Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3

by Raymond E. Feist

Her relief that the shout hadn’t been directed at her caused Lorrie to drop a few inches. She was going to try to swing a few feet to her right and reach the tile roof. As she tried to swing a little to the left, she felt the pain; a sudden, violent burn that was colder than winter ice at the same time, and beneath it all the ugly slicing feeling of being cut.

  She’d had accidents with tools and sharp branches before. Not like this. Something very sharp was digging deep into her leg. The hot trickle of her own blood down her leg made her shiver and she gasped at the increased pain even that small movement caused.

  That made her want to scream and twist around to grab her leg at the same time; but either of those would mean that she would die.

  And Rip will have nobody.

  Her head swam a moment, but she fought down dizziness and panted through her mouth. Don’t let go! she commanded herself. She glanced down and saw a seemingly innocuous shard of glass wedged in between the stones. Some glazier had been sloppy in his work and the long piece had fallen from a broken window to wedge hard between stones. Like a crystal dagger it had cut up into Lorrie’s leg. She forced herself to take a deep breath and knew she would have to use every ounce of will and strength to regain the window.

  Her hands firmed on the ledge, driving her fingers painfully into the splintery wood. But she couldn’t stay like this: the fall from this height would be a lot more painful than what she was feeling now. Lorrie took a deep breath and hoisted herself up on the window frame. The shrill of agony as her wound was savaged further almost made her lose her grip, rendering her too shocked to even cry out. Once the surprise was over she kept herself from crying out by gritting her teeth and remembering Rip.

  If she was caught she might be gaoled, and if she was gaoled she couldn’t help him. I can’t let them catch me, she thought. I have to be strong.

  The argument in the street below continued unabated, growing louder, if anything. It was to be hoped it was loud enough to cover the sound of her panting and of her movements as she struggled back into the hidden room. But she needed to move fast, before the yelling attracted people to the windows around her. Lorrie pulled her wounded leg back as far as it would go, but when she hoisted herself up again found it wasn’t quite far enough. She gave one sob of pain and frustration, then continued her progress, even as it tore her leg.

  Now she was halfway into the room, hanging from the window at her waist. She breathed in and out through her teeth, fast and desperate, then gave one jerk that almost made her scream and she was free of the protruding glass. As quietly as she could Lorrie scrambled back into the room, sliding down onto the dusty floor, biting the base of her right thumb to keep the screams that forced their way up her throat muffled.

  Once she got her breath back she sat up to check the damage.

  The sight almost made her faint as the pain had not. A long, deep and jagged cut started just above her knee and ended at her upper thigh. Blood poured from the ripped flesh, already pooling on the floor; the only good thing about it was that it didn’t jet and spurt. The leg moved when she jerked it in horror, so the tendon wasn’t cut. The shard had dug straight into the centre of the muscle. But bleeding that bad could kill her in an hour. A country girl knew about cuts–and how much blood a pig had, which was about the same as a man’s.

  Do something! she shouted at herself.

  With trembling hands she loosed her water bottle from her belt and poured some onto her leg. It burned like fire and she greyed out for a moment, dropping the bottle. She caught it up quickly, listening to see if someone had noticed the sound. Nothing happened and she looked down at her leg again.

  When the blood had been washed away Lorrie was able to see that it needed stitching. She’d once watched her mother sew up Emmet, their man of all work, when his axe had slipped and had listened carefully to her instructions. But this looked a lot worse and she had nothing to use for a needle. And she didn’t have her mother. Lorrie pressed her hand against her mouth, hard. She didn’t have time to cry, she was bleeding, and badly.

  Dragging herself over to the bolt of cloth she cut a clean length of it; then she pulled down her trousers and bandaged the leg as tightly as she could, strips around the leg holding a thick pad on the wound. If she couldn’t stitch it up, then she could at least press it together. Maybe that would be enough. Then she pulled up the trousers and lay back down on her makeshift bed.

  What am I going to do? she thought. She could feel Rip getting further and further away. But she couldn’t even climb down from this place with the wound in her leg, even if no one was down there, let alone follow two men on horseback. I shouldn’t have sold Horace.

  But she’d been so certain that Land’s End was their final destination. Why else would they steal her brother but to sell him to slavers? Yet he was being moved inland; the feeling was like an inner weathervane, shifting slowly and pointing the way. Why? she repeated to herself, over and over again.

  She’d begun the internal shout in despair and ended it in anger. Why Rip, why her parents, why her, why now? Who were these people, what were they doing? And beyond all and above everything, and forever, why?

  Lorrie closed her eyes. Blackness fell like a crashing wave.

  It was just past dawn when Flora slipped into Jimmy’s room; a quiet dawn, by Krondor standards.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ she demanded in a very loud whisper.

  Jimmy, caught by surprise, yanked his pants up so hard he hurt himself. He glared at her over his shoulder, fighting an urge to clutch the painful parts.

  ‘You…’ His voice came out so high he coughed and started again. ‘You’re supposed to knock first, remember?’

  ‘Tsk! You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before,’ she said scornfully.

  Jimmy arched his brows. ‘Does your aunt know that?’ he said sweetly.

  Flora’s lips twitched down at the corners as she looked away and brushed her hair back, blushing. ‘No. And maybe you were right. Maybe I should just keep it to myself.’

  ‘I honestly think that would be for the best,’ he said, not without sympathy. ‘Best all round, I mean.’

  She gave an unladylike snort. ‘Yeah, I mustn’t forget you’re in there, too.’ Then she looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘So, where were you last night?’

  ‘I went out for a walk,’ he said, frowning. ‘Just taking in the town and I felt I needed the exercise.’

  Flora pressed her lips together anxiously and moved over to him, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You mustn’t do anything wrong while you’re staying here,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Jimmy. It’s important.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he protested.

  ‘Well,’ she waved her hands in exasperation. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘What, as in, never again? I can’t promise that, Flora. I’m a Mocker, not a priest.’

  ‘At least not while you’re here,’ she said, her eyes pleading. ‘If you do something wrong it will reflect on me and on them, and the disgrace would be dreadful.’

  ‘By “anything wrong” I suspect you mean more than simply, “don’t steal”,’ he said. ‘I bet you mean don’t go to taverns, or get drunk, or get into brawls, or gamble…’ She shook her head, her eyes wide.

  ‘Or…’ He stroked a finger gently down her cheek.

  Flora reared back as if she’d never taunted a sailor in her life. ‘Especially not that!’ she said.

  Jimmy stared at her. It wasn’t that long ago we were doing that. Now look at her! It hadn’t taken any time at all for Flora to become officiously respectable. He put his hands on his hips and laughed at her.

  She shushed him, glancing at the closed door of his room.

  ‘Flora,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I can’t imagine how you’re going to survive this degree of self-restraint.’ Though of course ample meals, comfort, and no worries about the future would help mightily. ‘But if it’s what you want, then that’s what you should have; I was worried about you when
all this started, you’ll remember.’

  She still looked anxious, so he took pity on her. Placing a hand on his heart he said: ‘I have no intention of disgracing you, or your relatives.’

  With quiet determination she asked, ‘Then, please, tell me what you did last night.’

  Jimmy gave a deep sigh and hung his head. ‘All right. If you must know I saved a girl.’

  Flora made a strangled sound and when he looked at her saw an almost comical expression of surprise on her face. ‘Who? And from what?’

  ‘Really!’ he said. ‘She was a country girl disguised as a boy and she’d fallen in with some very corrupt thief-takers. Y’remember Gerem Benton?’

  She nodded. ‘Gerem the Snake? Confidence grifter used to work the dodge on farmers looking to get rich quick with the Pigeon Drop and the Fake Diamond cons? Yeah, what about him? He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s alive and running a gang of thief-takers here. Looks like he’s set himself up with the local constables; at least that’s what it looks to me. He almost had this girl but I got her away. He didn’t know she was a girl, else he might have tried harder to hang on to her.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Y’know, this town would be a lot better off if they had an Upright Man of their own,’ he added wisely.

  ‘A country girl disguised as a boy?’ Flora said, wrinkling her nose dubiously. ‘Why was she in disguise?’

  Jimmy thought about it. ‘She didn’t say. But she definitely was honest; she didn’t want to use some old cloth for a blanket in case she damaged it.’

  Flora nodded, apparently seeing the truth in that observation. ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘I found her a place to sleep in an abandoned room in a warehouse,’ he said. ‘If she keeps her wits about her she should be fine.’

  ‘Take me to her,’ Flora said suddenly.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Maybe I can help her,’ she said.

  ‘Well, aren’t you Lady Bountiful? Don’t you believe me?’ Hurt, he let a little of his resentment show in the tone.

  ‘Maybe if someone had offered to help me when I was first orphaned,’ Flora said with some heat, ‘I wouldn’t have had to become a whore!’

  ‘Oh,’ Jimmy said. Ouch. ‘All right. But she might not still be there,’ he warned.

  ‘Well, at least we’ll have tried.’ Flora gave him a hard look. ‘I’ll go and get my shawl and tell Aunt Cleora we’re off shopping, so remind me to buy something on the way back.’ As she moved through the door, she added, ‘We should pitch in with chores when we get back, like respectable youngsters. I want to make a good impression before Aunt Cleora takes me to meet Grandfather.’

  Jimmy looked at the closed door. Chores, he thought. Wonderful.

  Exile was looking worse all the time.

  Flora pulled the back of her skirt up through her legs and tucked it into her waistband, forming a baggy equivalent of trousers which would allow her to climb.

  Looks like nothing is going to discourage her, Jimmy thought, casually glancing to either side. There were people down at the end of the alley who could see them if they looked…but they probably wouldn’t. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t care. The men–the ones loading crates of pottery on a mule-drawn wagon–were busy, and Jimmy’s experience with teamsters was that they didn’t go looking for trouble, unless it was after work and they’d been drinking.

  Jimmy turned his attention to the climb. At least the bright light of morning showed the handholds well and they started to climb the low building beneath the window of the abandoned room in a workmanlike fashion. Flora had insisted on bringing along a bag of food she tied up in her skirt, and a small wineskin which Jimmy had tied to his belt. If anyone stops us I guess I could say we’re here to wash the windows, Jimmy thought as Flora moved up.

  Then Flora said, in a hoarse whisper, ‘Jimmy! There’s blood!’

  Flora looked down and showed Jimmy her hand, the palm of which was now smeared with a sticky brownish stain; the blood was nearly dried, so it had been there for a while. Jimmy took out his belt-knife and transferred it to his teeth; there were a few situations in which that was useful, and hostile entry into a room was one. He motioned for Flora to move to the side so he could pass.

  Maintaining careful track of his tongue–he kept his knife sharp–he crouched below the window, then threw himself in with a roll, dropping the blade and catching the hilt as eyes and knife-point probed all around.

  ‘Shit,’ he said calmly, sheathing the knife, turning and extending a hand. ‘She’s hurt. Come on.’

  Flora pulled herself up to the window and gasped at the sight of the blood on the floor–she knew almost as well as he did what constituted a serious wound–and when she saw Lorrie’s pale form lying amid the bloodstained cloth she put her hand over her mouth and plastered herself against the wall.

  ‘Banath protect us,’ she whispered. ‘She’s been murdered!’

  Jimmy went to one knee beside Lorrie’s pallet.

  ‘No, she’s breathing,’ he said in relief. But there was still a lot of blood around. ‘Lorrie,’ he called quietly. He touched her shoulder. ‘Lorrie,’ he whispered.

  The girl woke with a start and gasped as though drawing breath to scream. Jimmy hastily put his hand over her mouth. ‘It’s Jimmy,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. I’ve brought some food.’

  ‘We’ve brought you some food,’ Flora said, elbowing him aside. From her tone she had no intention of forgetting how much he’d protested when she’d asked him to buy the bread, cheese and wine they’d brought.

  ‘What happened?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Who did this?’

  Astonishingly, she smiled: ‘Me,’ she said. Even then, the resemblance to the Princess gave him a jolt. ‘I was climbing out of the window and somebody yelled.’ She pulled herself up on her elbows and looked at him groggily. ‘I was surprised and I slipped. My leg got caught on something.’ She lay back down again. ‘I put a bandage on it, but it hurts.’

  I’ll bet it does, he thought, looking at the tight sodden band-ages. Gods but she’s clumsy! That brought a stab of guilt: Well, she’s not a Mocker. Just a farm-girl.

  ‘There’s a lot of blood,’ Flora said. ‘You’d better let me take a look.’

  Lorrie blinked at her, then turned to Jimmy.

  ‘This is my friend Flora,’ he said. ‘She’s all right.’

  Lorrie nodded and struggled to sit upright, untying the string at her waist, then looked at Jimmy. ‘It’s on my leg,’ she said.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Do you need help?’

  The girl stared at him, dumbfounded.

  ‘Jimmy,’ Flora said between her teeth, ‘turn around.’

  ‘Oh!’ he said and did so. As if I care, he thought. He heard Flora suck in her breath. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s bad,’ she said. ‘A really deep, nasty cut. I need you to go and get some things.’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ he said, starting to turn around. The two girls immediately made such a fuss he stopped and kept his back to them. ‘What do you need?’ he asked, his tone surly.

  ‘Some powdered woundwort, some powdered yarrow and yarrow leaf tea, tincture of lady’s mantle, some willow bark tea, and–’ he could tell she hesitated, ‘–some poppy juice. And a fine needle and thread. Catgut, if you can get it. Waxed linen, if you can’t.’

  ‘What,’ he said after a moment, ‘nothing else? No dancing girls, no elephants, no…’

  ‘No poppy juice,’ Lorrie murmured. ‘I have to find my brother.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere with that wound on your leg,’ Flora said. ‘Not today. Go!’ she snapped at Jimmy.

  He went, considerably annoyed. He’d already bought this Lorrie wine and bread, now he had to buy out an apothecary for her? What else was he going to be expected to do? Poppy juice! Did Flora know what poppy juice cost? Although Lorrie had said she didn’t want any. He thought about that as he walked along. No, better get it. With all that blood she must be hurting badly. Jim
my sighed. Why did good deeds always turn out to be so expensive?

  When he returned Lorrie was asleep again and Flora was looking thoughtful; she glanced up as Jimmy swung easily through the window.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the medicines. Then after a pause: ‘Thank you a lot, Jimmy. Nobody’s ever been as kind to me.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said gruffly, shrugging.

  Princess Anita, what have you done to me? he asked himself, feeling that it was only half a joke. I was never one to stint help to a friend, but this is ridiculous! Flora doesn’t need help, she’s landed in the honey pot, and I barely know this bumpkin! Even if she does look like you–like you would if you’d been born a bumpkin, that is.

  He noticed that Flora had made an effort to mop up the blood: there was a pile of soaked cloth in one corner, and the band-ages on Lorrie’s leg were fresh. The smell was still there, faint against the musty mildew and dust of the warehouse, but at least now they didn’t have to worry about someone noticing it dripping through the floorboards. She’d also gone for water, which was essential to someone who’d lost a lot of blood.

  Flora laid out the medicines and the needle and thread. Lorrie woke, though she seemed muddle-headed; Flora had probably given her the whole bottle of wine for the pain.

  ‘Help me turn her over,’ she said.

  He did, wincing as she uncovered the wound and went to work; he supposed modesty was less important when all that was bared was a section of thigh that looked as if it were on the way to a butcher’s shop. But he looked aside anyway.

  In a way it was less grit-your-teeth to have a wound of your own sewn up than to watch it done to someone else, unless you could just think of them as meat.

  Lorrie bore it well, not having to be held, just shivering and panting, and his initial good opinion of the girl went up several notches. Besides, he reflected, it would go on hurting her a lot longer than it would him.

  Flora’s doing a good job of work there, too, he thought: she wasn’t quite digit-agile enough to make a pickpocket, but she had neat hands for needle and thread.