Legends of the Riftwar

by Raymond E. Feist

  Jimmy fell silent for a moment: he knew it wasn’t just a bad position, but a fatal one. Finally, he said, ‘It’s up to us.’

  He heard a stifled sob and saw the glitter of Larry’s eyes as the boy turned toward him. ‘They might kill us,’ he warned.

  Jimmy chuckled. ‘Del Garza’s men will definitely kill us if we don’t do something. As for the Upright Man…’ He paused to watch a star shoot across the sky and to consider what the Upright Man might do. ‘We won’t be rewarded, that’s certain, we’ll probably have to take a beating for disobeying orders. But if we succeed in getting everybody out…’

  ‘Everybody!’ Larry’s voice squeaked.

  ‘Well, yeah. Why not?’

  ‘I just want to get my brother out.’

  ‘No, that’s not enough!’ Jimmy said, sitting up. ‘You want to get your brother out; I understand that, but if we can get the others out safely, too, that would be great. Wouldn’t it?’

  There was silence for a moment, then, ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And it would make us heroes to everyone in the Guild. We’d be too popular to have our throats cut.’

  ‘Well, I guess.’

  Not the rousing confirmation Jimmy had been hoping for, but it would do. He stood up.

  ‘First, let’s go and look over that place Noxious Neville showed us. Once we know what we’re dealing with we can make plans. Then we’ll see.’ He started off, followed by a reluctant Larry the Ear.

  ‘See what?’ the boy asked.

  ‘See whether the Upright Man will kill us or not,’ Jimmy said cheerfully.

  Jimmy wore a vinegar-soaked rag tied over his nose and mouth and was still fighting the urge to gag from the stench. They’d removed a lot of the rubble from the blockage, but not all of it; the people they were to rescue were mostly small and certainly thinner than when they’d been arrested. The two boys laboured quietly and quickly, and then it was time for one of them to climb up the vertical shaft that Neville had told them about. Jimmy glanced at Larry, who was nervous, green, and on the verge of being sick, and didn’t even think of suggesting the younger boy go. Jimmy took a deep breath through his mouth, as if he was about to plunge under water, and stuck his head into the opening. Then he pulled himself up.

  It wasn’t quite as tight as he’d expected from the old man’s description, but then maybe the old beggar had worn some meat on his bones when he was young. And the walls were an easy climb, seeming to be a natural cleft in the rock below the keep, with plenty of nooks and crannies for fingers and toes. Even the girls would be able to manage it.

  So far the only problem was that it was very slimy with things best not thought about and stank enough to shrivel the hairs in his nostrils, even through the sharp vinegar smell. He kept promising an offering to the Goddess Ruthia, Mistress of Luck, if she would let him get through this without anyone pissing on him. The higher he climbed the more extravagant the offerings became.

  He heard a voice above his head and froze, but whoever it was passed by. He thanked the Lady of Luck and glanced up. He wouldn’t have been able to go any further anyway. Just above him they had mortared small stones to the side of the shaft for a depth of about four feet from the top, narrowing it to just the size of his head.

  Jimmy climbed down rapidly, his heart sinking. He’d imagined chipping away the extra stones around the grate, and had worried about how they’d cover the sound. He’d never imagined them continuing for four feet! Maybe ol’ Neville hadn’t known about it, maybe he didn’t think it mattered, but it was certainly a big complication.

  Jimmy imagined the wrath visited upon the gaoler when the escape of a prisoner–maybe it was Noxious Neville back-in-the-day–had been discovered. So either the heavily chastened gaoler or his newly-appointed successor had seen fit to ensure it didn’t happen again. For a giddy moment he wondered how the current gaoler was going to tell del Garza and the Sheriff that dozens of Mockers had fled in one night. Then he put aside the amusing fantasy and returned to the problem at hand: how to get rid of a lot of brick and mortar in a hurry.

  Larry was waiting down below the partially-collapsed tunnel.

  ‘Well?’ he asked in a whisper.

  ‘I need a bath,’ Jimmy said. It wasn’t something he said very often and he’d never said it so sincerely.

  ‘Me, too,’ Larry agreed. Then asked, ‘So?’

  ‘There’s a problem,’ Jimmy said. ‘A collar of stonework that narrows the opening so you couldn’t pass a cat through it. It’s pretty deep, too. Let me think about it.’

  ‘We can’t go in here!’ Larry the Ear hissed in Jimmy’s ear. ‘This place is too respectable!’

  It was; a two-storey building with more chimneys than a house, the sort of place where people respectable enough to want to wash regularly came, but who were not well-to-do enough to afford the equipment. It had a doorwarden; a thick-set man with a grey beard and a knotted club of vinestock beside it, who looked like a retired trooper.

  Jimmy grabbed Larry and pulled him close so he couldn’t be overheard. ‘We need to get clean. Del Garza’s men are out looking for sewer rats. Right now, we not only look like them, but we smell like them. We have to get clean, and it would help if we didn’t look like Mockers for a little while. That’s why we’re here, instead of trying to get clean using someone’s rain barrel or washing off in the Old Square Fountain.’ He turned to look at the doorwarden. ‘Just pretend you’re someone and keep quiet.’

  Jimmy walked up to the man. The doorwarden’s nose wrinkled–Well, I can’t blame him, thought Jimmy–and his eyes narrowed; a thick-knuckled hand went to the vinewood club.

  Wordlessly, Jimmy held up a silver coin the size of his thumbnail. I’ve known this sort of thing to work, he thought, schooling his face to look embarrassed and supercilious at the same time. I’ve just never been able to afford bathing in a proper bathhouse, before.

  He’d never been much of one for bathing in general, either; but associating with lords and princesses, even for a short while, tended to alter your standards. He discovered that enduring a bucket of cold water and some soap every day or two earned him approval from the Princess Anita, and that had been worth it. He had also discovered he itched a lot less and felt better afterwards.

  ‘My good man, we need to bathe,’ he said, shaping the tones of an upper-class accent. ‘And to buy fresh clothing.’

  ‘Ye certainly need the bath,’ the man grumbled. ‘Lousy too, no doubt.’

  ‘Not in the least. We’ve been out on a…’ Jimmy let his expression grow sheepish. ‘Well, we’d rather our parents didn’t find out, and…’ He finished in a rush: ‘You can have this yourself?’

  Suspicion gave way to contempt as Jimmy handed over the coin; which was fine with him.

  ‘We were attacked by street boys,’ Jimmy chattered on–over-explaining made guilt look more plausible. ‘They stole our clothes and pushed us in a sty. The maid at home gave us some coins to get cleaned up. Please, sir, my mother is very strict and she’ll be very, very angry if we go home in this condition.’ Jimmy had always been good at mimicry, and the time spent with Prince Arutha and Princess Anita had given him a wealth of new ways to speak when he needed. He sounded plausible in the role of the son of a minor noble or rich merchant. As long as Larry remembered to keep his mouth shut.

  He and Larry had more than enough scrapes and bruises to make their story seem authentic. Knocking about in dark sewers and climbing walls and houses had added a good share of cuts as well.

  ‘Go on through,’ the doorwarden said. ‘You can use the baths, but rinse off good first. You’ll have to find your own clothes–this isn’t a tailor’s shop, lads.’

  They went through; the doorwarden spoke a few words in the ear of the woman who sat by bathers’ clothes so they wouldn’t be lifted, and her scowl cleared a bit.

  ‘I’ll not put those wipe-rags near honest folk’s clothing,’ she said.

  ‘Take them away and burn them,’ Jimmy instructed, as he a
nd Larry stripped. That was in character; even rags were worth something, and the woman would undoubtedly get a few coppers for them. She nodded and smiled, and Jimmy knew that later that night she would be boiling them clean and selling them to a rag peddler by this time tomorrow.

  ‘You, boy,’ Jimmy said, beginning to enjoy himself. One of the attendants put down his broom and came over.

  ‘My brother and I will require new garments,’ Jimmy said loftily. He looked at the boy before him and estimated that he was just between his and Larry’s size. ‘I need you to buy us some new things. Trousers, shirts and linen,’ he instructed. ‘Something just too large to fit you for me, and something just too small to fit you for my brother. We’ll have to do without shoes and stockings, I suppose.’ He glanced at Larry who nodded, a supercilious expression on his face. ‘The colours should be muted,’ he went on, sighing at the confused expression on the boy’s face. ‘Nothing red or orange or patterned,’ he explained.

  He counted out five small silvers, more than enough for the items. ‘You may keep the change,’ Jimmy said, ensuring that it would be. ‘And if you hurry back, you shall have this.’ He held up two more silver coins.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the boy said, tugging his forelock, and rushed off.

  ‘Shall we enjoy the steam room while we wait?’

  Larry sniffed his arm and made a face. ‘Yes!’ he said fervently.

  Clean and dressed, the two of them headed for the Poor Quarter. They looked respectable enough, like apprentices, perhaps, except for their lack of shoes, so it was reasonable to think themselves fairly safe in the respectable parts of town. But under the circumstances they couldn’t make themselves feel safe, a fact never far from their minds.

  In the Poor Quarter their new clothes might raise a passing eyebrow, but it would be obvious from their attitude that they belonged and that the first glance wouldn’t be followed by a second.

  Ordinarily, that is. But then, under ordinary circumstances there would be street children and beggars everywhere, and not a few whores plying their trade. Now, as the two boys walked along they found the streets nearly deserted. The few people walking about were mostly grown men, their eyes constantly moving, and from them Jimmy and Larry received a great deal of attention. It felt as if they were surrounded by the secret police.

  ‘I can’t take this,’ Larry said. ‘I keep expectin’ someone to grab my neck. I’m goin’ to the Rest.’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘Not me. I’ve had enough of sewers for one day. I’m for a drink.’

  The younger boy shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’ He looked at Jimmy for a moment. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and it was almost a question.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’ He made it sound like a promise.

  They separated then, without so much as a backward glance; Larry disappearing into the gloom of an alleyway, Jimmy walking along the street.

  As he walked, Jimmy thought.

  The mortared collar needs to go, and we’ve got to do it some way that won’t draw the guards. That was easier said than done. Drugs? he wondered. It would have to be something potent, to make them oblivious to the noise of stonework.

  But there was no way to get to the guards without going to gaol, wherein getting at the guards was problematic at best.

  Deep down an idea stirred. Too formless yet to grasp, Jimmy let it go and simply followed his feet, trying not to think at all. He’d found that sometimes ideas were like that, they’d flee if you pursued them, but they just might come to you if you just left them be.

  He walked along, hands in his pockets, eyes on his bare toes, listening to the sounds around him for quite a while, and quite a way. Finally he stopped and looked up to find himself before a tavern. There wasn’t a sign, unless you counted the anatomically-based scratchings on the once-plastered wall, but there was a withered bunch of branches pinned above the door. That let out the noise of voices, the smell of rushes not changed in a long time, and much spilled beer.

  Ah, yes, he grinned, and went in. Where else? My feet are smarter than my head tonight; they’ve led me straight to the place I want. It wasn’t until this moment that Jimmy realized that what he really needed was magic. How else were they going to do it? And where else in Krondor would he find a magician willing to help him? Nowhere else.

  And there was only one magician within a week’s travel who wouldn’t ask too many questions first, or tell someone else: Asher.

  The few magicians in the principality with enough power or wealth to avoid being hunted down by locals for perceived curses–dead calves, curdled milk, crops to fail–all tended to keep to themselves. There was a three-storey stone house with a courtyard, near the southeastern gate to the city, that was reputed to be the occasional home of a powerful mage, but each time Jimmy had passed it, he could detect no signs of life. From time to time word would spread through the city that a travelling magician was stopping at this or that inn, and whether they were willing to trade services or magical goods for gold, but that was a rare event.

  No, Asher was unique: a magician and a drunk. And from what was rumoured, one who also liked to gamble and enjoy the company of women less than half his age. So he kept permanent residence in the part of the city where no one had calves to stillbirth, milk to curdle, or crops to fail. With so few prosperous undertakings in the Poor Quarter, there was scarcely any reason to seek someone else to blame for failure. Failure was a daily fact of life here.

  The tavern had seen better days; the booth-like ‘snugs’ tucked into the corner were too fancy for its present clientele, most of whom sat on their knife scabbards as they threw dice, to keep themselves conscious of where the hilts were.

  Jimmy looked into the farthest corner in the place and his grin grew wider. But then finding Alban Asher in this tavern was as reliable as finding bad ale in a dirty mug. Jimmy had never seen him anywhere but in his cobwebbed corner. For all the young thief knew he’d grown roots there. But then, Asher didn’t need to go anywhere. The world came to him. Despite being an old sot, compulsive gambler and womanizer, if he was sober enough, the spells he sold worked very well indeed. Jimmy had heard of a few failures, but they were more a disappointment than a disaster. Certainly not enough to put off any potential business. Besides, where else would one go in the principality to find a magician willing to sell magic for enough gold to get drunk on, sit down at a card game, or convince a young girl to bed someone her grandfather’s age?

  Jimmy got himself a mug of ale and acquired a cup of the tavern’s best wine. Which smelled raw enough to strip tar, and though he wasn’t the most fastidious fellow in the city, he had no intention of actually drinking the ale he’d bought. Going over to the magician’s table Jimmy placed the wine before him and sat in the other seat, watching the formless heap of black robes across from him.

  It took a moment for the man to come to life, but the scent of the wine eventually evoked a response. A clawlike hand reached out of a sleeve and lifted the cup; the magician took a sip and made a guttural, approving sound. Jimmy’s throat closed when he thought of what the man must usually imbibe. The magician hiccupped and then gave a powerful belch, chuckling evilly at Jimmy’s expression when the vapours hit him.

  Jimmy sat, waiting.

  It was impossible to guess Asher’s age. For one thing, the tavern was dark, and this corner of it darker still; for another, the magician’s head was surrounded by a bush of sandy hair. His beard, moustache, eyebrows and head-hair were all as thick and impenetrable as a bramble bush. As for his face, all that could be seen were a bulbous nose almost the same shade as the wine and the gleam of his eyes beneath his shaggy brows. It was suspected he might be as young as sixty summers, but then again, some suggested he was ninety and being kept alive by dark spells. All Jimmy knew from rumours was that the magician existed in a state of seeming indifference to the world around him unless he was drinking, gambling or whoring. And by all reports when the drinking wasn’t excessive, he was fairly successful with
the gambling and whoring.

  ‘Ye want somethin’,’ Alban Asher the magician said in a matter-of-fact tone. His voice was deep and raspy. Even sitting down he was weaving, indicating that he was already well into the bottle.

  ‘Yessir,’ Jimmy confirmed cheerfully. ‘I’ll pay extra for secrecy.’

  After a moment Asher chuckled in a way that spoke of pure greed. With a gesture he encouraged Jimmy to continue.

  ‘I need one or two spells that I can carry away with me and set off where and when I want,’ the young thief said.

  ‘Love spells,’ Asher said, nodding sagely. ‘Boys yer age’re all after love spells.’ He chuckled salaciously and touched one grubby finger to his nose.

  Jimmy supposed that he winked, but couldn’t tell. ‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘not a love spell.’

  ‘Boys yer age…’ the magician began, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Definitely not a love spell,’ Jimmy repeated.

  I prefer my girls to have a choice in the matter, he thought. It’s a matter of pride. Not that there was any point in trying to explain that to someone oblivious to the concept.

  ‘I’ve got a mortared wall I need to take down but I don’t want to break my back. Have you got anything for that?’

  Asher stabbed a finger at him. ‘Yer a thief!’ he snarled in a rather loud whisper.

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. ‘Thieves don’t knock down walls,’ he pointed out.

  The mass of hair bunched around the magician’s nose in what Jimmy assumed was a frown. ‘Mmm, true,’ Asher agreed, blinking like an owl suddenly confronting a lantern light. ‘Got somethin’ might work.’ He rubbed his chin ruminatively. ‘Somethin’ about it though…’