Jimmy the Hand: Legends of the Riftwar, Book 3

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘Find anything?’ Jimmy asked casually, conscious of Coe coming up behind him. I may not be able to identify every rustle and squeak in the woods, but I know a man’s footsteps well enough, he thought with some satisfaction. It was just a matter of filtering out what didn’t matter, same as in town.

  ‘There’s an odd absence of bigger game towards the house,’ Coe said. ‘Plenty of insects, plenty of lizards and birds and even squirrels, but anything near a man’s size evidently feels a man’s unease about the place. You keep watch on the gate; I’m going to circle around the other side.’

  ‘Yessir, right, sir,’ Jimmy muttered under his breath as the older man ghosted across the road and into the brush on the other side. ‘Why don’t we just get in there?’ Coe’s caution was beginning to make him itch, almost as much as these damned bushes. Jimmy wanted something to happen.

  Something did. A pair of figures came around the central block of the fortified manor house; he knew the stables and sheds were there, so as not to spoil the view from the road, he supposed. They were leading horses; soon enough they mounted, and began to canter towards the outer wall and the gate.

  Ah-ha! Jimmy thought, as they came closer.

  In their twenties, but looking older; one slight and wiry, the other like something a smith had pounded out of an ingot. A weasel and a mean pit-fighting dog, Jimmy thought, as he got a good look at them. In Krondor he’d have picked them for Bashers–or Sheriff’s Crushers. They wore rough leather and wadmal, travelling clothes, and buff-leather jerkins; but their swords were good, if plain, and they had a noteworthy array of fighting knives in belts and tucked into boot-tops. One of them also had a short horn-bow in a case by his right knee.

  Let’s follow them, he thought. But carefully.

  As they passed through the wrought-iron gate the thicker-built one reined in.

  ‘Come on, Skinny,’ the bigger one called. ‘You heard the man–he may be sixty leagues away.’

  ‘The more reason not to get lost in the first league, Rox,’ the weasel-faced man replied, looking down at something in one hamlike fist. ‘Ah, straight south.’

  ‘Why don’t you set up for a prophet, then?’ Rox gibed. His friend rumbled something that sounded like obscene instructions, and they both laughed.

  Jimmy waited until they were half out of sight along the road southward before he brought his horse out and mounted it. Jarvis Coe made a big point about how he could track horses and tell them apart, he thought. He can track mine if he wonders where I am.

  After two days, most of the aches of his first ride had simmered down to occasional shooting pains: he was young and supple and strong. Coe still made an occasional mocking comment about his form; especially his flapping arms, but he could usually keep the mild-mannered old horse going in the direction he wanted, even if it seemed determined to amble; the two bashers’ mounts weren’t exactly fiery, snorting steeds either.

  This section of road didn’t have much traffic, but it did have enough that one horseman wasn’t conspicuous; Jimmy kept the two he was following at the limit of vision for most of two hours, before they halted at a stream to water their mounts. He ducked aside from the road in a dip that hid him from them and vice versa, found a convenient tree to tether his mount–you had to do that at head-level, he’d learned, or they could step over the reins and do dreadful things–and slipped forward on foot for the next hundred yards. If he could get within earshot without their noticing, he might pick up something interesting about their employer and goings-on in the household of the Baron.

  A murmur of voices came from the road ahead. Skinny and Rox were there, standing on the stepping-stones of the ford while their horses stood fetlock-deep in the water, muzzles down and slurping. Jimmy eeled along the ground behind a fallen hemlock that was sprouting a fair assortment of bushes from its rotting trunk and listened.

  ‘S’odd,’ the bigger man, Rox, said. ‘Look how the needle points straight no matter how you turn it.’

  It was evidently something Skinny held in his hand; he extended it towards Rox, and the thick pug-faced man shied back as if being offered a scorpion. ‘It’s magic!’ he said, his voice going shrill. ‘Of course it’s odd. It’s bloody cursed!’ A pause. ‘That house is cursed, too. And that magician–that demon’s lover the Baron keeps around–he fair drips with curses.’

  ‘This is cursed, that is cursed, you’re not happy unless you’ve a good curse going,’ Skinny jeered. ‘It’s six hundred gold if we bring him in, you fool. With that much, we can retire–buy that bawdy-house you’re always talking about.’

  Well, there’s an ambition, Jimmy thought. Six hundred gold. That’s serious money, even for a baron with a town and a farm income. You could buy a modest whorehouse with that, and stock it too–if the girls weren’t too pretty. Who’s this ‘he’ they’re talking about? And a magician? Friend Jarvis will be very interested.

  The two hired swords led their horses out of the water and prepared to mount; Skinny stopped them with a soft oath as Rox put his foot into the stirrup.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘The needle quivered, like. See, it moves if I put it left or right, always towards right ahead of us! And I hear sumthin’.’

  Jimmy did too, over the purling rush of the stream against its own bed and the flat rocks set in the ford. The familiar hollow clop-clop-clop of a horse ridden at a fast walk.

  He looked up, squinting between ferns sprouting from the dead tree-trunk that sheltered him. The ground beneath him was damp; he was down nearly to the river-level, and it took him a minute to make out the rider coming down the low slope toward the water. The horse was nondescript and the tack cheap; the man on it…

  Well, the lad on it, Jimmy thought. He didn’t think the rider was much more than two or three years older than himself. Rough-cut golden hair, face saved from prettiness by a strong jaw and straight nose, frank blue eyes, an outdoorsman’s tan. His clothes were rough and serviceable, a farmer or hunter’s, perhaps; he had a long yew bow slung over his back, along with a quiver of arrows, and a long knife at his belt as well as the usual shorter all-purpose tool.

  ‘Greetings, friend!’ Skinny called.

  He looked over his shoulder at his friend. Skinny still had the whatever-it-was in his hand; he moved it from left to right at full extension, then nodded with a pleased smile.

  ‘He’s the one,’ he said. ‘And right into our arms, too! Easy money!’

  Skinny sauntered up the rutted roadway toward the newcomer. ‘Good place to water your horse,’ he said, in a voice dripping with a bad imitation of goodwill.

  Evidently the handsome stranger thought so too; Jimmy could see him frown, and touch his bow. Evidently he wasn’t used to being on horseback–the longbow was a footman’s weapon–and a bit uncertain with it.

  A better rider than I am, but not by much, Jimmy thought.

  ‘I’ll pass by, friend, if it’s all the same to you,’ the young man said. He had a rustic accent a lot like Lorrie’s.

  Am I always to be rescuing farmers’ children? Jimmy thought with irritation along with a healthy hint of fear.

  Taking on two grown men, and experienced killers if he’d ever seen any, was no joke–no alley scuffle, either. He couldn’t count on being better at running and hiding in the woods than either of the mercenaries.

  What to do, what to do?

  Skinny didn’t appear to have any doubts. He waited by the side of the road until the traveller was by him, then darted in with a yell and grabbed for the young man’s ankle, plainly intending to heave him out of the saddle, leaving him stunned and helpless on the ground.

  The young man kicked instead, and Skinny staggered back with another yell, clutching at his face. The traveller clapped his heels to his horse and went through the water at a plunging gallop.

  ‘No, you fool!’ Rox yelled, as Skinny pulled the short thick bow from its case on his saddle and drew a shaft to the ear.

  The big man’s shout went to wordless rage as Ski
nny loosed, nocked another shaft, drew and loosed again. The first arrow passed so close to the blond rider that Jimmy thought it had struck him. Then he was close by, and Jimmy could see that it had–just along the lobe of one ear, the razor edge of the head slicing it open into the sort of wound that bled freely but didn’t slow you. The second went into the cantle of the saddle with a thunk!

  ‘You kill six hundred gold and I’ll kill you!’ Rox bellowed.

  He pulled something of his own from his saddlebow, then began whirling it around his head; Jimmy had just enough time to recognize three smooth pear-shaped iron weights connected by strong cords before it turned into a blur over the big man’s head. He cast it when the young rider was twenty yards away and moving fast; cast it at the horse, not the horseman.

  It moved fast too, whirling through the air like a horizontal disk. The young man’s horse gave a terrified shrieking whinny and crashed kicking to the ground; where it lay writhing and struggling with the weight wound around its hind legs at the hock. The golden-haired bowman lay immobile for a moment, then began to stir. Rox and Skinny bellowed triumph, drawing their swords and dashing through the ford towards the fallen horse and youth.

  I could just steal their horses, Jimmy thought. No, let’s get close and see what we can do.

  None of them were looking at the roadside woods, and the growth there was thicker; because the edge got more sunlight, Coe had told him. Jimmy trotted quietly along, trailing the two mercenaries by a few paces, close enough to hear their eager breathing and curses.

  By the time they reached the spot both man and horse were back on their feet; the horse had evidently kicked the bola free, for the iron weights lay scattered in the deep dust of the roadway. The blond youth was still woozy, his side and shoulder spattered with the drops that rained from his slit earlobe. He tried to get his bow off his shoulder, but by then the two mercenaries were close, and he tossed it aside rather than trying to nock a shaft, drawing his long knife instead.

  ‘You tried to kill me!’ he cried–as much in surprise as indignation, Jimmy thought.

  ‘Na, na, yer worth too much alive,’ Skinny said, grinning and showing bad teeth. ‘Put the slicer down and come peaceful, and y’ll not get hurt.’

  The two bravos parted to go around the blond youth’s horse; they advanced with professional caution, swords up. The youth backed away, moving his knife between the two; it was ten inches in the blade and good sharp steel, but theirs were each three times longer, and they had leather jerkins and arm-guards to boot.

  You haven’t got a prayer, farm boy, Jimmy thought regretfully. He looked around and found a couple of nicely fist-sized rocks. Have to do something to alter the odds.

  The same calculation seemed to occur to the blond youth. With a shout, he leapt forward to attack Skinny, trying to drive him aside. If he got past him he might be able to get to the ford and leap on one of the mercenaries’ horses.

  Skinny grinned, feinted, and then swept the sword around. The flat of it slammed into the youth’s knife-hand, and the blade spun away, its honed edge glinting in the sunlight. A second later Skinny screamed; with admirable presence of mind, the youth had kicked him in the crotch. He staggered backwards, clutching at himself.

  ‘Hey!’ Jimmy shouted, pelting forward.

  Rox turned at the sound. Jimmy threw the first rock as he ran. Rox took it in the gut; the stiff leather of his jerkin took most of the force, but he still went ooof and staggered back two steps.

  ‘No!’ Jimmy shouted. ‘Run, curse you! Run for the ford!’

  With more courage than sense, the blond youth was trying to pick up his knife despite the pained numbness of his well-whacked wrist. Skinny had recovered a little by the time Jimmy arrived on the scene. He dodged the second rock, even at pointblank range, and the young thief dropped with a yell beneath a vicious backhand sword-cut; Skinny didn’t have any reason to keep a chance-met stranger alive, and was probably still feeling the effects of the kick. He had to be wearing a boiled-leather cup under those greasy calfskin breeches, to be able to move at all.

  Jimmy landed on his back in the dust, hands spread; one palm came down on something cool and metallic, and closed over it in reflex. Skinny’s sword glittered above a snarling face; the blond youth barrelled into him before it could come down, and Jimmy rolled and flicked himself back to his feet.

  Skinny was coming at him, sword ready and malign intent plain. Behind him Rox grappled with the youth; he hit him on the point of his shoulder with the pommel of his sword, bringing a muffled grunt of pain, then grasped the back of his neck with one spade-sized hand and ran him forward four steps. The youth’s face made brutal contact with his own saddle; he bounced back and fell limp. The horse turned and bolted for the ford; Jimmy did likewise, diving aside into cover as something when past him with an unpleasant whistle.

  It was a knife; the point thunked into a sapling and the blade quivered with a nerve-racking hum; but there were no sounds of pursuit once he’d made a hundred yards or so. Panting, he stopped and examined the thing he’d caught. It was like a locket, but with only a hair-wrapped needle on a card inside the crystal cover. Shrugging, he tucked it away.

  A twig cracked under a foot nearby. Up! was his immediate impulse; and a big beech looked as scalable as a wall. He swarmed up it, and lay along a branch thicker than his body.

  Weasel and pit-dog paused beneath him. ‘I say we should find him, and scrag him proper,’ Skinny said. ‘I don’t want any witnesses.’

  The bigger man guffawed. ‘Who’s he going to take his story to?’ he laughed. ‘The Baron? Good luck to him! If he heads back to Land’s End to talk to the Constable, all the better, for it’ll be days before he sends anyone out here to poke around, assuming he does anything at all. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Jimmy lay motionless on a large branch, catching glimpses of the two men through the foliage. They hoisted the unconscious young man to his feet, and Rox held him up while Skinny lashed his ankles and wrists, then they heaved him over the neck of Skinny’s horse. Jimmy saw them ride off, and waited until he was certain the two men were gone. He let himself down, dropping the last six feet to land lightly on his toes. ‘What do I do now?’ he muttered to no one.

  FIFTEEN

  Discovery

  Bernarr lay dreaming.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and he moaned as he clawed at the sheets. The dream was vivid: he could hear the breeze rustling in the trees, the sound of the surf against the cliffs. The colours were vibrant and even the scent of the woods, the horse’s sweat, and the oiled leathers filled his nostrils.

  ‘How dare you take my kill from me?’ the Baron demanded furiously. ‘Have you no manners at all?’ The boar lay twitching at the feet of the Baron’s mount, while Bernarr resisted the urge to draw steel and attack the youth.

  The younger man bowed in his saddle. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I feared that you would miss and endanger yourself.’ Zakry’s tone was dripping with sincerity, but the slight lift of his lip offered mockery.

  Bernarr stared at him coldly. ‘I have been hunting boar in these woods of mine since you were soiling your swaddling-clout,’ he said. ‘And I am hardly in my dotage now. I assure you, I am capable of taking down one of my own boars.’

  Zakry inclined his head. ‘Sorry, my lord. I will have the huntsmen gather it up,’ he said, sounding apologetic.

  ‘You will leave it where it lies,’ Bernarr said abruptly. ‘I will not have it on my table.’ He touched the rein to the neck of his mount and turned back toward the hunt.

  ‘My lord,’ Zakry called out behind him. ‘I would speak with you in private.’

  Bernarr stopped his horse, clenching his teeth. Such impudence! Even so, he turned and rode back to where the young lord sat fiddling nervously with the reins. ‘Follow me then,’ he said. ‘Let us get out of these woods and go somewhere no one can listen to this “private conversation”.’

  He broke from the woods into meadowland starre
d with yellow flowers, drying slightly to a golden shade as the summer grew late, and rode up a hill. Birds broke out of the tall grass before them as the horses’ hooves threw up clods of earth. Bernarr kept the pace to a hard gallop until he came to the top of the rise. They stopped just short of the cliffs, the sea below a glorious vista. Gulls wheeled overhead.

  Zakry pulled up past him, patting his horse’s neck. ‘Magnificent,’ he proclaimed, taking a deep breath.

  ‘What do you want?’ Bernarr asked impatiently.

  ‘My lord,’ Zakry said, ‘the Lady Elaine should never have left Rillanon: she pines for it, and even you can see that she is thin and pale. She should return to the capital. This is not the life for her! She needs excitement and the glamour of the court. I would ask you, for her sake, my lord, to put her aside.’

  Bernarr stared at him in disbelief. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said. ‘Would you repeat yourself, sir?’

  Zakry looked surprised. ‘My lord, I assumed you to be a man of the world. You must have known that Elaine and I were lovers.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Certainly you knew she wasn’t a virgin.’

  ‘Stop!’ Bernarr shouted. His knuckles were white on the reins and his eyes were wide, his breath whistling through his teeth as he tried to contain his fury.

  ‘I love her,’ Zakry said, as if the older man hadn’t spoken. ‘I never should have let her go. But it isn’t too late, you could have the marriage annulled. She would thank you for it.’

  ‘Put her aside? Are you mad? Elaine would die of shame if I were to do such a thing!’

  ‘It is what she wants, sir! She loves me, my lord. And I know she wishes to be with me. Please, have pity on us and let us be together.’

  Bernarr made no attempt to hide his rage. ‘You will return to the castle now! Pack and leave my house and take the first ship from Land’s End you find, or I will not answer for your life beyond sunset.’ Turning to ride away, he wrenched at the rein with a strength that brought a squeal of protest from the horse.