The Complete Legends of the Riftwar Trilogy

by Raymond E. Feist

  ‘And if I don’t get an answer right now, the note that I’ve left – never mind with whom – will be put in the hands of the Swordmaster, a few days from now. Then he’ll be asking you the same question. Unless …’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless you explain to me, right now, why. The “how” part is easy, and I should have seen it before. A guard falling asleep on watch? A reliable man, up until the night before last. And then he suddenly fell asleep on watch. Very convenient.

  ‘A strange coincidence. Unless, of course, his food was drugged, as was the bottle of wine, which explains how you were able to slice their throats without waking them. A fine kitchen knife, well-sharpened, as all good kitchen knives should be, left their room on a covered tray, with you, after you brought it in on a covered tray, to slice their throats while they lay drugged. It wouldn’t be at all strange for the housecarl to be washing a knife down in the kitchen, would it?’ Pirojil nodded. ‘I think your daughter helped.’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything about it. Please don’t bring her into this. It’s not –’

  ‘It’s not right? You mean, in the sense that slitting two people’s throats isn’t right? Or –’

  ‘He treated her like a plaything,’ Ereven said, with no change in his inflection. A lifetime of keeping his expression and tone under control hadn’t abandoned him, even now. ‘He lured her into his bed, and made all sorts of promises to her – it’s not totally unknown for a noble to take a common wife, and a gentleman who sires a bastard acknowledges him.’

  ‘But Baron Morray didn’t do that.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. He lied to her and she thought he loved her. She was a good girl, and had never known a man before the Baron. I hoped to marry her to the son of Grigsby, the grain merchant. He’s a man of means and his son will take over the business one day. But a “kitchen wench” with the bastard of a noble in her arms? My girl thought herself in love with Morray, but he said nothing to her as her belly swelled with his baby, sir. I think …’ his voice faltered. After a moment he carried on: ‘Then to marry a woman who carries his baby – it’s no secret that Mondegreen was ill and his lady was with Morray many times.’ Ereven’s voice turned bitter. ‘What sort of man would deny his own? Not admit he fathered my daughter’s child, and then let another man claim a second child with the woman he was to wed? He and Lady Mondegreen were evil.’

  Pirojil nodded. ‘And this was your last chance to punish them for that, eh? Verheyen wouldn’t have him as Bursar, and wouldn’t want his fingers on the Purse in advance of coming into the earldom. Morray and Lady Mondegreen were going away to become a country baron and lady and do their best never to set foot in LaMut again, for fear that Verheyen might think they were gathering support against him, no matter what Morray had sworn.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pirojil nodded. ‘That drug that you put in the wine, and the food. Do you have more of it?’

  Ereven hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I’ve a suggestion. It won’t save you, but …’

  ‘But my daughter?’

  Pirojil nodded. ‘I’ll leave her out of this, if you’ll take yourself out of it. Swallow all of that drug that you have, and if you think that may not be enough to kill you for certain, find something else that will, and swallow it, too. Wash it down with a bottle of the Earl’s finest wine – but before you do that, write a note saying that it was you who drugged Erlic’s food – you can say that you did it at Verheyen’s behest, if you’d like, but if you say that you did it at mine,’ he added quickly, ‘all of it will come out, you can count on that. All of it – about how your daughter prevailed upon you to murder the father of her baby.’

  ‘But she didn’t. She doesn’t even know.’

  ‘So what? The daughter of a self-confessed murderer’s word against that of the captain who solved the riddle of who killed Mondegreen and Morray? Who will the Earl believe? They might wait until the child is born before they hang your daughter. Make your choice, housecarl. But make it now, and make it wisely. You won’t have another opportunity.’

  The impassive expression was back on Ereven’s face. ‘Your offer is acceptable, Captain.’ He nodded, once. Then, for a moment, just a moment, the mask dropped from his face. ‘You can have my blood on your hands, too, to go along with Baron Verheyen’s.’

  Pirojil shrugged. ‘I’ve had a lot of blood on my hands, Ereven. I’m used to it.’

  Ereven wasn’t the only one who could control his expression, after all.

  Pirojil could try to justify it to himself. After all, despite the peace they had made Verheyen was Morray’s enemy, and Baron Morray would not have minded at all Verheyen being dead, and never becoming the Earl of LaMut. He could blame Steven Argent for putting him in a situation that was more than he had been able to manage. Pirojil was a soldier, dammit, and not some sort of constable, nor judge.

  But that wouldn’t work. And if there was a way to put blood back in a dead body, Pirojil would have used it many times before.

  However, Erlic’s blood was still in his body, and at least Pirojil could limit the damage.

  Ereven nodded. ‘I’ll see to it directly, sir. And if you’ll promise to put in a good word for my daughter, I’ll say that it was Verheyen.’

  Pirojil shook his head. ‘No promises. If I come back this way – unlikely, but you never know – I’ll look in on her, though. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘It’s good enough, sir.’ Ereven drew himself up straight. ‘If there’s nothing more …’

  ‘No. There’s nothing more.’

  ‘Then I’ve got some writing to do, and a bottle of wine to find with which to wash down the powder, and I’d best be getting to it before you change your mind.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pirojil said.

  The housecarl turned and walked back into the kitchen. Pirojil turned and walked away.

  He had a great deal to do and wanted it done before they found the housecarl’s body and the note. If Durine’s description of the – whatever he called them, the snowshoes – was correct, they would take some getting used to as they made their way out of LaMut. And given the realization that a perfectly innocent baron – or at least as innocent as any baron could be given their nature – had died needlessly, Pirojil would rather not be around for the incessant chatter about the murders that was certain to be the table-talk of every noble in the duchy for weeks to come. He would prefer to be remembered as ‘that really hideous captain’ than have too many people recall his name. Even if no one ever discovered the truth, Verheyen had friends who would think it some sort of justice to see Pirojil vanish.

  Pirojil wanted to vanish from LaMut, but on his own terms, and he wanted to find himself somewhere warm, but not in a funeral pyre.

  They should be on their way, the five of them, as soon as possible. As he hurried down a corridor and climbed the stairs, Pirojil stole a look out of a window over the City of LaMut. Not a bad place as cities go. He’d been in far worse and few better. The sun was getting ready to rise, and the city was coming to life. Then he turned to leave the room, wondering absently how many other things they had got wrong. Not that it mattered. In a few years everything would be forgotten with a new earl in LaMut and Vandros in Yabon.

  The one question that nagged at him a bit was how that fire-drake, Fantus, had continually managed to get into the Swordmaster’s office. There had to be a secret passage somewhere in this castle that even the housecarl didn’t know of. Still, life was full of unsolved mysteries and as such went, that was a minor one.

  Pirojil glanced out of the window at the new day, glad he was alive to enjoy it.

  And somewhere, outside, a dog was barking.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Felicia, Judy and Rachel, for the obvious; Eleanor, for the usual; and Ray, for letting me bring some of my own toys for us to play with in his back yard.

  Joel Rosenberg

  As usual, I’m in debt to
the original designers of Midkemia and thank them one more time.

  I’d also like to thank everyone who kept me going over the last two years, you know who you are.

  And I’d like to thank Joel for cloning three of my favourite characters from his universe and transplanting them into mine. They aren’t exactly the Three Musketeers, but they are three of the most entertaining blackhearts to stick in a story.

  Raymond E Feist

  Copyright

  HarperVoyager

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpervoyagerbooks.com

  First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2002

  Copyright © Raymond E. Feist & Joel Rosenberg 2002

  Raymond E. Feist & Joel Rosenberg assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9780006483892

  Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780007383207

  Version: 2013–09–24

  RAYMOND E. FEIST & STEVE STIRLING

  Jimmy the Hand

  Book Three of Legends of the Riftwar

  To my readers:

  Without your enthusiasm I’d be selling cars for a living.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Raymond E. Feist

  To Jan … and to Ray, Will, and Joel: the only guys who could have brought this off.

  S.M. Stirling

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Escape

  Chapter Two: Crackdown

  Chapter Three: Aftermath

  Chapter Four: Plotting

  Chapter Five: Rescue

  Chapter Six: Journey

  Chapter Seven: Tragedy

  Chapter Eight: Family

  Chapter Nine: Encounter

  Chapter Ten: The Baron

  Chapter Eleven: Discovery

  Chapter Twelve: Escape

  Chapter Thirteen: Hiding

  Chapter Fourteen: Abduction

  Chapter Fifteen: Discovery

  Chapter Sixteen: Developments

  Chapter Seventeen: Plan

  Chapter Eighteen: Magic

  Epilogue: Krondor

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  • Chapter One •

  Escape

  MEN CURSED AS THEY GRAPPLED.

  Jimmy the Hand slipped eellike between knots of fighting men on the darkened quayside. Steel glittered in torch– and lantern-light, shining in ruddy-red arcs as horsemen slashed at the elusive Mockers who strove to hold them back. Only seconds more were needed for Prince Arutha and Princess Anita to make their escape, and the fight had reached the frenzied violence of desperation. Screams of rage and pain split the night, accompanied by the iron hammering of shod hooves throwing up sparks as they smashed down on stone, to the counterpoint of the clangour of steel on steel.

  Bravos and street-toughs struggled against trained soldiers, but the soldiers’ horses slipped and slithered on the slick boards and stones of the docks and the flickering light was even more uncertain than the footing. Knives stabbed upward and horses shied as hands gripped booted feet and heaved Bas-Tyran menat-arms out of the saddle. The harsh iron-and-salt smell of blood was strong even against the garbage stink of the harbour, and a horse screamed piteously as it collapsed, hamstrung. The rider’s leg was caught in the stirrup, crushed beneath his mount, and he screamed as the horse thrashed, then fell silent as ragged figures swarmed over him.

  Jimmy fell flat under the slash of a sword, rolled unscathed between the flailing hooves of a war-horse scrabbling to find better footing, tripped one of the men-at-arms who was fighting dismounted against three Mockers, then dashed down the length of the dock, his feet light on the boards.

  At the end of the quay he threw himself flat on the rough splintery wood to hail the longboat below:

  ‘Farewell!’ he called to the Princess Anita.

  She turned toward his voice, her lovely face little more than a pale blur in the pre-dawn light. But he knew that her sea-green eyes would be wide with astonishment.

  I’m glad I came to say goodbye, he thought, an unfamiliar sensation squeezing at his chest below the breastbone. It’s worth a little risk to life and limb.

  He grinned at her, but nervously; the fight with Jocko Radburn’s men was heating up and his back felt very exposed. It wouldn’t be long before the Mockers broke and ran; standup fights weren’t their style.

  Another, taller figure stood in the longboat. ‘Here,’ Prince Arutha called. ‘Use it in good health!’

  A rapier in its scabbard flew up to his hand. He snatched it out of the air and rolled over, just in time to avoid a kick from one of Radburn’s bully-boys. Jimmy rolled again as the man pursued him, heavy-booted foot raised to stamp on him like an insect. Letting the sword go he reached up and grabbed toe and heel with crossed hands, giving it a vicious twist that set the bully roaring and twisting to keep it from being broken. That put him off-balance, and a kick placed with vicious precision toppled him screaming into the water. His gear dragged him under before the echoes of his scream could die.

  ‘Time to go!’ Jimmy panted.

  Rolling up to his feet, Jimmy yanked the rapier from its scabbard and looked about for a worthy target – preferably one blocking the best escape route. Below, he could just make out the rhythmic splashing of the oars counterpoint the chaos of the battle all around him. Farewell, he said again in his heart. Then, as a pile of baled cloth blazed up: Ooops!

  Lanterns began to appear on the boats around them, and watchmen from the surrounding warehouses came running, while from all around men called out: ‘What passes?’ and ‘Who goes there?’ And a growing shout: ‘Fire! Fire!’

  A man in the black and gold of Bas-Tyra snatched a lantern from one of the watchmen and marched toward the end of the dock, giving Jimmy an idea of whom to attack. The soldier grinned at the sight of the thin, ragged boy before him.

  ‘Brought me a new sword, have you?’ he said. ‘Looks like a good one. Too good for gutter-scum whose whiskers haven’t yet seen a razor. My thanks.’

  He swung a backhand cut at Jimmy, a lazy stroke with more strength than style. No doubt he imagined that he could easily smash the rapier from the young thief’s hand and then hack him down.

  The finely-made blade was alive in Jimmy’s hand; heavy, but perfectly balanced, limber as a striking snake. It flashed up almost of itself and turned the clumsy stroke away with a long scringgg of metal on metal. The guardsman grunted in astonishment as the redirected force of his own stroke spun him around, then shouted in pain as Jimmy danced nimbly aside and slashed at him.

  More by luck than skill, the sharp steel caught the guardsman on the wrist, parting the tough leather of his gauntlet and cutting a shallow groove in the flesh beneath. With a gasp, the man shook his wrist and took a step back, disbelief visible on his coarse features even in the darkness.

  Jimmy laughed in delighted surprise. Clearly not everyone had Arutha’s ski
ll with the blade. The hours he’d spent training with the Prince while waiting for Trevor Hull’s smugglers to find a ship for Arutha and that old pirate, Amos Trask, to steal for their escape had paid off. Jimmy felt as if the soldier moved at half Prince Arutha’s speed. He laughed again.

  That laugh galvanized the soldier into action and he struck out at the young thief with blow after powerful blow.

  Like a peasant threshing grain, Jimmy thought – he had little experience of matters rural, but a deep contempt for rubes.

  The blows were hard and fast, but each was a copy of the one before. Instinct led him to raise the rapier, and the cuts flowed off steel blade and intricate swept guard; he had to put his left palm on his right wrist more than once, lest sheer force knock the weapon out of his hand. But he knew he was moments away from dodging to his left, thrusting hard and taking the soldier in the stomach. Arutha had always cautioned patience in judging an opponent.

  An instant later Jimmy’s back met the side of a bale; glancing to either side he realized he’d been neatly trapped in a short, dead-end passage of piled cargo. The man before him grinned and made teasing thrusts with his sword.

  ‘Caught like the little sewer rat you are,’ he growled.

  The man raised his sword and Jimmy readied himself to execute his move, confident he would be through with the soldier in another moment. Then, suddenly, a pair of grappling bodies hurtled by, each man with a hand on the wrist of the other’s knife-hand, stamping and cursing as they whirled in a circle like a fast and deadly country dance. They tumbled into the Bas-Tyran man-at-arms, throwing him forward with a cry of surprise. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He felt a mild instant of regret that he couldn’t execute his fancy passing thrust, but he couldn’t ignore such an easily acquired target. Jimmy stabbed out, and felt the needle point of the rapier sink through muscle and jar on bone, the strange sensation flowing up through the steel and hilt to shiver in his shoulder and lower back.