Krondor Tear of the Gods

by Raymond E. Feist

  Jazhara suppressed a yawn as they walked. “I’m so tired that watching all these people dash about makes me feel as if I’m sleepwalking.”

  James smiled. “You get used to it. One of the tricks I’ve learned in Arutha’s service is to nap whenever I get the chance. My personal best is four days without sleep. Of course I had the help of a magic potion and once its effects wore off I was good for nothing for a week . . .”

  Jazhara nodded. “Such things must be employed with caution.”

  “So we discovered on the trip home,” said James, now also stifling a yawn in response to Jazhara’s. “Whatever fate awaits us, I hope it involves at least one good night’s sleep before we depart.”

  “Agreed.”

  They reached the Wreckers’ Guild, a fairly nondescript two-story building a block shy of the Sea Gate. Several men were gathered outside, next to a large wagon. Two of them climbed atop the wagon as another pair began to walk away, lugging a large chest.

  James stopped and tapped one of the men on the shoulder.

  Without turning to see who stood behind him, the man snarled, “Shove off!”

  Tired, and in no mood for rudeness, James said, “Prince’s business.”

  The man threw him a quick glance. “Look, if you’re here about the Guild Master, I just told everything I know to the Captain of the Watch.”

  James took the man firmly by the shoulder and spun him about. The mover’s large fist pulled back to strike James, but before he could, the squire had his dagger at the man’s throat. “Indulge me,” he said with more than a whisper of menace in his voice. “Perhaps you could spare a moment and go over it once more. What exactly did you tell Captain Garruth about the Guild Master?”

  Lowering his fist, the man stepped back. “It doesn’t take the brains of an ox to know he was murdered.”

  One of the other movers, watching the exchange, shouted: “It was Kendaric what did it! He cost us all with his greed.”

  The first man motioned toward the Guild entrance. “If you want details, you’d best talk to Jorath, inside. He’s the journeyman in charge, now.”

  James put away his dagger and motioned for Jazhara to accompany him. They entered the Guild Hall, where several men stood in the corner deep in discussion. A young man, barely an apprentice by the look of him, stood nearby. He was tallying various items of furniture and personal belongings and recording figures in a ledger. James approached him. “We’re looking for Journeyman Jorath.”

  The boy didn’t stop counting, but merely pointed over his shoulder with his quill at a door leading to a room in the rear.

  James said, “Thanks,” and moved on.

  He and Jazhara entered a room occupied by a large desk and several chairs. Standing before the desk was a middle-aged man, with dark hair and a short, neatly-trimmed beard. He wore a plain blue robe, similar to what one might expect on a priest or magician. Glancing up from the document he was studying, he said, “Yes?”

  “I’m from the palace,” said James.

  “I assume that since I’ve already answered questions, you’re here to tell me you’ve made some progress.” His tone dripped arrogance.

  James narrowed his gaze for a moment, then let the irritation pass. “We are not part of the Guard. We need a ship raised.”

  “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The Guild is closed. Evidently you haven’t heard, but the Guild Master has been murdered.”

  “What happened to him?” asked James.

  “No one knows, exactly. There was some sort of struggle, apparently. He was found dead in his room, with his possessions scattered about. He put up a good fight, but it seems his heart gave out.”

  James asked, “Why is the Guild closing down?”

  “The Guild Master and Journeyman Kendaric were the only members of our guild capable of leading the ritual necessary to raise a large ship.”

  “Well, we need to speak to the Journeyman right away.”

  “Quite impossible, I’m afraid. Kendaric is the prime suspect in the Guild Master’s murder, and he seems to have gone into hiding. With both him and the Guild Master gone, we’re out of business.” He let out a soft sigh. “Which is probably not so bad, all things considered.”

  “What do you mean, ‘all things considered’?” asked James.

  Jorath put down parchment he had been consulting. “Confidentially, the Guild has been losing money for several years now. The Guilds of other cities, Durbin and Ylith, for example, have developed new techniques that enable them to work more efficiently. They’ve been winning all the contracts.”

  James was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “How do you know it was this Kendaric who killed the Guild Master?”

  Jorath picked up another scroll and glanced at it. “They fought constantly. At times they seemed near to blows. Abigail, the woman who cleans the Guild House, heard Kendaric and the Guild Master arguing the night of the murder.”

  “That’s not proof,” said Jazhara.

  “No, but he’s been missing ever since the body was found, so it’s a good bet he’s guilty.”

  Jazhara was about to say something, but James shook his head slightly. To Jorath he said, “May we look at the Guild Master’s and Kendaric’s rooms?”

  Jorath shrugged. “Help yourself. The Guard have already been up there, but if you think you can do some good, be my guest.” He turned back to his scrolls and left James and Jazhara to show themselves upstairs.

  Jazhara waited until they had climbed the stairs. When they were alone, she asked James, “What?”

  “What, what?”

  “What didn’t you want me to say to Jorath?”

  “What you were thinking,” said James, heading for the first of three closed doors.

  “What was I thinking?” asked Jazhara.

  Looking over his shoulder as he opened the door, James said, “That Kendaric might also be dead. And that someone doesn’t want anyone raising a certain ship off Widow’s Point.” He glanced down, and said softly, “Someone’s forced this lock.”

  He cocked his head, as if listening, motioned for silence, then held up his hand. “There’s someone inside,” he whispered.

  Jazhara took up a position beside James and nodded. James stepped back then kicked hard against the door, shattering the lock plate as the door swung open.

  The old woman inside jumped back and let out a shriek.

  “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “Are you trying to shock an old woman to her grave?”

  “Sorry,” James said with an embarrassed smile. “I heard someone inside and saw the lock had been forced - ” He shrugged.

  “When I couldn’t raise the master,” said the old woman, “I had two of the apprentices bring a bar and force the door. I found the master, there, lying on the floor.” She sniffled, and brushed at a tear with the back of her hand.

  “What can you tell us?” asked James. “We’re here on behalf of the Prince.”

  “The master was a wonderful man, but he had a bad heart. I used to fix hawthorn tea for him for his chest pain. It did him no good to be constantly arguing with Journeyman Kendaric.”

  “What was Kendaric like?” asked Jazhara.

  “He was a poor boy from the streets, without family or friend. The Guild Master paid his admission fee to the Guild, because Kendaric was so poor. But the old master knew the boy was brilliant, and it would have been a crime to deny him because of poverty. The master was right, as the boy grew to be first among the journeymen. He would have been the logical choice to be the next Guild Master, except . . .” Her voice trailed off as more tears welled up in her eyes.

  “He was brilliant, you say?” Jazhara prodded.

  “Oh, he was always coming up with new ways to do things. He was working on a spell that would allow a single guildsman to raise large ships by himself. He thought the Guild would be more prosperous with his new spell, but the Guild Master wanted to preserve the traditional way, and they fought about it. He used to say that he a
rgued with Kendaric to train him, to make his mind sharp, to make him tough enough to take over the Guild when he passed on. That’s what makes it a bit odd.”

  “What’s a bit odd?” asked Jazhara.

  “Well, I just think it’s odd that Kendaric killed him. Despite all their arguing, I would have sworn that Kendaric truly loved the old master.”

  Jazhara mused, “Everyone seems convinced that Kendaric is the killer, but isn’t it just speculation?”

  The old woman sighed. “Perhaps. But I heard Kendaric and the Guild Master arguing on the night of the murder. They always fought, but this time was the loudest I’d ever heard. I found the old master dead the next morning when I came to bring him breakfast. As I said, it took two apprentices to force open the door. Kendaric must have hit him and when the master’s heart gave out, Kendaric must have escaped through the window. I said as much to the guards when I called them. They told me I was awfully clever to have figured it out the way I did.”

  James could hardly keep from rolling his eyes, but simply said, “We’ll look around a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  They realized quickly that anything of importance had been taken from the room by the Guards. “What are the other two rooms?” asked Jazhara.

  Abigail said, “Those are the journeymen’s quarters.”

  “And Kendaric’s room is which one?” asked James.

  “The next over,” replied the old woman.

  James returned to the hallway and opened the neighboring door. Instantly he dropped to the floor, narrowly avoiding a searing blast of heat that shot through the doorway. Behind him, Jazhara did likewise, although James couldn’t tell if she had managed to evade the flames. He didn’t have time to check, as the magician who had thrown the blast of fire at him stepped aside to allow a warrior in black to charge at the spot where James lay.

  The Izmali lifted his sword and sent it plunging down toward James’s head.

  SEVEN

  Conspiracy

  James rolled to his right.

  The Izmali’s sword came crashing down where James’s head had been a moment earlier, and the assassin raised it to strike again, with incredible speed.

  James had no time to draw his own sword, so he kicked out with as much strength as he could muster. His action was rewarded by the sound of a kneecap breaking and a muffled cry of pain from the black-clad murderer. The Izmali stumbled, but did not fall.

  James rolled again as the warrior fell, and came to his feet with his sword drawn in a single fluid motion.

  Jazhara unleashed a spell, but the scintillating ball of red energy shot off to one side and struck the floor near the enemy magician. Despite being missed, the magician appeared alarmed to discover he faced another magic-user. He turned and fled, jumping through the open window to the street below.

  Jazhara turned her attention to the assassin as James closed on the man. She raised her staff above her shoulder, the butt end aimed at the man, ready to attack high if James retreated. James lashed out with his blade, a move designed to force his opponent to retreat and put weight on his injured leg. The man was an experienced swordsman, and he shifted his weight to risk a dangerous near-miss by James’s blade rather than strain the injured knee. He quickly returned with a quick inside thrust that almost removed James’s head.

  As James retreated, Jazhara thrust her staff forward and forced the assassin further into the room. Wisely, he took up a stance just inside the door, so that James and Jazhara would be forced to attack him one at a time. Without taking his eyes from the assassin, James said, “Jazhara! Get downstairs and see if you can find any hint of his magician friend. I’ll take care of this murderous swine.”

  Jazhara didn’t debate the order, but turned and hurried down the stairs. From below came shouts of inquiry about the sounds of struggle that could be heard.

  James appraised the situation. Neither he nor the assassin was going through that door willingly. Whoever advanced was certain to be attacked the instant he stood in the portal, the frame of the door jamb limiting his choices of response. The attack was almost certain to require moving sideways. They were locked in a stalemate.

  Then James stepped back, lowering his sword point, as if inviting attack.

  The Izmali stood ready, his blade point circling warily, refusing to take the invitation.

  James said, “Help will soon be on the way. I doubt you’ll try jumping through the window with that broken kneecap.” He glanced down at the injured leg. “I admire your strength. Most men would be lying on the floor, screaming in pain.”

  The assassin took a tiny step — not more than two inches - closer.

  James continued to speak. “I’ve met a great many of you Nighthawks over the years. The first one I killed was trying to assassinate the Prince, many years ago. I was but a lad, then. Threw him from the rooftop.”

  Another inch forward.

  James let his sword point touch the floor and took a deep breath, as if relaxing. “Nothing compared to that bunch down in the desert. I doubt you’ve heard, since you were probably up here. I mean, had you been down there, you’d be dead like the rest of them, correct?”

  And another inch.

  “I still don’t see why your brotherhood has allowed itself to be manipulated by a bunch of religious zealots. All it’s done is get most of your clan killed. The Crawler can’t have that much control over the Nighthawks, can he?”

  The assassin tensed.

  James paused, and let his weight fall a little toward his sword, as if he were leaning on it. “Funny to find you here, really. I thought I’d left the last of your kind rotting in the sun, waiting for the buzzards.”

  The Izmali tensed as the shouts from outside heralded the arrival of some city guards. Then he raised his sword and lashed out at James; but James was moving the instant he saw the assassin’s sword come up.

  As James had hoped, the assassin had been so distracted by James’s banter, he had failed to notice James’s slight movement toward the door. The tip of his scimitar struck the lintel overhead and was deflected, just as James fell toward the swordsman while bringing his own blade upward. The man’s weakened knee betrayed him and he stumbled, half-falling onto James’s outstretched sword point.

  James threw his weight behind the lunge and the assassin stiffened as the rapier rammed home. James recovered and pulled back his blade as the Izmali slumped to the ground.

  Jazhara and a pair of city guardsmen reached the hallway a moment later. “The magician escaped,” said the Keshian noblewoman. “These guardsmen were at the gate and I called them to come help.”

  Looking down at the dead assassin, one of the guardsmen said, “Looks like you weren’t needin‘ much help there, Squire.”

  James knelt and examined the dead assassin. “Hello, what have we here?” he said, withdrawing a small parchment from the man’s tunic. “Usually these lads carry nothing.” He glanced at it, then handed it to Jazhara. “Can you read this script?”

  She scrutinized it. “Yes, it’s similar to the desert script used in the message to Yusuf. Retrieve the scroll, eliminate the witness in the alley, then return to the dog. There is no signature, nor is there a seal.”

  “Witness in the alley?” asked the senior guard. “That’d have to be Old Thom. He’s an old sailor without a home.”

  “He’s got a couple of crates in the alley back of this building he calls home,” added the other guardsman.

  James said, “Jazhara, let’s see what these lads were looking for.” Then he addressed the guards. “One of you stand by.” He motioned to Jazhara to follow him into the room.

  They looked around and nothing appeared out of the ordinary. James shrugged. “I was a little too busy to notice where those cutthroats were standing when we opened the door.”

  “They were in front of this desk, James,” Jazhara said.

  James inspected the desk, which at first glance seemed ordinary enough.

  “What do you think ‘return to the d
og’ means?” Jazhara asked.

  James continued his inspection. “Probably some sort of code for a person or place.” Something caught his eye and he pulled out a drawer. With a practiced eye he measured the depth of the drawer, then said, “There’s a compartment behind this drawer or my name wasn’t Jimmy the Hand.” He knelt down and reached back. There was a click of a small latch, and a tiny door fell open, revealing a small red velvet pouch that he extracted.

  He weighed it in his hand. “It’s heavy. Feels like stone.” Deftly, he untied the silk cord that secured the pouch and turned it over, allowing the object to fall into his other hand.

  A stone of shimmering green and white, carved to look like a nautilus shell, rested in his palm.

  “This is a Shell of Eortis!” Jazhara exclaimed.

  “What is that?” asked James. “I met some adherents of that god when I visited Silden a while back, but I know little of their beliefs.”

  “I’ve seen one such artifact at Stardock.” Jazhara held her hand over the object and closed her eyes, muttering a brief enchantment. Then she opened her eyes wide. “It is genuine! It is an old and rare item that aids water-magic. You’d have to know someone like the Masters of Stardock or the High Priest of the Temple of Eortis the Sea God to even hear of one. To possess one . . . this must be part of the secret of the Wreckers’ Guild.”

  “But why wasn’t this in the possession of the Guild Master?” James mused aloud. “Is this more proof that Kendaric had a hand in the death of the Guild Master, or did the master give it to his favorite student for safekeeping?”

  “And why were the Nighthawks looking for it?” pondered Jazhara.

  “Could you use this to raise a ship?” asked James.

  “No, but you could use it to make the weather favorable for such an undertaking, had you the right spells to employ.”

  “Do you think this is what they sought?”

  Jazhara thought for a moment, then said, “As it will not raise a ship, probably not.”

  “Then let us continue to look.” He examined the other side of the desk and found another false drawer, this time one that was discovered by reaching up inside the desk from underneath.