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 firedrake, 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
CREDITS
Map by Ralph M. Askren, D.V.M.
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover illustration by Geoff Taylor
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MURDER IN LAMUT. Copyright © 2002 by Raymond E. Feist and Joel Rosenberg. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, 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 hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JUNE 2007 ISBN: 9780061829987
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
MAPS
EPIGRAPH
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
CONTENTS
Maps
Epigraph
One
Escape
Two
Crackdown
Three
Aftermath
Four
Plotting
Five
Rescue
Six
Journey
Seven
Tragedy
Eight
Family
Nine
Encounter
Ten
The Baro
n
Eleven
Discovery
Twelve
Escape
Thirteen
Hiding
Fourteen
Abduction
Fifteen
Discovery
Sixteen
Developments
Seventeen
Plan
Eighteen
Magic
Epilogue
Krondor
Afterword
Acknowledgements
Credits
Copyright
ONE
Escape
Men cursed as they grappled.
Jimmy the Hand slipped eel-like 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 men-at-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; stand-up 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 skill 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.
The man dropped his lantern with a cry that turned into a screamed curse as the glass shattered. The splattered oil blazed high, driving the wounded soldier back. He dropped his weapon and began to beat at spots of flame on his clothes, while Jimmy climbed the pile of bales like a monkey.
‘You should know better than to corner a rat!’ he called over his shoulder as he bounded down the back of the pile and struck the ground running.
He heard someone whistle the code to withdraw and saw Mockers streaming into alleys and side-streets like wisps of fog scattering before a high wind. Jimmy raced to join them, but before he ducked into an alley he turned to look out into the bay. Trevor Hull and his smugglers were diving into the water, some swimming under the docks while o
thers made for longboats standing by in the water. Beyond them, Jimmy could make out the form of the Sea Swift turning toward the broken blockade line, canvas fluttering free and catching the light like ghost-clouds in the dark; he raised his arm to wave. He knew it was useless; the Princess would have been hurried below to safety as soon as she’d been brought aboard. But he could no more have resisted that wave than he could have not spoken that one last word to her.
The young thief turned and ran down the alley, as light on his feet as a cat and almost as keenly aware of his surroundings. He might not be a great swordsman–yet–but fleeing through the darkened alleys of Krondor was a skill he’d mastered thoroughly long before he reached the ripe old age of thirteen.
As he dodged through the byways of the city, his thoughts turned to the time he had spent with the Princess and Prince during the last few weeks. The Princess Anita was what girls were supposed to be and in his experience never were. For a boy raised in the company of whores, barmaids and pickpockets, she was…something rare, something fine, a minstrel’s tale come to breathing life. When he was near her he wanted to be better than he was.
It’s well she’s gone, then, he thought. A lad in his position couldn’t afford such noble notions.
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