, she was being observed by ‘Pierre’, who was situated in a window in a rented room across the square opposite a tiny garden behind her townhouse. ‘André’ was drinking numerous cups of tea at a small table in the café at the corner, which allowed him an unobstructed view of her townhouse’s entrance. At sundown they would be replaced by ‘Anton’ in the room, and ‘Serge’ at the cafe, who would retire to the corner and a miserable doorway in which to huddle after the café closed.

  She had turned this into a game, slipping in an out of her home unobserved, or making a grand show of leaving to go shopping or the rare trip to the palace to look the part of an unneeded lady-in-waiting to the Queen. The rest of the time she conducted her own business. She had grown so bored with the game she had taken to leaving her window shutters open at night when she bathed so that her silhouette could be seen on the gauze privacy curtain, hoping it teased or annoyed Anton. For a moment her thoughts turned to James Jamison, and she wondered if Jim would be annoyed or amused to discover her teasing. She would be certain to ask him when next they met, if they again met.

  She tried to be the professional about this, but found her mind often turning to Jim and she realized that a man she already had tried to have killed twice was the only man she’d ever encountered who truly understood her. She felt herself torn between loving him for that and wanting him dead even more. She confessed to herself, not for the first time, that affairs of the heart were not good for her: she was bad at them. It was when she didn’t care that she was her most effective, when she could use her acting skills and her body to convince a man to do whatever she wanted. When she started to care, then she got into difficulties.

  A serving girl knocked lightly on the door and she bade the girl enter. The maid presented a parchment bearing the royal seal, and said, ‘From the palace.’

  Turning away from the girl, she broke the seal on the parchment. Quickly reading the message, she read it again to ensure she hadn’t misunderstood anything. She assumed her observers were likely to know what was in this message. Turning back to her maid, she said, ‘The royal blue dress, I think, the one with the white-trimmed hem, not the silver. It is after all, court, not a palace gala. Tell Gregor to have the coach ready in an hour. We are going back to the palace.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ said the maid.

  Waiting for her maid to go about her business, Franciezka sat back as if calmly considering what was happening, but inward she was seething with conflict. By nature, she hated anything happening in which she had no control, and even though life had taught her control was most often an illusion, she found she was happiest when influencing events and people. She had learned every weapon there was from fear to love, seduction to bribery, gratitude and taking advantage of other people’s better nature. Her only saving grace was that it was all for the Crown, and if she’d willingly give her own life for King and country, she had no problem giving others’, let alone causing a little annoyance, anger, fear, or an occasional broken heart.

  What was troubling her most of all at the moment, was the idea that Lord John Worthington was making an unexpected move. Not even a simple case of him doing something recognizable at an unexpected time, but rather doing something totally unexpected, irrespective of the timing.

  He was hosting a gala for the King.

  Reading court language as well as anyone, the tone of the invitation told her that nothing short of being on her death bed could permit her declining. Moreover, something of significance, even something momentous, was being celebrated.

  She was doubly suspicious because it was so sudden. Even modest parties by the Crown’s standards took days to prepare. But then it occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t so sudden. Perhaps preparations had been underway for days bec
ause Lord John knew exactly what was coming.

  They couldn’t be celebrating the death of King Gregory: even with magic it might take some time to dispatch the King. No, this was something else. And it couldn’t be Lord John’s announcement of his son’s betrothal to Stephané, since she couldn’t be betrothed in absentia. Her curiosity was piqued, and that outweighed her caution. She picked up a small bell and rang it. A moment later the maid reappeared and Franciezka said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. The red, with the silver trim, and the ruby earrings. Now, send for Millicent and tell her I need my hair up within the hour.’

  ‘Yes, my lady!’ The maid ran off.

  Then she remembered something Jim had said to her. ‘Whatever happens, at least it’s interesting.’ That had been in another context, but it certainly applied here.

  Then she wondered where he was. For the first time in her life, she worried for his safety.

  ‘Damn that man,’ she whispered to no one.

  Carriages rolled into the palace as the sun set in the west. Footmen were turned out in formal palace livery, pale green jackets with white silk collars, pale yellow hose, and their heads topped with small yellow caps to match the hose. Idly, Franciezka considered there must be someone locked deep within the palace, unknown to any but a few key people – the King alone perhaps – whose only task in life was to devise odd uniforms for the servants in Roldem, a uniform that changed each year.

  Fashions for the nobles changed as well, of course. She knew a handful of designers and their seamstresses competed each year to set the tone for the following year’s ‘look’ – how low the neckline should be or how many petticoats were to be worn under the skirt, what colours were current and which adornments were now passé. Once a look had been achieved, others slavishly followed, and a year later those styles were being imitated in the Isles and the Eastern Kingdoms.

  At least the Keshians, tradition bound as they were, avoided such petty concerns about fashion. More to the point, such gowns and jackets would have been uncomfortably hot to wear near the Overn Deep. As her carriage came to a stop, she decided the Keshians were extremely practical to run around nearly naked. If she had to endure that beastly heat, she’d do the same.