Time passed slowly, and Destan didn’t return. Finally Jim saw light beneath the door and heard enough street noise to conclude that morning was upon him.
He opened the door cautiously and peered out. In the street just beyond the alley he could see men and women hurrying along as the work day started. Like Durbin, this hot-weather city’s business started early, eased off during the hottest part of the day, then resumed in the late afternoon and continued deep into the evening. This would be Jim’s best opportunity to get to the docks and find Nefu.
He considered his appearance. He was still wearing his sailor’s garb and knew he would be instantly recognized if any of the men who had chased him caught a glimpse. He stepped back inside and closed the door. The tailor’s shop would soon be visited by its owner and workers, no doubt, so he had best come up with whatever disguise he could cobble together as quickly as possible.
He opened the door opposite the one leading to the alley and found a room in which clients were probably greeted and where the cutting and sewing was done. Half a dozen garments were on display and one caught Jim’s eye. It was a robe, the sort preferred by the desert tribes of the Jal-Pur, worn open in front, which could be closed and secured with a large sash, and a matching cloth head cover. Jim had spent enough time in the desert to know that punishing cold nights and stinging sand storms required a well-made covering. This had the look of a merchant’s robes, but not robes a wealthy merchant would wear. If this garment was ready for a client who had paid in advance, its disappearance would quickly be noticed. If it was stock ready to be bought by someone who happened by, perhaps not as soon. He checked swiftly through the other garments and discarded them as not being useful and then made a decision.
He removed his shirt, a simple white linen top with an open collar and quarter-length sleeves, and chose a more finely-fashioned red shirt which would go nicely with the deep indigo of the robe. The grey flannel trousers he wore would have to suffice.
In his belt he had the coin purse returned to him by Kaseem, and he counted out a few coins, estimating the price he would have got with haggling, and left half-again as much, placing it where the shopkeeper would find it. He hoped the silver coins would convince the man that someone had sold the garments but neglected to put away the coins; or at least give the man less reason to call the city watch. Since the local watchmen were as corrupt and unreliable as they were in any other port city in the Empire, Jim felt he stood a reasonable chance of being out of the city before the alarm was raised.
He slipped on the shirt and robe, then moved back through the storage room and again peered out of the door. The tempo of the city was quickening as he slipped out into the alley. He walked purposefully to the corner and entered the flow of traffic. As he made his way towards the docks, he looked around and found what he sought next, a boot-maker. The shop was just opening as he entered and the proprietor greeted him. ‘Sir, what service can we offer you?’
‘Boots,’ Jim said in the language of the desert men.
The boot-maker looked confused for a moment, then Jim repeated the word in Keshian, heavily accented to sound as if he was not terribly fluent.
‘I make the finest boots in the Empire,’ claimed the man, speaking loudly and slowly as if it would make it easier for Jim to understand him. He indicated that Jim should sit on a bench and he would measure him.
Jim said, ‘No, boots now.’
The man was apologetic. ‘I have no boots already made, sir. Each man’s foot is of a different size, so I need a week or so to measure, cut leather and fashion it; you understand?’
Jim pointed to six pairs of boots on a shelf behind the man. ‘What of those?’
‘Those are awaiting their purchasers,’ said the boot-maker, but a calculating look crossed his face. ‘Perhaps . . .’
Jim dropped his leather purse on the counter. The noise the coins made was unambiguous.
‘Let me see the size . . .’
Ten minutes later Jim left the shop wearing black leather boots which were almost a perfect fit; they were a tiny bit short in the toes, but being leather would stretch if he wore them long enough.
Another stop at a weapons merchant and he was striding down the street looking as much like a desert rider of the Jal-Pur as he could manage given the circumstances. He spoke the language fluently and without accent and knew enough about the region to deceive most people who didn’t know him on sight. His headgear was worn in the fashion of the Jal-Pur, the nose and mouth cover left to hang loosely to one side, so it could be pulled up in seconds if a sandstorm suddenly blew up. It was just enough to hide his features without looking as if he was trying to hide them.
That was what he was concerned about. The four assassins had not only known him, one knew him well: Amed Dabu Asam, who until he had tried to kill Jim had been his most trusted agent in the region.
They had come mere hours after Destan had conveyed Jim to Kaseem’s safe house, and it was by the barest chance they had been alerted to someone being just outside the door, a bare creak of wood where someone misstepped ever so slightly, a creak that had meant the difference between life and death as Jim, Destan and Kaseem had all been crouched in a secret room with weapons ready where a moment before they would have been taken unawares.
The revelation that Amed was no longer to be trusted had cast an even darker shadow over the events unfolding around them. Jim had sighed. ‘If Amed is a traitor, there is no one in my organization I can fully trust.’
Kaseem had answered, ‘I know the feeling. Some of the men who tried to kill me had served my father before me.’
The two leaders of the rival intelligence services had vowed to return to their respective capital cities to ferret out the traitors. Both had also vowed that all activity previously directed at one another would be put aside until the real architect of this mad war and multiple betrayals had been uncovered.
Kaseem needed to reach his people’s camp and appear to be digging in for a long siege: he had a cousin who looked remarkably like him, and with a few minor alterations to his appearance, any spies or traitors who might be nearby would glimpse the fugitive prince of the desert. While his cousin kept his eyes focused on the desert, Kaseem would slip away in disguise to the City of Kesh looking nothing like himself.
As for Jim, he had to reach Sorcerer’s Isle and speak with Pug.
He reached the docks without incident and hesitated for a moment. There were at least two hundred boats and ships at the quays or at anchor in the harbour, a higher number than was usual for this port, but given the circumstances in the Bitter Sea these days, Jim assumed some of them were there because their owners had no desire to sail waters crowded with three hostile navies.
Since little cargo was coming ashore or being ferried out to a waiting ship, the dock was crowded with stevedores looking for work. As he walked past, a few looked at him expectantly, thinking Jim was perhaps a ship owner or agent.
He glanced about and then saw a band of street boys congregating around a vendor’s fruit cart near one of the major streets that intersected with the docks, no doubt waiting for their opportunity to purloin a rich pear or savoury plum when the seller wasn’t looking. Scant chance of that as the man had one eye fixed on the ragged crew while he shouted the quality of his wares to all and sundry.
Jim discreetly held up a copper coin until one of the boys took notice. He glanced to see if any of his compatriots had noticed and seeing they hadn’t, he scampered over to stand in front of Jim, just far enough away that he could leap out of arm’s reach if Jim attempted to harm him. But all Jim said was, ‘Mialaba?’
The boy pointed silently to the end of the dock and Jim flipped the coin to him and moved quickly away. The far end of the harbour was occupied by boats of various sizes, but no cargo vessels. All appeared to be short-haulers. Ferries, and shallow launches waited to take cargo and passengers out to ships at anchor, while a few fishing vessels in from nearby villages were unloading the previous
day’s catch.
Jim moved with urgency, but not so quickly as to call attention to himself. He was experiencing what he called his ‘bump of trouble’, a name inherited from his ancestor, the first Jimmy: a sense of impending danger. It had been annoying him the entire time he had been in this city.
As he worked his way down the dock he saw at last a small two-masted lugger. A sailor was repairing ropes on the bow and Jim called up, ‘Mialaba?’
‘Yes,’ said the sailor barely looking up.
‘Nefu?’
The man stood up and moved to the back of the boat, then returned a moment later with a second man, who said, ‘You looking for me?’
‘If your name is Nefu.’
‘It is.’ He was a barrel-chested man of at least fifty summers, with a balding head surrounded by a fringe of hair so white James assumed he must have been fair-haired when he was younger, red or blond. His skin was weather-beaten and worn, and he looked as if he should be holding down a chair in the corner of some dockside alehouse. But his eyes were like blue daggers as they looked at Jim, and Jim had no doubt those ‘old’ arms and legs were coils of power from years of hard work and, if he worked for Kaseem, no doubt years of hard fighting.
‘We have a mutual friend. He said to seek you out.’
‘Who would that be?’ asked Nefu as his deckhand tried to look as if he wasn’t listening to every word.
‘Destan.’
‘Can’t say as I recognize that name.’ Nefu’s hand drifted towards his belt, in which Jim had no doubt rested at least one dagger.
‘Kaseem,’ said Jim in a lower voice.
‘Better come aboard, then.’ Nefu’s hand moved away from his belt.
Once Jim was aboard, Nefu led him to a companionway in the rear of the boat, one that led down into a mid-deck. Jim had been on luggers like this and knew this was the crew’s quarters, for at least a dozen men if it was a long voyage, fewer if they were hugging the coast and putting in at night. To the rear would be quarters for the captain and one mate, perhaps. There was no galley on a boat this size; all cooking would be done on deck on a brazier, which meant that in foul weather the crew went hungry.
Jim followed Nefu into his quarters, which were barely more than a bed over pull-out drawers, and a single fold-down table for charts and maps. A single lantern hung from a chain above the desk and a chest nestled in the corner for whatever the captain couldn’t cram into the two drawers below his bunk.
Sitting in the only seat, a three-legged stool that was just an inch too short for the table, Nefu said, ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
Jim thought about what he should say, and decided truth was absolutely required, but how much wasn’t clear. At last he said, ‘Kaseem sent me here, with Destan as my guide. We were pursued and he said if he did not return by sunrise I was to make my way here and ask for you.’
Nefu was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Who pursued you?’
‘I do not know,’ Jim answered slowly, looking the old sea captain in the eyes.
After another moment of silence, the captain said, ‘But you have an idea.’
‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘I may be mad, but I think they were part of a group not seen for years. Nighthawks.’
The captain let out a long sigh. ‘Where to?’
‘I need to get to Sorcerer’s Isle.’
‘Impossible. The Quegans are patrolling between their miserable island and Land’s End, and Keshian warships patrol the coast from here to Land’s End. The Kingdom navy is bottled up there, but they send fast raiders out now and again to punish Kesh for her aggression.’
‘News?’ asked Jim.
‘Little, but rumours bloom like flowers in the desert after rain.’ The captain stood up. ‘If we are to time the run to Sorcerer’s Isle, we must leave now.’
‘I thought you said it was impossible.’
Nefu smiled and suddenly years fell away from him. There was a glint in his eye. ‘I said it was impossible. I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. Wait here.’ He turned and left.
For the first time in weeks, Jim found himself laughing. If Kaseem hadn’t already taken this smuggler into his service, he’d recruit him for his own Mockers.
Assuming of course there was still a Guild of Thieves by the time he returned to Krondor.
Assuming there was even a Krondor to return to.
Chapter Thirteen Discovery
CHILD ATTACKED.
The three demons she ambushed turned and presented an impressive array of fangs and claws, and one began to incant a spell. A magic-user! She modified her attack and ripped his throat out before he could continue his magic and he fell to the rocks, gurgling his cry of pain.
The other two would have overmatched her, but she now had allies and they came swarming over the rocks behind the two remaining demons and, despite being smaller, overwhelmed them quickly.
‘Eat,’ she said to her small band. ‘But that one is mine,’ she added, indicating the magic-user, and beckoned for Belog to join her. She desired magic and without a teacher, eating magic-users was her only means of acquiring that ability. Her skills were rudimentary, primitive even. She could channel a push of energy which might topple a small opponent, or cast a small flame, but that was all.
For an unknowable period of time she had been leading this band of demons across a rugged landscape, through volcano-strewn broken lands of basalt and red rock. The sky was dark grey at noon and the sun seemed to be in an odd orbit, never quite sinking below the horizon. Belog said that meant they were reaching a nexus, one of the six poles in their realm: the East Pole. The Darkness seemed to have converged on the Heart Nexus, where the East, West, North, South, Top, and Bottom Poles intersected. Energies cascaded unexpectedly along the surfaces of the clouds above them and the air stank of ash and bitter minerals as fiery mountains spewed clouds of dark smoke and cinders up into the canopy of grey and black.
Child had begun to gather followers over the last month, allowing those she felt unable to contribute to be devoured by the others. She was even generous in her allocation of who ate first, waiting until the end to claim her portion. She was still struggling to define herself, but at some point she had become aware of the concepts of generosity and gratitude. Being generous could engender thanks, or project weakness, depending on the context. Gratitude could generate true allegiance, or feigned loyalty disguising betrayal. She was struggling to find the nuances of these differences.
She was becoming more subtle, and Belog was becoming more fascinated. It was clear to him that she was unique among the People. She was something unpredictable. It was hard to know whether she was his greatest discovery or his most dangerous.
She glanced around as they ate. ‘I find this place . . . unpleasant. I preferred the last place we rested.’
He tilted his head slightly in a gesture she had come to understand meant he was pondering what she had said and was framing a reply. He scratched at his cheek absently with a sharp, gleaming talon and said, ‘Really? The energy planes are far more dangerous in these volcanic tablelands. The vortex rifts and void windows can destroy with a touch or snatch you out of this reality and transport you to another.’ He made a claws snapping gesture for emphasis.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know why, but it pleased me to look at the cascading lights in the night and see the shimmering silver lights during the day. It gave me a similar feeling to when I eat something particularly tasty or look at certain males.’ As she said this, she cast a glance at one of the young male demons who had been spared because he was on his way to becoming a daunting fighter. Muscular arms hung from a massive upper torso, yet his waist was still small and his legs were slender. Were they still living in the city of Das’taas, he would have long since been killed and consumed or recruited as a soldier in one Demon Lord’s faction or another, perhaps even marked to become a City Guardian or palace guard.
Belog observed Child watch the male and sighed silently. She would choose to mate soon an
d that could create difficulties. The nature of the People was that procreation was an adjunct to the spawning pits, where life in the realm originated and where demonkind arose. It was from the pits that a demon re-emerged after death, with some or all memories intact depending on the circumstances of death. Violent deaths, which were in the majority, often robbed the demon of some memory. But birth was another aspect of creation, and it was relatively infrequent. Demons had mated for pleasure as long as they had been in existence, but the societies in which they lived were never stable enough for young to be successfully produced in any significant number. Rarely did a pregnant female survive, and when a child was born, it was often devoured, often by its own mother in retribution for the pain and inconvenience of child-bearing. A few mothers chose to nurture their child, perhaps thinking to create their first vassal, but it rarely ended well. Adolescent demons were always fractious and rarely around for long; those that survived to adulthood tended to the cunning or powerful, and picked their conflicts wisely.
The rise of the kings had changed things, in the First Kingdoms and now the Second Kingdoms, and Dahun had been foremost in reforming and remaking his people; the spawning pits still existed – how could they not? But families, a new and alien concept, were mandated and pairs were appointed to breed, Child’s mother and father among them.
No one could claim to understand why Lord Dahun had done this, but none would openly question him. It was supposed by the Archivists that at some point he would instruct them on what was to come next in the forced evolution of the People, but the arrival of the Darkness had thrown all into chaos.
When Dahun vanished, society had not just reverted to its former state: it had disintegrated. Those left surviving the anarchy that once was Dahun’s Kingdom would be little better than the Mad Ones, let alone the Savages in whose lands they now trespassed. Belog was forced to admit that if it wasn’t for the strength of Child’s will and personality, this little band would not exist, and he would most certainly already be dead.
A Kingdom Besieged Page 19
