Silverthorn

by Raymond Feist

  “What was taken? Gold, man, that’s what they took! My hoard, my entire hoard!”

  “Gold, is it? Then,” said Bert, with the voice of experience, “I suggest you turn in and tomorrow begin to rebuild your treasure, for as sure as there’s fog in Krondor, you’ll not see one coin again. But do not be too disconsolate, good sir. You are a man of means, and gold quickly accrues to those of your station, resources, and enterprise.”

  Arutha stifled a laugh, for despite the man’s personal tragedy, he stood a comic figure in his nightshirt of linen, his nightcap tipping forward to almost touch his nose. “Good fuller, I will make amends.” He pulled his dagger from his belt and handed it down to Bert the watchman. “This weapon bears my family crest. The only others like it are worn by my brothers, the King and the Duke of Crydee. Return it to the palace tomorrow and a bag of gold will be placed in its stead. I’ll have no unhappy fullers in Krondor on the day of my homecoming. Now I bid you all good night.” Arutha spurred his horse and led his companions toward the palace.

  When Arutha and his guards had vanished into the gloom, Bert turned to Trig. “Well then, sir, there’s a happy end to it,” he said, passing the Prince’s dagger over to the fuller. “And you may take some added pleasure in knowing you are one of the few of common birth who may claim to have spoken with the Prince of Krondor, albeit under somewhat strange and difficult circumstances.” To his men he said, “Let us back to our rounds. There’ll be more than this one little bit of fun in Krondor on a night like this.” He signaled for his men to follow and led them off in the white murk.

  Trig stood alone. After a moment his expression brightened and he shouted up to his wife and any others who still looked out their windows, “I’ve spoken to the Prince! I, Trig the Fuller!” Feeling emotions somewhat akin to elation, the fuller trudged back into the warmth of his home, clutching Arutha’s dagger.

  —

  Jimmy made his way through the narrowest of tunnels. The passage was part of the maze of sewers and other underground constructions common to that part of the city, and every foot of those underground passages was controlled by the Mockers. Jimmy passed a tofsman—one who made his living gathering up whatever of use could be found in the sewers. He used a stick to halt a jumble of debris carried along on the waters of the sewer. The floating mass was called a tof, that which tofleets, in a corruption of language. He picked at it, looking for a coin or anything else of value. He was in fact a sentry. Jimmy signaled to him, ducked under a low-hanging timber, apparently a fallen brace in an abandoned cellar, and entered a large hall carved out among the tunnels. Here was the heart of the guild of thieves, Mockers’ Rest.

  Jimmy retrieved his rapier from the weapons locker. He sought out a quiet corner in which to sit, for he felt troubled by the conflict he faced. By rights he should own up to his unauthorized pilfering of the fuller’s house, split the gold, and take whatever punishment the Nightmaster meted out. By tomorrow afternoon the guild would know the fuller had been boosted, anyway. Once it was clear that no freebooting thief was at work, suspicion would fall upon Jimmy and the others known to occasionally go for a night’s foray without leave. Any punishment forthcoming then would be doubly harsh for his not having confessed now. Still, Jimmy couldn’t consider only his own interests, since he knew the assassin’s target had been none other than the Prince of Krondor himself. And Jimmy had spent enough time with Arutha when the Mockers had hidden the Prince and Princess Anita from du Bas-Tyra’s men to have developed a liking for the Prince. Arutha had given Jimmy the very rapier the boy thief wore at his side. No, Jimmy couldn’t ignore the assassin’s presence, but he was not clear where his best course lay.

  After long moments of quiet consideration, Jimmy decided. He would first attempt to get warning to the Prince, then pass along the information about the assassin to Alvarny the Quick, the Daymaster. Alvarny was a friend and allowed Jimmy a little more latitude than Gaspar daVey, the Nightmaster. Alvarny would make no mention to the Upright Man of Jimmy’s tardiness in reporting, if the boy didn’t take too long to come forth. Which meant Jimmy would have to reach Arutha quickly, then return at once to speak with the Daymaster—before sundown tomorrow at the latest. Any later than that, and Jimmy would be compromised beyond even Arutha’s ability to look the other way. Alvarny might be a generous man, now that he was in his twilight, but he was still a Mocker. Disloyalty to the guild was something he would not permit.

  “Jimmy!”

  Jimmy looked up and saw Golden Dase approaching. While young, the dashing thief was already experienced in parting rich older women from their wealth. He relied more on his blond good looks and charm than on stealth. Dase made a display of the valuable clothing he wore. “What think you?”

  Jimmy nodded in approval. “Taken to robbing tailors?”

  Golden aimed a playful, halfhearted cuff at Jimmy, who ducked easily, then sat next to the boy. “No, you misbegotten son of an alley cat, I have not. My current ‘benefactor’ is the widow of the famous Masterbrewer Fallon.” Jimmy had heard of the man; his ales and beers had been so highly prized they had even graced the table of the late Prince Erland. “And given her late husband’s and now her far-reaching business concerns, she has received an invitation to the reception.”

  “Reception?” Jimmy knew Golden had some tidbit of gossip he wished to unfold in his own good time.

  “Ah,” said Golden, “did I fail to mention the fact of a wedding?”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes upward but played along. “What wedding, Golden?”

  “Why, the royal wedding of course. Though we shall be seated away from the King’s table, it will not be at the table most remote.”

  Jimmy sat bolt upright. “The King? In Krondor!”

  “Of course.”

  Jimmy gripped Golden by the arm. “Start at the beginning.”

  Grinning, the handsome but not terribly perceptive confidence man said, “The widow Fallon was informed by no less a source than the purchasing agent at the palace, a man she has known for seventeen years, that extra stores were required within a month’s time for, and I quote, ‘the royal wedding.’ One is safe in assuming a king would be in attendance at his own wedding.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No, you simpleton, not the King’s. Anita and Arutha’s.”

  Golden seemed ready to take umbrage at the remark, but then a sudden glimmer of interest showed in his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  “The King weds in Rillanon. The Prince weds in Krondor.” Golden nodded, indicating this made sense. “I hid out with Anita and Arutha; it was only a matter of time before they wed. That’s why he’s back.” Seeing a reaction at that, Jimmy quickly added, “…Or will be back soon.”

  Jimmy’s mind raced. Not only would Lyam be in Krondor for the wedding, but so would every noble of importance in the West, and no small number from the East. And if Dase knew of the wedding, then half of Krondor did as well and the other half would know of it before the next sundown.

  Jimmy’s reverie was interrupted by the approach of Laughing Jack, the Nightwarden, senior lieutenant to the Nightmaster. The thin-lipped man came to stand before Jimmy and Dase and, with hands upon hips, said, “You look like you’ve something on your mind, boy?”

  Jimmy had no affection for Jack. He was a dour, tight-jawed man given to violent tempers and unnecessary cruelty. The only reason for his high place in the guild was his ability at keeping the guild’s bashers and other hotheads in line. Jimmy’s dislike was returned in kind by Jack, for it had been Jimmy who had appended “Laughing” to Jack’s name. In the years Jack had been in the guild, no one could remember hearing him laugh. “Nothing, really,” said Jimmy.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jimmy, then Dase, for a long minute. “I hear there was some fuss over near the east gate; you weren’t thereabouts this night, were you?”

  Jimmy maintained an indifferent expression and regarded Dase, as if Jack had asked both the question. Golden shook his head in the ne
gative. Jimmy wondered if Jack already knew about the Nighthawk. If he did, and if someone else had caught sight of Jimmy nearby, Jimmy could expect no mercy from Jack’s bashers. Still, Jimmy suspected that if Jack had proof, he would have come accusing, not questioning. Subtlety was not Jack’s hallmark. Jimmy feigned indifference as he said, “Another drunken argument? No, I was asleep most of the night.”

  “Good, then you’ll be fresh,” said Jack. With a jerk of his head he indicated Dase should absent himself. Golden rose and left without comment and Jack placed his boot upon the bench next to Jimmy. “We’ve got a job this night.”

  “Tonight?” said Jimmy, already counting the night half done. There was barely five hours left until sunrise.

  “It’s special. From himself,” he said, meaning the Upright Man. “There’s a royal do on at the palace and the Keshian ambassador’s coming. A load of gifts arrived late tonight, gifts for a wedding. They’ll be straight off for the palace by midday next at latest, so tonight’s our only chance to boost them. It’s a rare chance.” His tone left no doubt in Jimmy’s mind that his presence was not requested but required. Jimmy had hoped to get some sleep tonight before heading for the palace, but now there was no chance of that. With a note of resignation in his voice, he said, “When and where?”

  “An hour from now at the big warehouse one street over from the Fiddler Crab Inn, near dockside.”

  Jimmy knew the place. He nodded and without another word left Laughing Jack. He headed up the stairs toward the street. The question of assassins and plots would have to wait a few hours more.

  —

  Fog still overwhelmed Krondor. The warehouse district near the docks was usually quiet in the early morning hours, but this night the scene was otherworldly. Jimmy wended his way among large bales of goods, of too little value to warrant the additional expense of storage inside, and therefore safe from the threat of thievery. Bulk cotton, animal fodder to be shipped, and stacked lumber crated a maze of maddening complexity through which Jimmy moved quietly. He had spied several dock watchmen, but the night’s dampness and a generous bribe kept them close to their shed, where a fire burned brightly in a brazier, relieving the gloom. Nothing short of a riot would get them away from the warmth. The Mockers would be long removed from this area before those indifferent guardians stirred.

  Reaching the designated meeting place, Jimmy looked about and, seeing no one in sight, settled in to wait. He was early, as was his habit, for he liked to compose his mind before the action began. Additionally, there was something in Laughing Jack’s orders to him that made him wary. A job this important was rarely a last-minute affair, and even rarer was the Upright Man’s allowing anything to tempt the Prince’s wrath—and purloining royal wedding gifts would bring Arutha’s wrath. But Jimmy was not placed highly enough in the guild to know if everything was on the up and up. He would simply have to remain alert.

  The soft hint of someone approaching caused Jimmy to tense. Whoever was coming was moving cautiously, as was to be expected, but with the faint footfalls he had heard a strange sound. It was the slight clicking of metal on wood and, as soon as recognition registered, Jimmy leaped away. With a loud thud and an eruption of wood splinters, a crossbow bolt ripped through the side of a crate, where Jimmy had stood a moment before.

  An instant later, two figures, dark silhouettes in the grey night, appeared from out of the gloom, running toward him.

  Sword in hand, Laughing Jack rushed Jimmy without a word, while his companion furiously cranked up his crossbow for another shot. Jimmy drew weapons and executed a parry of an overhand slash by Jack, diverting the blade with his dirk, then lunging with his rapier in return. Jack skipped to one side, and the two figures squared off.

  “Now we’ll see how well you can use that toad sticker, you snotty little bastard,” snarled Jack. “Watching you bleed just might give me something to laugh about.”

  Jimmy said nothing, refusing to engage in distracting conversation. His only reply was a high-line attack that drove Jack back. He had no illusions about being a better swordsman than Jack; he simply wanted to keep alive long enough to gain a chance to flee.

  Back and forth they moved, exchanging blows and parries, each looking for an opening to finish the contest. Jimmy tried for a counterthrust and misjudged his position, and suddenly fire erupted in his side. Jack had managed to cut Jimmy with the edge of his sword, a painful and potentially weakening wound, but not fatal, at least not yet. Jimmy looked for more room to move, feeling sick to his stomach from the pain, while Jack pressed his advantage. Jimmy backed off from a furious overhand slashing attack as Jack used the advantage of his heavier blade to beat down Jimmy’s guard.

  A sudden shout telling Jack to get out of the way warned Jimmy the other man had reloaded his crossbow. Jimmy circled away from Jack, trying to keep moving and put Jack between himself and Jack’s accomplice. Jack slashed at Jimmy, turning him back rapidly, and then hacked downward. The force of the blow dropped Jimmy to his knees.

  Abruptly Jack leaped backward, as if a giant hand had seized him by the collar and yanked. He slammed against a large crate and for an instant his eyes registered shocked disbelief, then rolled up in his head as limp fingers lost their grip on his sword. Jimmy saw that, where Jack’s chest had been, a bloody, pulped mass was left by the passage of another crossbow bolt. But for the sudden fury of Jack’s attack, Jimmy would have received it in the back. Without a sound Jack slumped, and Jimmy realized he was pinned to the crate. Jimmy rose from his crouch, spinning to confront the nameless man, who had tossed away the crossbow with a curse. He pulled his sword and rushed Jimmy. The man aimed a blow at Jimmy’s head and the boy ducked, catching his heel. He fell heavily backward into a sitting position while the man’s swing took him off balance slightly. Jimmy tossed his dirk at the man. The man took the point of the long dagger in the side and looked down at the wound, more an inconvenience than an injury. But the brief distraction was all Jimmy needed. An expression of uncomprehending surprise crossed the nameless man’s face as Jimmy got to one knee and ran him through.

  Jimmy yanked away his blade as the man fell. He pulled his dirk from the dead man’s side, then wiped off and resheathed his blades. Slowly examining himself, he found he was bleeding but would live.

  Fighting off nausea, he walked to where Jack hung against the crate. Looking at the Nightwarden, Jimmy tried to gather his thoughts. He and Jack had never cared a whit for each other, but why this elaborate trap? Jimmy wondered if this was somehow tied up with the matter of the assassin and the Prince. It was something he could dwell on after he spoke to the Prince, for if there was a direct relationship, it boded ill for the Mockers. The possibility of a betrayal by one as highly placed as Laughing Jack would shake the guild to its foundation.

  Never losing his perspective, Jimmy relieved Jack and his companion of their purses, finding them both satisfactorily full. As he finished looting Jack’s companion, he noticed something around the man’s neck.

  Reaching down, Jimmy came away with a gold chain, upon which hung an ebony hawk. He studied the charm for a few moments, then stuck it away in his tunic. Looking around, he spied a likely-looking place to deposit the bodies. He plucked Jack from off the bolt, dragged him and the other man over to a nook formed by crates, and tipped some heavy sacks down on top of them. He turned two damaged crates so the intact sides were revealed. It might be days before someone uncovered the corpses.

  Ignoring his angry side and fatigue, Jimmy looked around to make sure he was still unobserved, then vanished into the foggy gloom.

  THREE

  PLOTS

  Arutha attacked furiously.

  Laurie exhorted Gardan to better efforts as the Prince forced his dueling companion into a retreat. The singer had willingly surrendered the honor of the first bout to Gardan, for he had been Arutha’s partner every morning upon the journey from Salador to Krondor. While the practice had sharpened sword skills grown rusty in the King’s palace, he
had tired of always losing to the lightning-quick Prince. At least this morning he would have someone with whom to share his defeat. Still, the old campaigner wasn’t without a trick or two and suddenly Gardan had Arutha backing up. Laurie whooped when he realized the captain had been lulling the Prince into a false sense of control. But after a furious exchange the Prince was again on the offensive, and Gardan was crying, “Hold!”

  The chuckling Gardan backed away. “In all my years there have been only three men who could best me with the blade, Highness: Swordmaster Fannon, your father, and now yourself.”

  Laurie said, “A worthy trio.” Arutha was about to offer a bout to Laurie when something caught his eye.

  A large tree was situated in the corner of the palace exercise yard, where it overhung a wall separating the palace grounds from an alley and the city beyond. Something was moving along the branches of the tree. Arutha pointed. One of the palace guardsmen was already moving toward the tree, his attention drawn there by the Prince’s stare.

  Suddenly someone dropped from the branches, landing lightly on his feet. Arutha, Laurie, and Gardan all stood with swords held ready. The guardsman took the youth, as they now clearly saw him to be, by the arm and led him toward the Prince.

  As they approached, a flicker of recognition crossed Arutha’s face. “Jimmy?”

  Jimmy executed a bow, wincing slightly at the pain in his side, poorly bandaged by himself that morning. Gardan said, “Highness, you know this lad?”

  With a nod, Arutha said, “Yes. He may be a little older and a bit taller, but I know this young rogue. He’s Jimmy the Hand, already a legend among brigands and cutpurses in the city. This is the boy thief who helped Anita and me flee the city.”

  Laurie studied the boy, then laughed. “I never saw him clearly, for the warehouse was dark when Kasumi and I were taken from Krondor by the Mockers, but by my teeth, it’s the same lad. ‘There’s a party at Mother’s.’ ”