Krondor: The Assassins

by Raymond E. Feist

  Captain Guruth said, ‘‘That hardly seems likely. The body count is high, but there seems no apparent connection.’’

  The sheriff again let his feelings show. ‘‘You’re a soldier, Guruth. Your lads are fine in a donnybrook, but none of them has the knack for sniffing around and finding out things. That’s what the City Watch does best.’’

  James barely contained an explosive laugh. There were snitches in the employ of the City Watch, but they were often paid by the Mockers to give false information, and anyone who was truly in their pay was likely to turn up floating in the bay.

  James said, ‘‘I do not know what His Highness has said to each of you regarding his most recent activities in confronting the Brotherhood of the Dark Path and the Nighthawks.’’

  ‘‘Nighthawks!’’ Guruth shouted. He swore an oath, then said,

  ‘‘They’re like weeds in a garden. I thought we had destroyed them ten years ago when we burned down the House of Willows!’’

  James realized then something he had forgotten. Guruth had been a young soldier, probably a sergeant or lieutenant when Arutha and James had led a squad of soldiers that had destroyed the Nighthawks’ headquarters in Krondor, the basement below one of the finest brothels in the city. There they had found a moredhel, and there they had witnessed the power of the dark elves’ wizard-king, Murmandamus, for every Nighthawk who had been slain had risen from the dead to fight anew.

  Those who had struggled in the cellar below the House of Willows that night and survived would never forget that fight.

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  Many of those who had entered the sewers below the city to seek out that nest had died in the flames of that battle.

  Guruth looked at James and said, ‘‘You know what I mean, squire.’’

  James nodded. ‘‘Yes, I remember.’’ Sighing, James said, ‘‘But as we learned on the road to Armengar, and again at Kenting Rush, the Nighthawks are numerous and as soon as you destroy one nest, another springs up somewhere else.’’

  The sheriff said, ‘‘So we’ve assassins loose in the city, then?’’

  He had not been in that struggle ten years before, but he had heard enough details to regard James and Guruth with a modi-cum of respect.

  James said, ‘‘It appears likely, though no one who’s reported a murder has specifically stated seeing a Nighthawk.’’

  ‘‘No surprise there,’’ admitted the sheriff. ‘‘They don’t usually want to be seen. Lots of folks think they use magic.’’

  ‘‘Not far from the truth,’’ said James. ‘‘At least when they were in league with Murmandamus they had those Black Slayers with them at times, and they were certainly using dark powers.’’

  The Black Slayers had been magical guards of Murmandamus.

  What James remembered most about them was that they were very difficult to kill. James shrugged. ‘‘But the lot we disposed of over in Kenting Rush last month had no magicians in league with them from what we found. And they all died like mortal men.’’

  Guruth gave James a half-smile and said, ‘‘But you burned the bodies anyway.’’

  James returned the smile and said, ‘‘We did, indeed. No point taking chances.’’

  ‘‘What does the Prince require of us?’’ asked the sheriff, now convinced there were dire matters at hand.

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  James had no specific instructions, but now that he had the captain and the sheriff considering a common enemy, he decided it would serve to make peace between them. ‘‘His Highness is concerned about the possibility of these Nighthawks being agents of a foreign power.’’ James looked at the captain.

  ‘‘It would do well for you to remove your men from inside the city and concentrate on the gates and step up patrols in the neighboring villages and in the foulbourgh. Double the guards at the city gates and inspect any wagon, cart or pack animal if it looks suspicious. And any man or group of men who can’t properly identify themselves and their reason for coming to Krondor should be held and interrogated.’’ To the sheriff, he said, ‘‘With all the captain’s men outside the wall, you’ll have to step up your patrols inside the city. And you need to send half a dozen men to help the customs office inspect cargo and passengers coming into the city by sea.’’

  In less than a minute, James had created enough work to have every constable and guardsman in the city cursing the day he was born. But James knew that, as busy as both companies would be, they’d have little time to wrangle over who had jurisdiction over every altercation they encountered.

  James made a mental note to stop at the Customs Office and let the staff know there were six constables coming to help them inspect cargo and passengers. He said, ‘‘More instructions will be sent to you as the Prince sees fit.’’

  The captain asked, ‘‘Anything else, squire?’’

  ‘‘No, captain, but I do need to speak to the sheriff alone for a moment.’’

  ‘‘Then I’ll be on my way. I need to post a new duty roster and instruct the guards they’ll be operating outside the city for 92

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  the time being.’’ He gave James and the sheriff a casual salute, and left the office.

  The sheriff looked at James expectantly. ‘‘Squire?’’ he asked after the captain left.

  ‘‘You mentioned to the captain that your constables were able to sniff around, so I’m wondering: is one of your lads particularly talented when it comes to getting information on what’s going on in the city?’’

  Means leaned back, stroking a mustache that was no longer ginger, but gray streaked with white. His hair still had some brown in it, but it too was mostly gray and white. Yet the sheriff’s eyes showed he had lost nothing where it counted: he could still lay a trap for a thief and he was still a dangerous man with either sword or bludgeon. Finally he said, ‘‘There’s young Jonathan. He’s about as good at getting a snitch to talk as I’ve seen.’’

  James said, ‘‘No disrespect, sheriff, but can you trust him?

  History being what it is, and all that.’’

  The sheriff said, ‘‘No offense, squire. I understand what you mean.’’ The Nighthawks had proven adept at infiltrating the army and even the palace in the past. ‘‘You can trust the lad.

  He’s my youngest son.’’

  ‘‘Well, then,’’ said James with a grin, ‘‘I guess I can. Is he here?’’

  ‘‘No, he’s off duty until dusk. Shall I have him come find you at the palace?’’

  ‘‘Please. I should be back before the changing of the guard at sundown. Have him come to the Knight-Marshal’s office. If I’m not there, I’ll leave word where he can find me.’’

  ‘‘May I ask what you need one of my constables for, squire?’’

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  working together, sheriff. I intend to remedy that.’’ Then the grin faded. ‘‘I’ve seen enough black murder in my days to last a hundred lifetimes. I’d like to find out what’s behind all these seemingly random deaths and put an end to them.’’

  The sheriff nodded and made a noncommittal grunt. ‘‘If you say so, squire.’’

  James bid the sheriff good day and left. He took his time wandering the city, and tried to look inconspicuous as he kept an eye out for his missing agents. He paid a visit to the Customs Office at the dock and told the senior clerk that half a dozen constables would be arriving soon to lend a hand in inspecting cargo and passengers. He made it clear he was less concerned with the cargo than he was the passengers; smuggling, while a serious crime, was little more than a nuisance when compared to murder. The senior customs agent nodded absently, and James was certain that he would have to return in a day or two to see if the required changes had been made.

  Of all the things he had imagined as a boy—riches, power, a
nd fame—he had not for an instant imagined the bureaucracy that came with such things.

  James continued his tour of the city, poking around here and there, trying discreetly to uncover the whereabouts of his agents if they still lived. One or two of them might be lying low, he knew, but three missing and one murdered meant almost certainly most of them, if not all, were now dead. The implications of that possibility, that someone knew who they were, and by extension that they were working for the Prince’s squire, was a possibility he chose not to dwell on.

  As night approached, clouds rolled in off the Bitter Sea, and Krondor was quickly plunged into darkness. Feels more like 94

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  fog than rain, James thought vaguely as he hurried back toward the palace. And a nasty fog at that.

  If morning was his favorite time of the day, late afternoon and early evening were his least. The streets were crowded with tired citizens and visitors, people who had labored all day were now hurrying to shops to make purchases before closing time.

  Those inclined toward heavy drinking were already swaggering loudly down the thoroughfares, and the less savory populace of the city was now emerging as darkness fell.

  Once he had numbered among those now venturing out of their daytime hideouts, the denizens of the night who preyed on the honest and hardworking, when they weren’t preying upon one another. If he had a writ from the Nightmaster of the Mockers, none in that ragged brotherhood would trouble him, and even those who were not part of the Guild of Thieves left him alone, as the protection of the Mockers was not something to be brushed aside lightly.

  Now he was the Prince’s man, and while that provided him with a different kind of protection, he knew it shielded him not at all with those who once counted themselves his brethren.

  James had betrayed his oath to the Mockers in order to warn the Prince of the Nighthawks’ attempt on his life, and in doing so he had committed treason against the Guild. James was vague on the details, but somehow Arutha had purchased or bartered for his life, and had taken him into the royal household. Despite that miracle, James was under no illusions. While still being on good terms with many individual Mockers, he knew the Guild itself had the death mark on him. As a means of avoiding conflict with the Prince, the Mockers ignored the mark, and viewed James with polite tolerance, no more. He still came and went in the sewers and upon the rooftops when 95

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  need be, but should he be seen as a threat to the Mockers, they would exercise the death mark in an instant.

  James grew tired of trying to navigate the press of people in the central city, and decided to take a shortcut through some backstreets to the palace. If he was quick, he would reach the palace in time to cadge a bite to eat from the kitchen staff, then get to the Knight-Marshal’s office before Jonathan Means arrived. The absence of any agents in the city had James concerned more than he cared to let on and if Jonathan’s snitches knew anything, he might be able to ferret it out using the sheriff’s son.

  James ducked between two buildings, through a space too narrow to be rightly called an alley, and hurried to the next street over. Wending his way through the press of the crowd, he reached the other side of the street and entered a proper alley.

  The buildings on both sides were two stories tall, so it was as if he had entered a dark crevasse. It was a long, filthy passage, but one which would empty out on to a street only a block from the harbor. That would lead him on a quick route paralleling the waterfront, and take him to the harbor gate into the royal compound outside the palace.

  He turned onto Chandler Row, the name for this section of the road that would take him back to the palace, when he suddenly knew he was being followed. Someone had come out of the alley behind him.

  James knew better than to look back, but he itched to get a glimpse of his pursuer. He paused for a brief instant to glance into a shop window and heard his pursuer stop as well. In the distorted reflection of the glass, he couldn’t make out who might be following him. The few people who passed by were 96

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  fisherfolk, net-menders, dock workers, and the other types one would expect to see near the docks, and James prayed he might catch sigh of a constable before he went too much farther.

  James had just passed his last opportunity to cut across to another street. He moved quickly, then suddenly slowed his pace, listening to whoever followed him.

  There were two of them, he felt certain. There were enough gaps of relative silence as they moved along that he could pick out his pursuers from amongst those who passed in the other direction.

  James spied an ale-house, The Wounded Leopard. He broke into a jogging run, as if he was late meeting someone, and headed straight for the door.

  Once inside, he blinked at the smoke-filled room. The chimney flue hadn’t been cleaned in a while, and several of the patrons were smoking pipes or tabac cigars. James had never developed a taste for the habit and wondered how anyone did.

  He hurried to the bar and pushed himself between two sailors, who both muttered, but moved to give him room. The one on James’s right was a mole-faced fellow whose dark eyes hinted at danger, while the one on the left was a huge brute, easily as large as Knight-Marshal Gardan. James looked forward.

  ‘‘Ale, please!’’ he demanded of the barkeep.

  The man had a face like a well-worn shoe, and the bags beneath his eyes made him look as if he was on the verge of sleeping on his feet. He nodded as he filled a stoneware mug and set it on the bar before James. James paid him and took a sip. It was too warm and too bitter, but he made a pretense of drinking it.

  The door opened and James knew at least one of his pursuers was entering. He chanced a quick glimpse of two men, both 97

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  dressed in common workers’ garb, as they stood blinking in the smoky air, trying to find James.

  ‘‘I did not,’’ James said loudly to the large sailor who stood on his left.

  The man turned and looked down at James and said,

  ‘‘What?’’ It was obvious he was drunk and ill tempered.

  ‘‘I wasn’t the one who said it,’’ James replied.

  ‘‘Said what?’’ asked the man, now interested.

  ‘‘He said it.’’ James pointed toward the door. ‘‘Him and his friend.’’

  ‘‘Said what?’’ demanded the drunk, now irritated by a conversation he was having difficulty following.

  ‘‘I didn’t say you were the drunken son of a poxy Keshian whore.’’

  The man grabbed James by the tunic and said, ‘‘What did you call me?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t call you a drunken son of a poxy Keshian whore,’’

  insisted James. Pointing at the door, he said, ‘‘They did.’’

  With a bellow the sailor was off, heading right at the two men who had been following James. James turned to the dangerous-looking man on his right and said, ‘‘You should have heard what they said about you.’’

  The man just grinned and said, ‘‘If you want me to keep those two off your neck, squire, it’ll cost you.’’

  James sighed. ‘‘You know me?’’

  ‘‘I’ve been around, young Jimmy the Hand.’’

  ‘‘How much?’’

  ‘‘For you, fifty golden sovereigns.’’

  ‘‘For that much I’d want you to take them on a long journey.

  How much for ten minutes?’’

  ‘‘Ten.’’

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  ‘‘Done,’’ said James as a shout and crash came from behind.

  Men were now moving away from the combatants and a chair went flying across the bar, smashing several bottles behind the barkeep.

  Despite his sleepy appearance, the barman was spry enough to vault the bar with one hand, a truncheon clutched tightly in the other. ‘‘We’ll have n
one of that here!’’ he shouted.

  James dug ten gold coins from his purse and laid them on the bar. The slight man scooped them up and pulled out a dagger, turning to face whoever might come his way.

  James didn’t hesitate. He took his lead from the barkeep and vaulted the bar in the other direction. He hurried to a rear door and ducked into a storeroom. Years of living in the city provided James with a reliable map of Krondor in his head. He knew there would be no alley at the back, rather a yard with a gate opening onto the harborside.

  He hurried through the storage area, past a door which opened to the kitchen, and through a door into the ale-house’s rear yard. Twenty feet away a large double gate beckoned.

  James sprinted to it and lifted a large wooden bar from the two iron brackets that supported it, letting it drop near his feet. He stepped over it, pushed open the gate, and was met by a gloved fist which struck him hard across the jaw.

  James’s eyes rolled up into his head as he fell to the cobblestones.

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  AMES stirred.

  His left temple throbbed—he must have struck the cobbles when he fell—as did the right side of his face. He tried to move and his head pounded.

  His wrists were bound behind him, and he was blindfolded.

  A deep voice said, ‘‘Ah, the lad stirs.’’

  Rough hands propped him upright on the floor and the deep voice asked, ‘‘A drink?’’

  James’s voice sounded oddly high-pitched in his own ears as he said, ‘‘Yes, please.’’

  Someone else in the room laughed, saying, ‘‘Polite one, ain’t he?’’ and was shushed into silence.

  The original speaker said, ‘‘Get him some water.’’

  James waited a moment, until someone pressed a water cup against his lips. He sipped slowly, wetting his throat and buying seconds to gather his wits. The fog in James’s head slowly lifted.

  ‘‘Feeling better?’’ asked the deep voice.