Finally, the old man spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Leave us.” His voice sounded close to ruined, dry gravel being scraped, a strangled sound.
Everyone but the woman did, instantly and without hesitation, and the old man said, “Well, then. It is a small world, boy.”
Dash leaned over to study the burned features before him and he said, “Do I know you, sir?”
“No,” said the old man slowly, as if every word hurt. “But I know you by name and lineage, Dashel, son of Arutha.”
“Am I to know your name, sir?”
The woman glanced at the old man, but his one good eye stayed fastened upon Dash. “I’m your great-uncle, boy, that’s who I am. I’m the Upright Man.”
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Confrontations
ARUTHA FROWNED.
Pug stood at the door studying the Duke of Krondor a moment, before he said softly, “May I speak with you a moment?”
Arutha glanced upward and waved him in.
“Grandfather. Please.”
“You appear distracted,” said Pug, sitting in a chair across a large oak table Arutha used for work.
“I was.”
“Jimmy and Dash?”
Arutha nodded as he looked out a window at the warm spring afternoon. His eyes narrowed. They were deep sunk and had dark bags underneath, revealing the lack of sleep that had plagued him since sending his sons into harm’s way. There was grey in Arutha’s hair; Pug hadn’t seen so much just a month before.
Arutha looked at Pug and said, “You needed to see me?”
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“We have a problem.”
Arutha nodded. “We have many. Which particular one are we discussing?”
“Patrick.”
Arutha stood and moved around the table to the door and glanced through. A pair of clerks outside were hunched over documents, reviewing reports and requests for supplies, lost in their work.
Arutha closed the door. He returned to his seat and said, “What do you propose?”
“I propose you send a message to the King.”
“And?” Arutha looked directly into the magician’s eyes.
“I think we need another commander in the West.”
Arutha sighed, and in that moment Pug could hear the fatigue, stress, worry, and doubt in the man, expressed in as eloquent a fashion as if an orator had spoken for an hour. Pug instantly knew the outcome of this discussion before Arutha said another word.
Yet he allowed the Duke to continue. “History teaches us that we often do not get the best men for a particular job. It also teaches us that if the rest of us do ours, we’ll somehow manage.”
Pug leaned forward and said, “We are this close”—he held forefinger and thumb apart a scant portion of an inch— “to war with Great Kesh. Don’t you think it proper to finish the one we have before we start another?”
“What I think is immaterial,” said Arutha. “I counsel the Prince, but it’s his realm. I’m only allowed to manage it for him.”
Pug remained silent and stared at Arutha a long moment.
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Suddenly Arutha allowed his temper to get the better of him, slamming his hand down on the table.
“I am not my father, damn it!”
Pug remained silent for another moment, then said, “I never said you were . . . or that you should be.”
“No, but you were thinking, ‘How would James have dealt with this?’ ”
Pug said, “It was your mother that read minds, Arutha, not I.”
Arutha leaned forward. “You’re my grandfather, yet I hardly know you.” He glanced upward toward the ceiling, as if collecting his thoughts, then said,
“And that means you hardly know me.”
“You were raised on the other side of the Kingdom, Arutha. We saw each other from time to time . . .”
Arutha said, “It’s difficult growing up surrounded on all sides by legends. Did you know that?”
Pug shrugged. “I am not sure.”
Arutha said, “My father was ‘Jimmy the Hand,’
the thief who became the most powerful noble in the Kingdom. I was named for the man who is almost unarguably the most brilliant ruler the Western Realm has known.
“The King and I have discussed what it’s like to be the sons of such men, on several occasions.” He pointed his finger at the magician and said, “And you
. . . you look like my son. You look younger now than you did when I was a child. You’re turning into a figure of mystery and fear, Grandfather. ‘Pug, the Eternal Sorcerer!’ The man who saved us during the Riftwar.”
Arutha stopped, weighed his words, and said, 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 115
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“Borric, before he became King, once told me that our roles would be far different than our fathers’.
Arutha had been thrust into command in Crydee, a situation demanding action without hesitation, without doubt.
“Father was the brash boy who saved Arutha, then became his most trusted adviser and friend.
Between the two of them there was always an answer.”
Pug laughed, and it wasn’t a mocking laugh. “I’m sure they would argue they had their share of doubts and mistakes, Arutha.”
“Perhaps, but the results were there. As a child I grew up hearing the stories in Rillanon, tales told to entertain the eastern nobles who had never seen Krondor, let alone the Far Coast. How Prince Arutha had saved Crydee from the Tsurani host, and had journeyed to Krondor where he found Princess Anita. How father had helped smuggle them both from the city, then later helped get Earl Kasumi to see the King.”
Arutha became more reflective. “I heard the story of the renegade moredhel, and the rogue magician from Kelewan, and I was told of the attack on the Tear of the Gods. I heard of the Crawler and his attempt to take over the Mockers, and the other stories of Father’s more reckless youth.” He looked at Pug. “I wasn’t a noble reading dry reports, but a boy hearing tales from his father.”
Pug said, “What are you telling me? That you don’t feel equal to the task?”
“No man can be equal to the task of putting the Kingdom right, Grandfather.” He narrowed his gaze.
“Not even you.”
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Pug took a deep breath, then relaxed. “So Patrick won’t give up Stardock?”
“He wants it all back, Grandfather. He wants this city rebuilt in his lifetime to a glory beyond what it was before. He wants Kesh completely out of the vale. He wants the Bitter Sea cleared of Quegan raiders and Keshian pirates, and when Borric finally dies, Patrick wants to go to Rillanon to take the Crown, to be known as the greatest Prince in the history of the West.”
Softly Pug said, “Save us from monarchs with vanity.”
“Not vanity, Pug. Fear.”
Pug nodded. “Young men often fear failure.”
“I understand his fear,” said Arutha. “Maybe if I had been given a different name, George or Harry, Jack or Robert, but no; I was named for the man Father admired above all others.”
“Prince Arutha was a very admirable man. Of all the men I’ve known, he was among the most gifted.”
“A fact of which I’m painfully aware.” Arutha sat back, as if seeking some comfort. “If Arutha were still Prince, and Father still Duke, perhaps Patrick’s dreams of returned glory would prove possible. As it is today . . .”
Pug said, “What?”
“We are lesser men.”
Pug’s expression turned dark. “You are tired. You are tired and you are worried about the boys.” He stood. “And about Patrick and the Kingdom and everyth
ing there is in this life to be worried and tired about.” He leaned over the desk and said, “But know this: you are able. And as long as you’re my grandson, I will not let you forget that. The boys are my 52893_~1.QXD 8/30/2002 10:02 AM Page 117
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great-grandsons. Gamina may not have been the daughter of my body, but she was the daughter of my heart, and I love all her children and grandchildren none the less for this.” He reached across the table and put his hand on Arutha’s shoulder. “Especially you.”
Moisture came unbidden to Arutha’s eyes. “Me?”
Softly Pug said, “You may not be as much like your father as you would wish, but you are more like your mother than you’ll ever know.” He removed his hand and turned to go. “I’ll leave you. Rest, and dine with me tonight when you’ve had a chance to refresh yourself.” He reached the door and said, “Try not to worry too much about the boys. I am sure they are safe.”
He opened the door and left, closing it behind him. Arutha, Duke of Krondor, sat silently and thought about what his grandfather had just said to him. At last he allowed himself the luxury of a long sigh, then turned to the work still before him.
Perhaps he would take the opportunity to rest a bit before supper that evening. And as he regarded the report on top of the pile, he thought, The boys are able. Grandfather is most likely right, and the boys are safe.
Jimmy’s head snapped backward as the soldier stepped through the blow. Jimmy’s eyes watered from the pain and his vision turned red for a moment. His knees wobbled and he felt himself start to go, but the other two guards who held him kept him upright.
“All right,” said the interrogator, speaking the King’s Tongue with a very heavy accent. “Again.”
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He paused. “Let’s start again. Why were you sneaking into Krondor?”
Malar was held by another two soldiers. His nose bled and his right eye was puffy, as he had stood his turn at interrogation. Jimmy was now very pleased that he and Dash had told him nothing.
Jimmy shook his head to clear it, and said, “I told you. I’m a mercenary from the East, and this is my dog robber. I’m looking for work.”
“Wrong answer,” said the man, and he struck Jimmy again. Jimmy collapsed, unable to make his legs obey, and was held entirely by the two soldiers.
Jimmy spat blood, and through rapidly swelling lips said, “What do you want me to say?”
“Every mercenary outside the walls has been told to stay out of Krondor. If you were a freebooter you would know this.” He nodded and the two men moved to the wall, and let Jimmy slump to the floor.
The man knelt, putting his own face down near Jimmy’s.
The soldier was a brutish-looking fellow, with a beetle brow and thick black hair that hung down over his shoulders. He sported a short black beard, and at this close quarter, Jimmy could see he bore an assortment of scars on his neck and shoulders. The man grabbed Jimmy’s hair and said, “Either you’re a fool or you’re a spy. Which is it?”
Jimmy paused for dramatic effect, then slowly he said, “I came looking for my brother.”
The soldier stood and motioned and the two other soldiers picked Jimmy up and moved him to a chair.
They were gathered in a large bedroom of an inn, converted to a cell of sorts.
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night before and the interrogation had started at once. For an hour they had been routinely questioned and beaten, then left alone. Just as they were able to relax, the door would open and the questioning would begin again. Jimmy knew the oddly timed schedule was deliberate, designed to unnerve them.
Despite the overt brutality of the man questioning them, the entire process was very well thought out and subtle. It was designed to disorient him without rendering him incoherent. It was a methodical approach looking to ferret out mistakes and incon-sistencies. Jimmy had fought to concentrate to the limit of his ability to prevent any such lapse; he was attempting to turn the situation to his advantage.
One fear of his was that they already had Dash in custody. If so, the admission he was searching for his brother might dovetail into Dash’s arrest if he was already here. In a way, it was the truth, and being the truth, it would prove far more convincing than the most artfully concocted lie.
“Your brother?” said the man, holding a fist cocked to deliver another blow. “What brother?”
“My younger brother.” Jimmy leaned back in the chair, letting his left arm hang over the chair back, keeping him upright. “We were jumped a few miles from the city by bandits and rode toward Krondor.”
He paused for a long moment, then as the interrogator started to menace him with his fist, he blurted,
“We got separated. The bandits chased him, so we doubled back and followed after. We dodged the bandits, as they came back our way, so we know they didn’t have him—couldn’t see any leading his horse, and it was a good horse so they’d have kept it.” He swallowed. “Can I have some water?” he croaked.
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The man in charge nodded and one of the guards stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with water. Jimmy drank eagerly, then nodded toward Malar. The man who had been questioning Jimmy nodded and the servant was given a cup of water to drink.
“Go on,” instructed the interrogator.
“We checked all the camps outside. No one had seen him.”
“Maybe someone already cut his throat.”
“Not my brother,” said Jimmy.
“How do you know?” asked the interrogator.
“Because I’d know. And because whoever cut his throat would be wearing his boots if he was.”
The interrogator looked down at Jimmy’s feet and nodded. “Good boots.” He motioned to one of the men in the room, who ducked out and returned a moment later holding a sack. He opened the sack and dumped the contents on the floor. The interrogator said, “Are these your brother’s?”
Jimmy looked at the boots. He didn’t need to pick them up. They were identical to Dash’s: the same bootmaker in Rillanon had made them for the brothers. Jimmy said, “In the left one you’ll see the mark of the bootmaker, a small bull’s head.”
The man nodded. “I’ve seen it.”
“Is my brother alive?”
The man nodded. “At least he was until two days ago. That’s when he escaped.”
Jimmy couldn’t help but smile. “Escaped?”
“With three others.” The man studied Jimmy a moment, then said, “Bring them.” He turned and walked out of the room; Jimmy and Malar were hurried after him, a guard on each side.
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They were taken to what had been the common room of the inn, and Jimmy finally recognized where he was. He was in what was left of a very palatial inn called the Seven Gems, not too far from the heart of the Merchants’ Quarters. He was a few blocks from Barret’s Coffee House, where most of the major financial business of the Western Realm had been conducted. Glancing around the room, Jimmy decided the inn had survived relatively intact. There was ample smoke damage and all of the tapestries that had decorated the place were gone, but the furniture was intact, and the rooms still able to be locked. He had been questioned in one of the back storage rooms, near the kitchen, and was now being led into the far corner of the commons, where a curtain separated a large booth from the rest of the room.
Sitting in the booth was a trio of men, all clearly military from their dress and manner. The man in the center was looking over a parchment, a report of some sort, Jimmy guessed. The interrogator moved to the front of the table and lean
ed over, speaking in a soft voice. He glanced up at Jimmy, nodded to the interrogator, who departed, leaving Jimmy standing alone with the three men. They seemed intent upon the paperwork before them, and left Jimmy standing for a long time before the centermost man’s attention returned to him.
“Your name?” asked the man in the center.
“I’m called Jimmy,” he answered.
“Jimmy,” repeated the man, as if testing the sound of the name. He studied Jimmy’s face, and Jimmy studied his.
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what once had been hard muscle had been thinned by hardships on campaign and a cold, hungry winter.
He had the look of a fighter, from his greying dark hair tied back to keep it from his brown eyes, to the hard set of a jaw kept clean-shaven. Something about him looked familiar to Jimmy, and suddenly it struck him: in manner and voice the man resembled what he remembered of Prince Arutha from Jimmy’s childhood. There was a no-nonsense hardness to him, a calculating intelligence that would be fatal to underestimate.
The man said, “You are a spy, of that I am almost certain.” He spoke the King’s Tongue, but his accent was slight.
Jimmy said nothing.
“But the issue here is are you a bad spy or a terribly clever one.” He sighed, as if thinking on this.
“Your brother, if that is really who he is, was a far better spy than I had thought. I had him under observation, yet he managed to escape. We knew of the sewers under the walls, yet didn’t know of that particular entrance. Once he was in there, he was gone.”
The soldier looked at Jimmy, as if measuring him, then said, “I won’t make that mistake again.” He reached for a mug nearby and drank what appeared to be water. Jimmy was impressed by the man’s speech, for even with almost no accent, it was clear he had studied the language, for he spoke with the practiced precision of someone not born to the tongue.
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